Andrea hadn’t a clue how to cook a bear. Was it even edible? Must be, or everyone wouldn’t be so happy. If nothing else, she could try to make bear soup, she thought with silent humor.
“And we got a small boar, too. We’ll give that to the villagers,” Cnut announced. “Now we know where the boar herd is wintering, we can go back out on the morrow and get more.”
On the morrow. Andrea repeated Cnut’s words back to herself. The longer he was back in this century, the more he was beginning to sound just like his people.
The atmosphere in the castle, which had been grim, turned suddenly joyous. The famine wasn’t over, but there was hope now.
“What about the others?” Cnut asked. “Have they returned?”
“Arnstein and Ingolf come in every other day with fish. Mostly smaller fish, but they are trying to cut the ice in a different spot today,” Girda told him. “The gods may bless them with bigger fish there.”
She noticed Cnut flinch slightly at the mention of multiple gods, but he didn’t correct Girda. Instead, he inquired, “And the others? Those who went afar, to the ocean? Those who went to our neighbors for help?”
Girda shook her head dolefully. Andrea knew the cook was worried, just as she’d been worried about Cnut and all the game hunters.
Cnut told them about the demise of Igor and how they didn’t even have a body for funeral rites. Then Thorkel, who’d come in by then, too, related some wild tale about Igor being devoured by Lucky Bears, huge, scaly beasts with fangs and tails that Cnut had then destroyed with a special sword. Andrea’s eyes connected with Cnut’s in question, and he nodded.
Lucipires? In the Dark Ages? What next?
“Ah, well, Igor must be in Valhalla by now with his very own Valkyrie, drinking mead with the gods,” Thorkel said. “Odin be praised!”
The look in Cnut’s eyes disagreed with Igor’s fate. What was the name of the place Cnut had told Andrea about? Ah, yes. Horror.
Despite the death of one of their own, the people had much to be thankful for, and they celebrated in the way Vikings knew best, by breaking open one of the few remaining kegs of ale.
But first, Cnut and the returning hunters went to the bathhouse, which was fed by a steam-filled hot spring, to wash off the detritus of animal blood and remains, not to mention a week of sweat. One of the channels leading to the spring had been clogged with leaves and other debris, just like a bath pipe, and hadn’t been useable until it was fixed yesterday. Since then, people had been taking turns bathing. Vikings, unlike many cultures of this time, valued bodily cleanliness.
While Cnut and his comrades were bathing, two other groups of hunters returned. They were preceded by the loud yipping and yapping of the hunting dogs. The hunters weren’t quite as successful as Cnut’s group, but still they brought more game for the larder. Two reindeer, another boar, and several beavers, whose fur was desirable and the meat edible if not appetizing. Aslak came back from his snaring with a brace of small animals. Rabbits, squirrels, possums, and quail.
An air of festivity swept through Hoggstead then. Even the villagers who came for their daily rations were not their usual gaunt, grim-faced selves. And when given one of the boar and a deer, the men, as well as the women, appeared teary-eyed.
Girda was practically orgasmic with delight over all the work to do. Yelling out orders like a drill sergeant, she soon had an assembly line of workers outside, skinning and gutting and defeathering the animals, and cutting up the massive bear. The dogs were equally ecstatic over the feast of stray parts, in addition to the entrails they’d eaten while in the woods. Girda would have liked to make black pudding, or blood sausage, but the hunters had drained the animals while in the field, by necessity.
Soon, everyone was crowded into the great hall, anxiously waiting for the hunters to finish their quickly prepared meal of fish chowder and venison with manchet bread. There was also a bowl of skyr, the Norse cheese product similar to yogurt and modern cottage cheese. No one seemed to mind the plain fare. In fact, they raved about Andrea’s soup, and she preened. Was there any greater satisfaction for a cook than an appreciative diner?
Finally, stomachs as full as they were going to get, the men leaned back on their benches—Cnut was sitting below the dais with them—and began to regale the crowd with tales of their brave expeditions. Andrea barely listened to the details; she was more interested in Cnut, who was content to sip from his horn of ale and let others take the glory.
He looked every bit the Viking warrior in belted tunic over slim pants as he sat there with a slight smile on his face. He’d shaved his face, but he’d left his head bristly where it had been bald before, and he’d undone the braid that ran from forehead to nape and beyond. Instead, he now had a swath of hair down the middle of his head, tied with a leather thong, like a low ponytail, similar to her own long blonde French braid. She assumed he was going to let his shaved hair grow out. Too bad. She kind of liked the Ragnar look.