Britannia’s king.”
She stared into his eyes. In horror, she realized he wholeheartedly believed what he was saying. Again she tore her gaze from his to look at the band on his arm and the embroidery on his bloodstained tunic.
She had seen such needlework in the oldest of the portraits of the family ancestors. That woman had a similar pattern on her otherwise simple gown. Intrigued by it, Linnea had read about medieval embroidery in one of her father’s favorite books, which told the tales of the Norsemen who had been the terror of England .
When Ethelred was king.
No, there must be some other explanation! Nils might believe what he was saying, but it was impossible. Or was it? She stared at his tawny hair, his wind-scored face, his clothes, his words about a blood-enemy who had tracked him here and whom he had fought off with this knife with odd engraving, this spectacular gold band...
They all pointed to the same truth. It was a truth she could not believe, but how could she accept that Nils Bjornsson was a Viking who had somehow slipped from his century to hers? He must be mad. Or mayhap she had been right when she feared that his head had been so badly hurt by his attackers that he saw truth in what he was saying.
But she had not been hit upon the head. No one could jump through time, but the undeniable facts were in front of her. He was not like any man she had ever met.
“Can it be true?” she asked, unsure of every word she spoke. “Have you traveled nearly one thousand years from the past?”
Five
“A thousand years?” Nils tried to ignore the memory of Loki’s laugh that was playing through his head. Even this jest was too grand for the lying wizard. Lies! Had Loki put these words in Linnea’s mouth? That made no sense. She was not of the Norrfoolk . The people of this island denounced the gods as myths which had no substance. “Why are you trying to fill my head with such a lygi ?”
“A what?”
“A falsehood.”
She rose. “I can see this conversation is going nowhere, and I wish to return to the house before the mist becomes rain. I need to discuss this with my father. I bid you a good afternoon, Mr. Bjornsson.”
“Wait!”
She did not turn. By the straight line of her shoulders, he knew that she was furious. That was confirmed when she said, “I trust, by the time I return, you will have rid yourself of this outrageous assumption that you can order me around as if I am your slave.”
“Lady Linnea, wait! Please.”
“Please?” She paused as her honed laugh struck him like the blow that had landed him in the sand. “I did not guess you knew that word in English. Or even in your own language, whatever it might be.”
She vanished down the stairs before he could find the words to answer. He wanted to push himself to his feet and follow, demanding answers to the questions taunting him, but he could not as much as sit. Blinking, he sought to clear eyes that blurred abruptly. Whatever had been in that cup of water still held him captive.
“Keep thrashing about,” grumbled a voice behind him, “and you shall finish what your foe started.”
Nils looked up at Olive. She was wearing the frown that never seemed far from her lips when Linnea was not here. Olive clearly wished him gone. Tempted to tell her that he would gladly be gone, he closed his eyes and ceded himself to sleep.
His dreams were formless, scattered images that made no sense. Yet, there was a sense of desperation, an unrelenting need that stalked him within that gray fog. Questions filled his head, repeating over and over. What had happened to him, and what shape
She stared into his eyes. In horror, she realized he wholeheartedly believed what he was saying. Again she tore her gaze from his to look at the band on his arm and the embroidery on his bloodstained tunic.
She had seen such needlework in the oldest of the portraits of the family ancestors. That woman had a similar pattern on her otherwise simple gown. Intrigued by it, Linnea had read about medieval embroidery in one of her father’s favorite books, which told the tales of the Norsemen who had been the terror of England .
When Ethelred was king.
No, there must be some other explanation! Nils might believe what he was saying, but it was impossible. Or was it? She stared at his tawny hair, his wind-scored face, his clothes, his words about a blood-enemy who had tracked him here and whom he had fought off with this knife with odd engraving, this spectacular gold band...
They all pointed to the same truth. It was a truth she could not believe, but how could she accept that Nils Bjornsson was a Viking who had somehow slipped from his century to hers? He must be mad. Or mayhap she had been right when she feared that his head had been so badly hurt by his attackers that he saw truth in what he was saying.
But she had not been hit upon the head. No one could jump through time, but the undeniable facts were in front of her. He was not like any man she had ever met.
“Can it be true?” she asked, unsure of every word she spoke. “Have you traveled nearly one thousand years from the past?”
Five
“A thousand years?” Nils tried to ignore the memory of Loki’s laugh that was playing through his head. Even this jest was too grand for the lying wizard. Lies! Had Loki put these words in Linnea’s mouth? That made no sense. She was not of the Norrfoolk . The people of this island denounced the gods as myths which had no substance. “Why are you trying to fill my head with such a lygi ?”
“A what?”
“A falsehood.”
She rose. “I can see this conversation is going nowhere, and I wish to return to the house before the mist becomes rain. I need to discuss this with my father. I bid you a good afternoon, Mr. Bjornsson.”
“Wait!”
She did not turn. By the straight line of her shoulders, he knew that she was furious. That was confirmed when she said, “I trust, by the time I return, you will have rid yourself of this outrageous assumption that you can order me around as if I am your slave.”
“Lady Linnea, wait! Please.”
“Please?” She paused as her honed laugh struck him like the blow that had landed him in the sand. “I did not guess you knew that word in English. Or even in your own language, whatever it might be.”
She vanished down the stairs before he could find the words to answer. He wanted to push himself to his feet and follow, demanding answers to the questions taunting him, but he could not as much as sit. Blinking, he sought to clear eyes that blurred abruptly. Whatever had been in that cup of water still held him captive.
“Keep thrashing about,” grumbled a voice behind him, “and you shall finish what your foe started.”
Nils looked up at Olive. She was wearing the frown that never seemed far from her lips when Linnea was not here. Olive clearly wished him gone. Tempted to tell her that he would gladly be gone, he closed his eyes and ceded himself to sleep.
His dreams were formless, scattered images that made no sense. Yet, there was a sense of desperation, an unrelenting need that stalked him within that gray fog. Questions filled his head, repeating over and over. What had happened to him, and what shape