Free Sandra Hill by The Last Viking

“Nay, they are too small to a hold a man’s parts.”
    She scoffed back. “They stretch…even for the biggest man parts .” But then she concluded, with embarrassment, that he must not be wearing anything under his sweats. Lordy!
    “And these?” he asked.
    “Athletic socks. You know—” she searched for words he would understand—“ummm…hose, that’s the word. You put them on your feet before you put on your shoes.”
    He nodded his understanding, and did just that, after some clumsy efforts to figure just how it was done. Then he lifted an eyebrow and held up the last of the items he’d brought with him, Jared’s decrepit sneakers.
    “Those are Jared’s old running shoes,” she informed him, dropping down to her knees in front of him to help put them on.
    “Really? Men in your country have shoes just for running?”
    “Yes,” she said with a laugh. It did sound funny now that he mentioned it.
    “And do they have special braies for sitting?”
    “No,” she grunted out as she tried to force one of the shoes onto his foot. The shoes were, indeed, at leasttwo sizes too small. “You must wear a size-thirteen shoe. You know what they say about Vikings with big feet, don’t you?” She’d blurted out that last observation, and instantly regretted it.
    Rolf looked down at her with a puzzled frown. “Nay, what do they say about Vikings with big feet? And why is your face so red?” Then a grin tugged at the edges of his lips. “Could it be the same thing they say about Saxons with big noses?”
    She decided to change the subject. “Do you think you can stand to wear them? Your toes must be cramped.”
    He shrugged. “’Tis no worse than wet leather boots in the midst of a battle.” Then he stood, did a couple of deep knee bends and ran in place for a few seconds. “Yea, I warrant a man could run like the wind in these cloth boots,” he said, flashing her a dazzling, bone-melting smile. “Now show me this box you were staring at when I walked in. Blessed Thor, I ne’er saw a land with so many magic boxes.”
     
    A short time later, Geirolf sat blinking with amazement, trying desperately to process all the information Merry-Death and her come-pewter flashed out. “’Tis sorcery, pure and simple, of that I have no doubt, but sorcery of the most wonderful nature. Letters and pictures and all the wisdom in the world are contained in this little box…in the…what did you call it? Oh, yes, the seedy-rome.”
    She laughed.
    He’d no doubt mispronounced one of the hellish words in this new language. “You are a mean-spirited wench to garner pleasure from my discomfit.”
    “It’s just that you sound so cute.”
    “Cute? Me? Do you treat me like a lackwit pup?” He shook his head. Cute? “Leastways, I intend to master the magic in this come-pewter box,” he snapped. “From birth, my father and mother encouraged learning about all things, in nature and in the world. ‘From knowledge comes strength,’ my father often said. ‘Even for fighting men, the brain is as powerful a weapon as the sword arm.’
    “Your father sounds like a very wise man.” Her raised brow belied her compliment.
    “You are loath to believe we heathen barbarians relish wisdom? Nay, do not deny what shows clearly on your dubious face. I told you afore that my mother is Christian, but my father follows the old ways. At birth, he dedicated each of his living sons to the Norse gods.”
    “So?”
    By all the saints! I’d like to wipe that smirk from her pursed lips. Mayhap a dunking in her moat would accomplish the deed. Nay, I must control my temper. For now. Until I master the secrets of all these magic boxes . “If you would bridle your wagging tongue, a man could perchance finish his tale,” he told her instead. Truly, the woman could use a lesson or two—or fifty—in being biddable. “As I was relating before your interruption, my brother Magnus’s birth-patron is Frey, the god of fertility and prosperity.