Free Viking Fire by Andrea R. Cooper Page A

stuffed the pieces in his mouth, his eyes rolling into his head at the pleasure of wishing this so.
    For touching the weapons, he would rip her arms from their sockets. For speaking against him in front of his father he would carve out her tongue.
    “Another leg of turkey, Feoras?” His father broke his concentration and he wrestled with not displaying his anger. “No father, ’tis enough for me here.”
    “We were wondering,” Bearach added.
    Always his brother had to contribute to anything his father said. As though he feared their father would forget his first born and allow Feoras to usurp his position. “We must compliment the cook, Feoras.” He grinned. “For I have never seen you enjoy your food as much as now. But I have a liking for my meal as long as ’tis not alive.” He patted his stomach and the others at the table laughed.
    “We will see, brother,” Feoras whispered during their joking. “Who is the victor of the battle.”
    “Wench!” Bearach bellowed, addressing their servant. “Tell the cook she has Feoras’ heart through her cooking. Does she have need of a husband?”
    “No.” Feoras clenched his teeth. “She be too fair for me.”
    Men pounded their fists on the table. The serving wench laughed with them and then spun on her heel to the kitchens.
    Moments later, the hunchbacked cook entered. Time and labor molded her back to its humped shape. Her blush was nauseating. She was thin, but her hands and feet swelled like they belonged to his brother and not a woman.
    “Dance with her.” The crowd cheered.
    Tables scooted across the great hall, making room for the musicians and dancing.
    He was in no mood for either. But his mother’s words often filtered through his mind in times like these. “A laird must make his clan content, occasionally at his own expense. Do your duty once and they will remember you. Neglect it, and they will remember you not on the battlefield.”
    With a wink, he stood and then turned away from the high table. He approached the cook, and then offered his hand.
    The cook reddened, but accepted his offer. Her hands felt as they looked, like greasy bloated meat. Instead of his grimace, he donned a grin.
    As the musicians played, he swirled her round the room. Because of her bent back, her head met his stomach. For effect, he bent and then kissed her forehead. She swooned in his arms.
    When the first song ended, the crowd whooped their approval. He should have ended it there. But he had not forgiven his brother’s ridicule.
    “Since this maid is so fair,” he addressed the crowd. “All I have for her is…”
    Baited, the crowd roared. But he waited until their attention was upon him again. The musicians ceased their playing. The men leaned forward to hear.
    “I give her only what I can, another dance.”
    The music jerked into another song, and Feoras twirled the cook around the room.
    “I fear they mock you and I,” he whispered to her.
    Never anger a cook, his mother had told him. For they might remove an offender with poisons, if they so choose.
    “No worry.” She smelled of pungent meat when she spoke. “Best time I have had since I was a young thing.”
    He nodded instead of commenting, because he doubted he could stomach another whiff of her breath.
    At the end of the second song, she panted.
    “At last fair maid.” He swept into a bow. “You have put my dancing to shame with yours.”
    His brother and father were in conversation at the high table as though their interest in his affairs had already waned.
    She giggled and curtsied back.
    With a nod, he strutted away and then headed back to the high table. His plate and goblet were full. But eating now would keep him awake all night. He needed his strength for the upcoming battle with the Liannon clan.
    Instead of eating, he tossed his turkey leg to the dogs. Then he swigged the wine in hopes his headache would ease.
    How dare they mock him in front of everyone. Well, soon his father and brother