Skulls & Crossbones Read online

  The Skald pushed open the door and fought to close it against the wind. He grunted as he finally shut it. "Blasted weather. I'm freezing my balls off ."

  "There was a day when you said winds like this were like Freya's kiss, Alrik," Ladgarda said without humor. "You even wrote a poem about it, an epic story about all the things she could do to a man."

  Alrik laughed and rubbed his arms. "Ah, I remember that story. Many of the men still mutter it to themselves when they're settling down for the night and need a bit of relief."

  "What do you want?" she repeated with a tone ready to dismiss him.

  Sighing, the tall man shook his head. "Stockholm, Ladgarda? There are other places closer and safer to find shelter from the storm. We know why you want to go there. It's a bad idea."

  "It's the largest harbor, and we can buy all the materials we need to repair the ships. I have more than enough gold." She scowled at him, sitting stiffly within her cocoon of furs.

  "We don't need anything special. We can get what we need at any port. Give the order to go elsewhere. Osthammar. Or Oxelosund to the south, if you think that's better."

  Ladgarda rose up on her knees, and her furs drooped around her. "Did you just tell me to give an order?"

  Alrik held up his hands. "I don't want to tell you to do anythi—"

  "You best not be telling me to do anything," she growled.

  "Ladgarda," the Skald dared to take a step toward her, "you're only asking for trouble by going to Stockholm. The others and I have talked about it."

  "What others?" Ladgarda snapped and threw off her furs before they tumbled down on their own. She wore only a linen shift, which drew attention to her womanly curves and hid the knives she had strapped to her body underneath.

  "The others and I." Alrik did not name any names. "We decided we have to stand up to you on this one."

  "Mutiny!" she said with a hiss, and a blade she removed from a sheath on her thigh echoed it.

  "Vittu saatana, Ladgarda!" He jumped back with a hand on the handle of his sword. "This is no mutiny! We are yours, faithful to the end. We will drink and laugh in Valhalla together. Listen to us on this." He let go of his weapon. "Sweden's fleet will be in Stockholm for the festivities, and you know they have no love for us. No matter Radgar's promise, he will not stop them from taking us, especially when he has a pretty maiden to distract him."

  "I could kill you where you stand."

  "You could try." His gray eyes did not look away.

  There was a tense silence for several heartbeats until, with a frustrated snarl, Ladgarda drove her knife into the mattress beside her. "Tell the men to signal for a change in course. Osthammar." Alrik let out a long breath. "As you say, Ladgarda."

  "But"—she withdrew the knife and pointed it at him—"after I've seen us set ashore, and repairs are underway, I'm going to Stockholm."

  "It's folly, Ladgarda. You know it." He shook his head and ran his fingers through his beard. "I compose the stories. I know how the heroes fall. If your adventures come to an end, who is there to inspire me?"

  Ladgarda was fast out of the bed and holding a fistful of his beard. She yanked him down so that his eyes were level with her own and held the tip of the knife to his throat. "Heroes? There are no heroes here, Alrik." She dragged her tongue along his full bottom lip. "Go tell them my new orders and get your ass back in here. I have a need tonight."

  She made to release him from her grip, but then jerked his head down harder. "I could kill you if I wanted. Just remember that."

  Ladgarda let go of the Skald and returned to her bed to lay in wait amongst her furs.

  The drekar had dropped her off on shore outside the city when the night was young. Ladgarda stole a horse from some poor farmer and rode it hard to Stockholm. The animal stumbled with exhaustion when they entered the city proper. Even before she went through the first set of gates, she heard the noise from the celebration.

  She wore a dress with her hair up, and that was all the disguise she needed. The Ladgarda that people feared wore a man's armor covered in blood and had long hair that whipped her enemies' faces as if it were made of leather. So many forgot that she was not a monster under that armor, but a woman who looked like any other.

  The only questions she received going through the three sets of gates were if she wanted to share a drink and celebrate with the guards. Ladgarda laughed at their lewd remarks and flashed them a bit of leg. Entry into the castle would not be so easy, but she had other means to do so.

  She shed the bright outer layer of her dress and left it in a heap in a dark alcove. The next layer was black and made of material that would not swish as she crept along. She unwound the length of silken rope that she had around her waist and attached the small grappling hook to one end. Choosing her spot, she climbed over the castle wall and dropped silently into the garden. The layout to most castles was the same. She could hear the revelry coming from the great hall, and smelled fire and meat from the kitchen. Within the castle, she knew, the guards would be lazy. There were two powerful armies in the city at the moment. That fact would be enough to make even the most vigilant of guards ease off his duty.

  Ladgarda entered through the garden door and found the servants' staircase to the upper levels. At any other celebration, she would not expect Ragnar to return to his room until the sun's rays touched the eastern sky. This was not just any celebration, though. This was his wedding night, and he would have been eager to get his new bride alone in their chambers. She gnashed her teeth and walked to the uppermost floor. All the servants were occupied below in the great hall and no guards were posted here. It was late into the night, and she guessed that anyone who was going to be abed had already retired. She went down the hall and checked each room systematically.

  There were a few people sleeping in their rooms, but Ladgarda was quiet opening the doors. One of the men let out a great snore when she peered in, but she knew it wasn't Ragnar.

  She came to the last door at the end of the hall. There was a wreath made of white flowers, a blessing for marriage, on the handle. She pressed her ear against the door, but she heard nothing from within.

  She shed the black clothes and stood in an off -white shift. It revealed more leg than was proper and stretched tight across her chest. She let down her hair and pinched her cheeks to give them color.

  The door was unlocked. No one would think to disturb a couple on their wedding night. Ladgarda slipped in and shut the door, standing motionless in that spot. The only light in the large room was from the fire, quietly crackling to her right. Thick fur rugs covered the stone floor and a large wardrobe prevented anyone in the bed from seeing the door.

  She let her eyes adjust and stood listening for the occupants of the room. She heard the steady, heavy breathing of a man. There was no snoring, so she knew that he was not yet deeply asleep.

  She crept along the wall until she could see the pair in the immense canopied bed. The princess was lying on her stomach with her long yellow hair splayed out around her. Her breathing was much softer than her new husband's, but she was sleeping the exhausted sleep of a deflowered bride. Ragnar was stretched out on the other side of the bed. Ladgarda walked across the room to stand at his side. The moment her body stepped in the way of the fire's warmth, Ragnar let out a small snort and rubbed his face before opening his eyes.

  Ladgarda put up a hand to shush him as he started and made to bolt from the bed. "I'm not here to fight, Ragnar. As you can see, I'm not carrying any weapons."

  He eyed her and leaned back against the headboard. He reached over to his other side to touch Thora and discovered she was unharmed. His eyes narrowed as he looked back to Ladgarda. "Why are you here?" His voice was quiet and rumbling. "You sneak into my room like an assassin. What am I to think?"

  "You'd be smart to be suspicious, of course. Yet, haven't I proved all these years that I don't want you dead?" Her whisper was accompanied by a sly smile. "I thought I'd give you a wedding present."

&
nbsp; "Really, now? Does it include strangling my new wife?"

  Ladgarda chuckled and shook her head. She crooked up a leg onto the bed and leaned forward. "She's a lovely girl, Ragnar. I've seen some of the whores you've bedded, but this one is, by far, the most beautiful. Though," she lowered her voice further so that he had to bend his head toward her to hear, "I bet she doesn't know a thing about pleasuring a man. I bet she blushed to see you naked and laid there trembling when you took her."

  "Yes, she's a pretty thing." Ragnar's chest puffed out. "And she was a virgin. What do you expect? She was soft and tight and warm. What else matters?"

  "I'm willing to teach her some things for you." Ladgarda purred and lifted up her other leg to kneel on the bed. She crawled forward toward him. "I could teach her all those tricks I know that drove you wild. I could demonstrate on her so she knows how it feels, and then she and I can practice on you together."

  There was no mistaking his arousal under the blankets. Ragnar wet his lips, looking back and forth between the two women. "This is your gift to me? How do I know you're playing me true here, Ladgarda? You've wanted me always for yourself. You could never let go."

  She kept the seductive look on her face and sat up on her knees, raising her arms above her head. "I know what this marriage means for our country, Ragnar. Plus you get this lovely girl in the deal. I have no desire other than to sate you. Check me if you wish. I have no weapons."

  Ragnar ran his hands along her sides and back, lingering on her taut behind. His hands dipped down and lifted her shift to her waist as if searching for any blades that might be strapped to her thighs. Seeing nothing, not even underclothes, he grinned. "Well now, what a gift this is, mitt hjerte."

  "I had a feeling you would like it." She scratched her nails along his broad chest and lowered her head to kiss downward across his stomach. He groaned and fell back, linking his hands behind his head.

  "Wake the girl before you start," Ragnar told her. "Maybe later, after we tire her out, you can have me alone like I know you want."

  Ladgarda distracted him with a nip just above his groin as she reached between her breasts. She was as swift as her drekars and far more deadly. She buried the spearhead she had concealed there deep in Ragnar's stomach. She twisted it and yanked upward. Her cold eyes never left his as she stole his life from him.

  "I never wanted you, Ragnar. I only wanted the sea, and that you gave to me." She thrust the weapon in as deep as it could go. "Now, here you go marrying this bit of fluff . Did you know that doing so would give the Swedes free reign in my waters? I won't have it."

  He attempted to speak, but only blood burbled out from his mouth. Ragnar reached for her, and his hands fell trembling at his sides. She yanked the spearhead sideways to open him up and his intestines spilled out. They steamed even though the room was warm.

  Ladgarda pushed herself off him and tossed the spearhead to the side. She glanced at the princess. How the girl was sleeping through this, she didn't know, but it saved her from having to kill her, too. It was a much more satisfying thought to imagine Thora waking up to the disemboweled body of her new husband.

  Ragnar stopped moving. One more bubble of blood popped between his lips and that was the end of the king. She had never loved nor even liked the man. The rest of the world thought what they wanted, but she knew the truth of it. She was the mistress of the sea, and she loved no one else.

  Ladgarda wiped her hands off on the sheets at the end of the bed and walked out of the room without looking back.

  The Gallows

  Jove Belle

  Gallows swing, you realize, in the moment before the hangman drops the trap door beneath your feet. No matter if you are a spectator or an unfortunate participant, they swing. Wind shakes the hastily built structure, and you swallow the urge to laugh. The good people of Moncliever wouldn't laugh with you, and what good's a joke when no one else gets it? If it had been a Spanish port, the gallows would be permanent, sturdier. Less sway. Instead, you followed her to this devil's den, where the only law was written at the whimsy of whoever is in power at the moment.

  Piracy, per se, isn't a hanging offense. Not here, where the King's influence doesn't quite reach, and a hedonistic lord takes full advantage of his surroundings. Acts of piracy committed while the aforementioned lord is out cold, pants around his ankles, and left where his wife would find him and question the lipstick—not her shade—ringing his exposed private parts? Well, that causes a bit of a stir. Revenge hanging seemed an appropriate response to him and, though you didn't like it, you could definitely see his point. Didn't stop you from running to her like a foolish, impetuous child, crying how unfair it is. It's not her fault. She can't resist the temptation of the big prize—especially when failure brings with it the threat of death. And, so, she seduced him, disregarding the heartbreak it brings you when she does. Disregarding the corrupt army he has at his disposal, protecting his treasure.

  She's there, next to you on the gallows. Stubborn, fiery, and beautiful, even with a rope around her neck and judgment on her head. She holds her chin high, and you think for a moment that she might spit on the priest as he makes the sign of the cross while offering her last rites. You failed to rescue her, but that doesn't mean she's ready to turn to God for help. She'd rather take her chance with the Devil.

  You love her hopelessly. Her wild defiance pulls at you, and so you circle. Never close enough to touch, but unable to break away from her hold. There was a time when she followed after you. Like an eager pup, she'd dog your footsteps, demanding that you teach her how to live on the water. It didn't matter that your life, a pirate's life, is no place for a woman. It's dirty and hungry and, too often, deadly. She would not be deterred.

  "Girl, stop nagging and bring me an ale." You'd barked the order after one too many questions and cringed at the harshness of your voice. She'd been a little slip of a thing. Nothing but skin and bones. No meat on her at all. She looked fragile, and you knew she'd been on the wrong side of far too many beatings in her young life.

  But she'd smiled recklessly, beamed, in fact. You'd acknowledged her, and it was the treasure she'd been seeking. "Aye, Captain," she'd bit off sharply. You weren't the captain, and she knew it. But you would be one day, and she knew that, too. "An ale for you right away." She skipped away, forgetting for a moment that she was there to fill a role. Women working in alehouses—even waifish child-women—swung their hips as they walked, smiled seductively as they took your order, and winked when they turned to fetch it from the bar. The allure and promise of sex was a masquerade that never dropped, lest the gold coin drop back into the patron's purse instead of her own at the end of the night.

  She left the alehouse that night, followed you to the ship. You were half asleep when she crawled into bed with you. Her body trembled, but her eyes were alive with excitement. Young enough to be your daughter, except you didn't have one. Nor did you wish to take a lover that could be mistaken for one.

  "Girl, what are you doing?" You pushed her away. Your first instinct was to chase her off . A slap on the bottom and send her on her way like a good little girl, back to her alehouse with drunk pirates and gold coins to be earned. That was no place for a girl. But neither was a ship. She'd be eaten alive before you reached the next port.

  She cowered at the end of the bed, her knees pulled to her chest, but her eyes flashed with defiance. She would not be turned away that night. "I want to go with you."

  "No." You didn't waste words justifying your answer. She knew all the reasons why it was a bad idea and she was asking to go, anyway. "I'll do anything you want. Just take me with you."

  You didn't like the emphasis she put on "anything." She was offering more than just scrubbing floors and fixing meals. It was a devil's proposition. One you could easily refuse. But the next bastard would take her up on it and leave her bloody on the deck for the rest of the crew to enjoy. The thought made your belly clench. "You'll need to cut your hair."

  She didn't hesit
ate, simply grabbed the short knife she had tucked into the folds of her skirt and started sawing at her long braid. "How short?"

  "Boy short."

  She kept her hair short for two years while you taught her the way to live on the open sea. She proved both nimble and swift with a sword—a deadly combination. That's when she stopped cutting her hair. Instead, she kept it secured with a black bandana. She kept it even from you until you discovered it by accident.

  One night you stumbled into your bunk—the captain's quarters by then— drunk and in need of sleep, and found her bathing in what she thought was privacy. It was the arrangement the two of you shared. If the others thought it odd, they didn't complain. You were too quick to shed blood, and she'd, so far, proven your willing companion in that matter. Any sailor wishing to keep his head and heart would leave well enough alone. "You trying to get yourself killed?"

  Her hair hung down her back, wet and clinging to her skin. You remembered how long it'd been since you'd properly held a woman. "I'd kill any one of those bastards before they even raised a hand. You know it."

  "Still no reason to be foolish. You are tempting the gods." Despite the fact that you never wanted to be a parent, you still feel responsible for this girl-cum-pirate-cum-woman. "I'm careful."

  "Not careful enough. What if I'd been someone else?"

  "Then you would have hung him from the yardarm for entering your quarters without permission."

  You'd done that once, early in your career. That's the kind of legacy that sticks with a person.

  "Don't be a fool." At that, you stomped back out. Your heavy black boots clomped against the deck, and your crew scrambled to escape your dark mood.

  You forgot about her hair. You'd made your point, and she kept it well hidden. Instead, you focused on her skills. You taught her how to read a map, to trust the stars, and, most importantly, to never trust the water. It lulled a man—or woman—into complacency. As soon as one thought it safe, it would roar up and claim a sacrifice. You didn't believe in Davy Jones, but you'd seen enough men meet their deaths over the side of a ship. She learned quickly, absorbing the lessons with eager precision.