A Flirty Dozen Box Set

Love Found on LindisfarneIt was a hot summer’s day on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. The lanes were dusty underfoot, the languid breeze heavy with the scent of the North Sea, and a Viking had just offered to buy my daughter. His drooping moustache quivered as he spoke to her, his hands on his thighs and his head bent down to her level. “How old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen? That’s prime marriageable age, that is.” Kelis giggled, her honey-coloured cheeks tinged with pink. “I’m twelve. And you’re old enough to be my dad.” Actually, with his bald head and grizzled beard, not to mention the beer gut—mead gut?—he looked old enough to be my dad. Bearing in mind this was a bloke with a broadsword, I decided not to mention it. The Viking, who’d introduced himself without a trace of irony as Balder, stared at her. “So? What’s that got to do with anything? Twelve’s even better, as it happens. Fourteen, well…” He pursed his lips and sucked in a breath. “Bit long in the tooth for a first time bride. But it’s not for me, as it happens. I’ve got a wife. It’s my son I’m trying to marry off. What d’you reckon? He’s over there by the boat. Ulf!” The boat in question was a red and black longboat, with a gold dragon’s-head prow, sitting outside the priory gate as if beached there on the road by an unusually high tide. Another Viking shambled past it like a one-man zombie apocalypse. He was tall, if a bit hunched-over, had blond dreadlocks and a beard with beads in it. If it hadn’t been for the lurching and the worryingly vacant expression, he’d have been pretty good-looking. “Ur?” he grunted. “Found you a wife, Ulf. What d’you reckon?” Ulf lurched over to Kelis, put his nose up to her face and gave her an audible sniff. “Ur,” he said in a tone of approval. Kelis squealed in mock terror and cowered back against me, tickling my arm with her loose brown curls—the same mid brown as my hair, but a bubbly riot where mine is dead straight. She got my hazel eyes, too, and my nose, but the rest of her is all her mother. “Why’s he being funny?” Balder beamed proudly. “He’s a berserker, Ulf is. Great fighters, they are. Give ‘em an axe or a sword, shove ‘em into battle and you’re knee deep in hacked off limbs before you can say Ragnarok. Course, you have to remember to point ‘em at the enemy first.” Ulf’s unfocussed eyes lit up manically at the word enemy. He grabbed a wicked-looking axe from the table and waggled it threateningly in my direction. I was surprised—and interested—to see him wink as I took a step back, Kelis clinging to me like a giggly limpet. “Down, boy!” Balder grabbed Ulf’s arm. “That’s your father-in-law. Not the enemy. Friend, Ulf. Axe down.” Ulf’s shoulders slumped as he lowered his weapon. “Ur,” he muttered sullenly. “Sorry about that. Not very discriminating, your average berserker. So what do you reckon, son? Think she’ll be a good wife for you?” Ulf nodded his shaggy head with worrying enthusiasm. “Ur.” As his gaze met mine, there was a flicker of amusement that I was sure was just for me. “Looks like he likes you. All right, just a few more questions before we seal the deal. How’s your cooking?” “Um, I can make flapjacks. And we did pizza sauce in school.” “Close enough. Can you make cheese?” “Make cheese?” Kelis stared at the weirdo who didn’t seem to know cheese came out of packets. “Milk goats?” “Ew!” “And you’ll have to hand sew all your own clothes. And his. And the kids’. And you’ll need to have lots of them, to make sure one or two survive to look after you in your old age.” “Um…” Balder shook his head sadly. “Sorry, Ulf. I don’t think she’s the girl for you. Doesn’t seem ready to take on her responsibilities. Think we’ll have to keep looking.” Ulf pouted, then held up the axe. “Ur?” he asked hopefully. “No, you can’t kill them either.” With a scowl, Ulf slammed the axe back onto the table then lurched off to terrorise a Japanese family who’d just wandered into view. “You must be very proud of him,” I said, keeping my face straight. Balder beamed with paternal pride. “Chip off the old block, he is. Apart from the homicidal rages, of course. Now, any questions?” Kelis had a few questions—Kelis always had a few questions—like did girl Vikings ever get to fight? (not as a rule, apparently, although there had been one or two shield maidens) and were there any gay Vikings? (not if they knew what was good for them). I got the distinct impression your average old Norse man was pretty rigid about gender roles. Then we wandered off towards the picturesque ruins of Lindisfarne Priory, where some of Balder’s fellow re-enactors had set up their tents. If I cast a glance over my shoulder first for one last look at the man who’d so nearly married into the family, well, I’m pretty sure no one noticed. Except Kelis, of course, who teased me about it mercilessly (“You liked Ulf, didn’t you?”) until she got distracted by a monk making ink out of berries, thank God. The accompanying spiel was quite interesting, actually, but I zoned out after a while. Lack of sleep, probably, although Kelis didn’t seem affected even though it had been her nightmares that’d kept me awake last night. Kids. “I’m going to take a look around outside, all right?” I whispered in her ear. “Yeah, whatever.” She nodded, her gaze not wavering from the sack-cloth clad, vaguely druidical looking bloke with the berries. “Okay. Be good. I’ll see you back here, or just outside.” I wandered off into the ruins. There was a place in the priory wall where a jagged-edged window perfectly framed a view of sixteenth-century Lindisfarne Castle, perched a mile or so away on its volcanic mound. I stopped to snap off a photo, and decided I’d drag Kelis over that way for a closer look. After all, we’d managed a different castle every day during our week in Northumberland, and it’d be a shame to fall down on the job on our last full day’s holiday. It didn’t look too far to walk, although an ice-cream bribe might be indicated. I stood for a moment under a slender archway that curved between two sections of crumbling wall, and gazed up at it, outlined against an impossibly blue sky. Further on, there was a larger-than-life, green-tinged statue of St Cuthbert, Lindisfarne’s seventh-century bishop, missionary, and hermit. Back in those days, a total lack of any kind of social life could be seen as a good thing, it seemed. A ginger cat lay stretched out at the statue’s feet, sunning itself on the low stone plinth, and Cuthbert gazed down at his feline companion with long-faced serenity. As I watched, a tall young man in Viking gear stooped to stroke the cat, which nuzzled into his hand. It was Ulf, the berserker from earlier, now straight-backed and smoking a rollie. I stared at him for a moment, then thought, what the hell? I wandered closer. “Ur,” I said, in a tone I hoped conveyed friendly greeting. He turned and grinned, showing gleaming white, slightly crooked teeth. “It’s all right, I can speak English.” He spoke it with a light rural accent, not easy to place. “I’m on a break. I’m Ian, by the way. When I’m not running amok.” Ian held out his hand, and I shook it. His grasp was firm and warm, and lingered in an easy-going sort of way that was pleasant, but frustratingly inconclusive. “Chris. Nice to meet you. Sorry the marriage plans didn’t work out.” “Yeah, no offence to your daughter, but twelve-year-old girls really aren’t my type.” Did that mean girls weren’t his type? Or just twelve-year-olds? I really needed to work on my gaydar. Ian took another drag on his rollie and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “Her mum off shopping somewhere?” Was I reading too much into it, or was that a leading question? Unfortunately, even if it was, my answer was going to be a bit of a buzz-kill. “Actually, her mum died when she was six.” His eyes took on a pinched look. “God, sorry. That must have been rough.” I shrugged a bit awkwardly. “It was for Kelis. Her mum and I weren’t actually together. Never were.” I caught his wide-eyed look of surprise. “Well, apart from fairly briefly, thirteen years ago, obviously. I think we were both equally horrified when we saw who we’d woken up with next morning.” At nineteen, Shandi had been a free-spirited, exotic (to my sheltered eyes) beauty, with warm brown skin and swinging black braids, living in a squat with a bunch of other bizarre characters. I, on the other hand, had been skinny, awkward and conventional. Actually, come to think of it, I wasn’t sure all that much had changed. Except maybe the “skinny” part. Ian laughed. “Yeah, I’ve had mornings like that. Can’t be easy, being a single dad.” I looked down, pushed a loose stone around in the grass with my foot. “We get along all right, most of the time. Probably because she hasn’t discovered boys yet.” I glanced up again. “You got kids?” “Only nieces and nephews. So far.” He gazed past me, out towards the sea, a gust of wind blowing back his dreads and making the beads in his beard dance. “I’d like them one day. But it’s not always that easy.” I snorted. “Based on my own experience, I’d have to take issue with that. Sometimes it’s far too easy. Not that I regret having Kelis. God, no. Best mistake I ever made.” Followed nine months later by the worst mistake I ever made. But Ian didn’t need to know about my painfully steep learning curve on the road to good decision-making. “Is she enjoying it here?” “Oh, yes. She loves all these sort of events. Right now, she’s busy producing some epic masterpiece of calligraphy. Allegedly. Or possibly being bludgeoned to death with a crucifix by a monk who can’t take any more questions.” “Sounds like she’s a bright kid.” He took a last drag on his rollie, looked at it regretfully and stubbed it out carefully on the wall. “Right. Back to the berserkergang. Enjoy the rest of your day. Maybe I’ll see you around? Are you staying on the island?” He looked hopeful. I hated to dash it. “No, we’ve been staying in a cottage just over the causeway for the last week, but we’re due off home tomorrow morning. But I expect you have to go off and pillage somewhere else tomorrow anyway?” “Actually, we’re camping out in the priory grounds for the night, and we’ll be around all day tomorrow. We’re doing a small-scale re-enactment of the 793 raid, if you’re interested.” “That’s the bit where they give you an axe, wind you up and point you at the enemy, right?” I bet that was a sight to see. Probably not from the receiving end, though. “Yeah, but I try not to hack off too many limbs for real. Health and safety’s a bugger these days.” I nodded. “It’s the nanny state gone mad. I’d love to see you do a bit of hacking, but we’ve got a long way to go, and with the tides as well…” The causeway to Lindisfarne is only passable at low tide. Notices all over the island warn of dire consequences to anyone stupid enough to ignore the warnings, and a lot of the postcards gleefully display pictures of half- or, indeed, fully-submerged cars. Clearly there are plenty of stupid people about. “Shame.” Ian did actually look disappointed, which was good for the ego even if it didn’t change the facts. “Right. Back to the grind.” “See you,” I said, reflecting that Viking-style tunics and long chainmail vests were a total killjoy if you wanted to check out a bloke’s rear view as he walked away. Nice shoulders, though. Probably from swinging that axe around in battle. Ah, well. Maybe nothing had come of it, but a bit of flirting was always good for the soul. When I got back to the scribe’s tent Kelis was just finishing off her masterpiece: her name and address in wobbly cursive script. “It’s really hard, writing with a feather,” she said, thrusting the results of her labours in my face. “Can you look after this?”