In Time for Christmas

by Cheryl Alldredge

Excerpt...

Winter Solstice 830 AD; the Trondelag, Norway
 

Gunnar stared, slack-jawed, at the slight form sprawled on the floor near the hearth.

“I tell you, my lord, she didn’t come with the others. No one saw her until this morn.” Jon’s voice was crisp and eager. He never ran short of words, and this occasion was no exception. “It’s the prayer. You made the prayer in the chapel yestereve, did you not?”

“Aye.” He’d felt a fool, kneeling before the Christian altar, whispering his prayer over that ill-famed box, but done it he had. “But, I did not ask for a wench. Comely as she is, what use have I for a wench? She’ll only cause trouble. Mayhap she kept to the shadows or spent the eve in someone’s bed furs?” Gunnar reasoned the Christian God would have better things to do than send him a wench…even one with a creamy complexion and fine sable curls about her head.

Jon tugged at his tunic, unrelenting. “What did you pray for?”

“I prayed for good fortune…for the farmstead.”

“Well, then. She must be tied to the farmstead’s future. Mayhap she’s a wealthy princess from a far land…or a healer.”

Gunnar well understood why the boy would hope for a healer. All the way across the sea, Jon had warned him of the wrath of God, and they’d returned from the summer raids to find the farmstead beset by illness. Gunnar’s parents and sister had already died and his older brother soon followed, leaving Gunnar to care for the land and its people. That had been only the start of the bad luck that had ended with him giving heed to the boy’s admonitions to appease the Christian One God.

“More likely she is one of lady Asa’s servants.”

“She’s far too fine to be a servant, my Lord.”

Jon had a point. He’d never seen a woman with skin so flawless—and her hands, clutched at the top of the blanket, showed no sign of calluses.

Eric, Gunnar’s right-hand man, came to stand beside him. “If you do not want her—”

“No! She’s a gift from God for my Lord Gunnar.”

Only a hand laid protectively on Jon’s shoulder saved him from Eric’s ill humor. Gunnar gave the boy his best disapproving look—modeled after the one his father had often used on him.

“I beg your forgiveness, Lord Eric.” Wisely, the boy kept his eyes low.
The woman on the ground, roused by Jon’s outburst, pushed into a sitting position and blinked sleep laden eyes. It was then Gunnar saw the tiny chain about her neck and the small silver cross that hung from it—an indisputable symbol of the Christian Savior.

“I’ll be damned. She is a gift from God.”