The Viking's Captive

by Sandra Hill

  “There are harems, and then there are harems,” offered Rashid, misinterpreting Adam’s sigh. “I’m especially fond of women who can dance the Ritual of the Veils. Or those who are double-jointed. Or those with an ample set of buttocks. Or those with breasts like pomegranates. Or those—”

  “Pfff!” was Adam’s only response.

  Rashid’s biggest complaint about the Saxon lands was its dearth of women … especially talented women. He was of the firm conviction that the answer to any male difficulty could be found between the thighs of a comely woman, with or without talents, and he did not mind sharing that conviction with one and all. ‘Twas best to ignore him betimes.

  Adam picked his quill up, dipped it in the ink pot’s treacly encaustum, and resumed scratching on the parchment pages of his herb journal. In some ways, this two-year respite from medical practice had helped Adam become a better doctor. He was assimilating all his thoughts and research from the past ten years or more and putting them on parchment.

  Some physicians studied the human body, head to toe. Others believed in the theory of humors … that everything that happened to the body was related to bile, blood, phlegm, or water. Adam had come to believe that there was much more he did not know about the body than what he did know, so he limited his studies to herbs and their medicinal uses. Even then, it was complicated. The same plants grown in different geographical areas displayed different properties. The time of year an herb was picked could be important. And, of course, the roots, seeds, leaves, spores, pollen, and flowers all served different purposes … not to mention how they were preserved or prepared.

  Rashid continued to fill small pottery containers with propolis, the reddish resin produced by honeybees. Adam’s stepaunt by marriage, Eadyth, one of England’s most famous beekeepers, had sent him a goodly supply last sennight. He used the base substance as a balm in treating wounds, while scenting the rest with lavender, rose, and sandalwood for gifting on occasion to his women friends. It was an excellent unguent for softening hands and other body parts. Not that he had all that many women friends of late. Adam also used honey as a dressing for wounds or, mixed with salt, as a cleansing agent.

  He and Rashid worked in companionable silence in the round tower room overlooking the courtyard. Its eighteen arrow slit windows gave more light for his studies than any other chamber in this dreary keep. While many men measured their wealth in gold and land, Adam prized the rare books that filled a shelf on the far wall. An amazing six in all. Few kings had as many. They were worth a fortune. Bald’s Leechbook; Pliny the Elder’s Natural History; Hippocrates’s medical observations; the works of Galen, surgeon to the Roman gladiators; the notebooks of the revered Arab doctor, Rhazes; and, of course, his stepmother Rain’s journal.

  The books had been translated from their original languages into English, most often by monks, but ofttimes by Adam himself, who was fluent in five tongues. Of course, he hadn’t translated Rain’s journal—the one he consulted most—because it had been in English to begin with.

  There was valuable information in all the books, but much to be scoffed at as well, such as Pliny’s advice to eat a mouse a day to prevent tooth decay.

  “If this lowly servant could be so bold,” Rashid said, breaking the silence, “a harem could be just the spark you need to fire up your life again.”

  By the rood! Is Rashid still on that selfsame subject? “A harem? A harem in Saxon lands? I’d like to see that. Better yet, my dour-faced neighbors, far distant as they are, would love to see it.”

  “You could start a trend. Lucky for you, I know just where to gather a harem.”

  “I’d wager a camel’s hump you do, you conniving scoundrel.”

  “In Baghdad.”

  “Aaaahhh! So that’s where this conversation is headed … as always. Home to the desert.”

  “Truly, it is past time that we return to the warmer climes, oh, wise one.”

  Rashid always threw in “oh, wise one” when he wanted something. His machinations were as transparent as Lady Eadyth’s wispy beekeeping garments.

  “It is so cold and damp in this land that I swear I found mold betwixt my toes this morn. And there was frost on my nose, yea, there was, and it is only September. Mayhap you could accept the sultan’s offer of a small palace in Cairo in return for becoming his personal physician. And, of course, there would be a harem.” Rashid smiled widely, as if he’d just said something brilliant.

  Adam glanced up from his work to see if Rashid was serious.

  He was.

  “I do not need a woman. I sure as bloody hell do not need a harem. And how many times do I have to tell you, I am not your master, Rashid?”

  “As you say, master.”

  “And we are not going back to the Eastlands anytime soon.”

  Rashid scowled at being thwarted, but then tried a different approach. “A thousand pardons, master. Perchance you would not be so ill-tempered if your body humors were leveled out. Everyone knows that a man must empty his sacred vessel on occasion lest the biles rise in his body.”

  Adam shook his head at Rashid’s persistence. He had a fair idea of what “sacred vessel” Rashid referred to, but, being a physician, he had to ask, “Which biles would those be?”

  Rashid brightened, no doubt thinking that he was making some progress. He wasn’t. “The biles that create dark moods.”

  “Rashid,” Adam said with a weary sigh, “I am not in a dark mood … especially not a dark mood caused by sexual deprivation.”

  “Hah! You are always in a dark mood. The grooves betwixt your eyebrows have become a permanent fixture. You have set aside your fine apparel. The coins you earned on one battlefield or another have been stored away, along with the treasures given for your great medical achievements. And this home given to you by your adoptive father Selik is certainly dark and gloomy,” he said, waving a hand at their surroundings. “There is no gaiety in your life. What you need is gaiety.”

  Adam’s lips twitched with suppressed mirth. “And that gaiety would come from … let me guess … a harem?”

  “I knew you would agree with me.” Rashid puffed his chest out with self-satisfaction.

  “I do not agree with you. Stop being unreasonable.”

  Rashid unpuffed his chest. “You could start small, with one or two females. That would be reasonable. You wouldn’t need to have a full harem right away. You’ve heard of that famous Arab proverb regarding harems, haven’t you?”

  “The one which says, ‘If there is no nubile female about, a camel will suffice’?”

  “For shame!” Rashid exclaimed, but his lips were fighting a grin, too. “Nay, I refer to the one which says, ‘A man’s staff needs constant polishing.’”

  Adam shook his head with amusement.

  Rashid’s dark-skinned face turned somber. He put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “In all seriousness, my lord, I worry about you. You have become a recluse here in your own land. You do not mix in society. You make no attempt to refurbish your keep so that others may visit. Most worrisome of all, you continue to refuse to treat the ill and dying who come seeking your healing skills.”

  Adam should have been affronted. Rashid went too far, for a servant. But then, he was not really a servant. He was a friend. And Adam had given him good cause to worry.

  Adam squeezed Rashid’s hand on his shoulder and motioned for him to move to the other side of the table where work awaited him. “I’m getting better, Rashid. Really, I am. I know I have been morbid overlong, but—”

  Rashid made a snorting sound of commentary on just how morbid he had been of late.

  “—but I have been thinking of establishing a small hospitium in that old weaving shed near the moat. What think you of that?”

  Rashid gave him a look that said, without words, that he would have been much more impressed if he’d said he was thinking of establishing a harem … even in the old weaving shed.

  “I knew you could not walk away from medicine permanentl
y,” Rashid said. “Why else would you maintain your studies? Why else would you continue to gather herbs? Why else would you correspond with healers of other lands? You may call yourself knight or land owner, traveler or hermit, but at heart you will always be a physician. Till the day you die. For the love of Allah, ‘tis time you stopped fighting your fate.”

  Rashid’s wise words did not require comment, but Adam did ponder all he had said. A long period of silence followed.

  Adam worked with great concentration, writing in his journal. Rashid, giving up on his harem exhortations for the moment, sat on the bench across the table from him, looking for more work to do now that he was finished with the beeswax balm. After years of noisy towns and battlefields, after the turmoil of personal tragedies, after so much death … well, the familiar, peaceful sounds of his quill scratching on parchment and Rashid’s pestle now moving rhythmically against fragrant herbs in a stone bowl were oddly soothing.

  Alas, their solitude was broken of a sudden.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! they heard, accompanied by huffing-and-puffing noises and a few muttered expletives. There were also the neighing of horses and the rhythmic clatter of shod hooves on wood, probably the drawbridge planks.

  Adam and Rashid turned as one with surprise toward the windows that looked out over the bailey, then toward the open doorway that led down to the great hall. The sounds seemed to emanate from somebody, or somebodies, stomping through the courtyard and up the steps to his keep.

  “Did you forget to pull up the drawbridge?” Adam asked sardonically.

  “Ha, ha, ha! May Allah be laughing at your marvelous wit,” Rashid replied. Adam, Rashid, the cook, a chambermaid, and a stable boy were the only people living in this cavernous wood castle. There was nothing worth stealing. And the drawbridge was rusted into a down position, as they both well knew. “No one ever comes to this desolate place. You live like a hermit.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Some things bear repeating.”

  “Not that.”

  “Mayhap it is your stepuncle, Lord Eirik, returning with yet another invitation to spend the coming harvest season at Ravenshire.”

  Adam peered out through one of the arrow slit windows. “Nay, these men appear to be Viking soldiers and a hersir, by their attire and weapons.” Although Eirik was half Viking, he had long ago adopted Saxon ways, including his manner of dress.

  “Your other stepuncle, Tykir, then? He is a full-blooded Viking, is he not?”

  Adam shook his head. “Tykir is Norseman to the bone, but he would not venture past the bounds of Dragonstead in Norway … not at this time of year … not with his lady, Alinor, breeding yet again at the advanced age of five and thirty, no less.”

  Adam shrugged with unconcern. They had naught to fear; there was nothing worth stealing. Even so, they both grabbed short swords lying nearby and made for the doorway.

  Clang! Clang! Clang! Huff, puff, huff, puff. “Bloody damn hell!” The noises made by the intruders were getting louder as they climbed the steps. Adam heard a female screech of dismay … probably Emma, the cook. No, there were two female screeches, combined. It must be Emma and Bridget, the chambermaid. By the timbre of their screams, you’d think a dragon had entered his keep.

  The huffing-and-puffing, the clanging, and the expletives, he understood immediately. After all, there were thirty-seven steep stone steps leading up from the bailey to the double doors of the great hall. He knew because he’d counted them on innumerable occasions and cursed fluently in several languages, especially when he was suffering from mead-head.

  Adam and Rashid were making their way down the interior stairway when Adam stopped abruptly at the bottom, incredulous at the sight he beheld. Rashid slammed into his back.

  “Oh … my … God!” Adam muttered.

  “For … the … love … of … Allah!” Rashid muttered.

  They were standing next to each other by now, gaping at the other side of the great hall, where a small entourage of Viking warriors stood, broadswords drawn and battle-axes at the ready. They were a fearsome group of fighting men, massive in height and breadth, clad in furs and armor, wielding weapons that could cleave a grown man from head to groin with a flick of the wrist. That was what had caused Emma and Bridget to scream, no doubt; both women stood leaning against a nearby wall, fanning themselves with their aprons.

  “May God help us!” Adam exhorted.

  “Hah! I prefer the proverbial wisdom, ‘Call on your God, but avoid men with sharp blades.’”

  In truth, these Norsemen did not frighten Adam, his words prompted more by surprise than fear. Even though he was Saxon by birth, he and his sister Adela had grown up in a Norse household. It was not the sight of armed Vikings that had caused Adam and Rashid to go slack-jawed with amazement. It was the leader of the Norse troop that drew their attention. Tossing aside a full-length, midnight blue, wool cloak lined in gray sable, the Norse chieftain stood before them, arrogant and proud.

  It was a woman.

  A woman warrior.

  A sudden thought occurred to Adam, and he turned on his assistant. “Rashid! You didn’t! Surely this is a coarse jest, even for you.”

  “Me? What have I done?” Rashid slapped a palm over his heart, as if suffering some great insult.

  “The harem nonsense,” Adam reminded him. “A short time ago, you urged me to start a harem, and now this,” he said, indicating the Amazon who had resumed her bold approach toward him, followed closely by a dozen soldiers. The woman even walked like a man, in an exaggerated, swaggering sort of way.

  “Are you mad? That … that man-woman is not what I would consider for a harem.” Rashid practically sputtered with indignation.

  “What then? A Valkyrie?” He’d heard the tales of the legendary female gods who led brave warriors to the afterworld.

  “That is no Valkyrie,” Rashid asserted. “That man-woman is live and human … I would swear it on Muhammad’s grave.”

  As the group drew closer, Adam got his first good look at the woman through the light provided by the open doors and meager arrow slit windows. And he had to agree with Rashid’s assessment. This was no goddess, come from the other world. She was flesh and blood … and definitely woman.

  The oddest thing happened then. Fine hairs stood out all over Adam’s body. His heart stopped beating for a second, then raced wildly. Most remarkable, a surge of energy slammed into his loins, pumping hot blood into the region, and settling there, thick and pulsing. Like the drawbridge, he’d thought his manpart was rusted down. He was wrong.

  She was tall, for a female. In fact, Adam was very tall himself and he had only a half head on her. Despite being slender, she was well muscled, as any soldier would be. The short-sleeved tunic she wore, belted at a narrow waist, left bare her arms, which bore etched silver armlets over well-defined muscles. Even her forearms displayed the raised tendons and ropy muscles of a swordsman. Exceedingly long legs were encased in skintight, soft hide leggings which also showed the delineation of musculature … no doubt from long hours atop a warhorse.

  That image—female legs spread wide, the rhythmic up-and-down canter of the horse pressing against her womanplace—caused the throb in his manhood to intensify. Bloody hell! It feels as if I have a heartbeat there.

  She must have been wearing flexible chain mail, because he could see its hem beneath the thigh-high tunic, and because it molded her body in such a way that her breasts were upthrust against the fabric of her tunic. From a distance, she might have resembled a man-woman, as Rashid had referred to her, but up close she was all woman, in Adam’s opinion.

  To his utter shock, the woman did the most outlandish thing. She scratched at her groin … as men were wont to do. He could swear she did it deliberately, to reinforce the notion that she was a manly woman, or mayhap just to startle them. Repulsed as he was by the crude gesture, his manpart knew no better … it still throbbed.

  Two years without a woman, and the first one tha
t arouses me is wearing chain mail and scratching at her groin. Some celestial being must have a twisted sense of humor.

  Who is she?

  The richness of the jewel-brooched garments and gold-studded belt she wore, along with the silver-scabbarded weapons, bespoke a personage of high rank. He thought he knew all the families of Viking nobility, but this woman did not strike a memory chord.

  Even as he stared at her rudely, the woman pulled the fitted leather helmet off her head, causing thick, pale blond braids to fall out, then cascade loose from their leather ties into what could only be described as skeins of golden silk.

  He gasped.

  And throbbed some more. Good thing he wore the loose Arab robe he favored when in his own home, or he would embarrass himself.

  Under his breath, Rashid murmured in Arabic, “On the other hand …”

  Adam arched an eyebrow in question.

  “On the other hand, yon man-woman might make a magnificent harem houri. Dost think she would consent to wearing pierced bells on her breasts?”

  “Shhhhh,” Adam cautioned, then added, also in Arabic, “It would be more likely she would pierce your balls with bells, my friend. This is no tame desert damsel, eager to please her master.”

  Eyes of cerulean blue pierced them both, almost as if she understood their words. Her men snickered under their collective breaths.

  “Which of you is the healer?” she asked, speaking for the first time.

  Her voice was deep and husky, but not at all manlike. Nay, Adam could imagine that voice whispering wicked things to a man when they were both stoked to passion. He could imagine it suggesting ways to cure the pleasure-pain that continued to envelop his loins. He could imagine—

  “Well?” she interrupted his reverie. “Enough time have I wasted, traipsing across this wretched land. Which of you is the healer I have been searching for?”

  He and Rashid exchanged a long look, not sure if either of them wanted to be the subject of her search. Finally, Adam admitted, “I was … am … Adam the Healer.”

  Rashid piped in, “And I am Ibn Rashid al Mustafa. Your humble servant.” He performed a peculiar obsequious bow native to his country, involving the rapid touching of his forehead, nose, mouth, and heart.