Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  “’Tis good you noticed my impressive stature,” he said.

  Thor’s toenails! The nonsense in my head is spewing out my mouth now.

  “How could I not? You block the entire door.”

  He was leaning his shoulder, casually, against the open door frame of the Lady Alinor’s bedchamber, his arms folded across his chest. Block was a good choice of word on her part because he suspected she would bolt in an instant if he were not acting as the barrier to her freedom.

  He tapped one booted foot with impatience as the wench…rather, the witch…or the lady…arranged a neat pile on her high bed of the garments she intended to take on her journey to Trondelag. Worst of all, there were four blue headrails, and none of them looked magical, or, for that matter, old enough to be the Blessed Virgin relic.

  I swear, if she folds that gunna into one more perfect square and smoothes out every single wrinkle, I am going to stuff her belongings in my saddlebags and be done with it. Mayhap I will stuff her scrawny body in there, too, all neatly folded into squarish parts.

  Clearly, she was employing a delaying tactic, but for what purpose he could not yet fathom. She appeared to be an intelligent woman…or as intelligent as any woman could be. She had to know her fate was sealed; she would be delivered to King Anlaf, willing or unwilling.

  Still Tykir held his temper in check. A good soldier knew to wait for just the right moment to pounce. Lady Alinor didn’t deceive him. The witch was up to some mischief. He saw the evidence in the nervous fluttering of her fingertips, and this was a woman not prone to flightiness. She had given in too quickly, in the end, to his demand that she accompany him to the Norse lands. Being a mite stubborn himself on occasion, Tykir recognized a fellow mule. He grinned to himself at that mental picture, and how the missish Lady Alinor would hate that he put her in that animal category.

  She cast him a sideways glance through narrowed, speculative eyes. “Wouldst consider a danegeld?”

  “Aha! You think to bribe me now? With what? Mutton?”

  She bristled at his ridicule of her precious sheep. On the way back to the keep, he’d noted with amusement that she had names for each of the bleating animals.

  “Perchance I could gather together a few coin,” she offered. The furtive cast in her eyes told him clearly that she hid something. Hmmm. Now that he thought on it, the number of sheep and cattle he’d seen on the fells, along with the well-cultivated fields, bespoke a more prosperous estate than exhibited in Graycote’s austere keep or in Lady Alinor’s jewelless attire. Mayhap she hoarded her gold. But for what purpose?

  Really, it was no matter to him whether she was wealthy as a Baghdad sultan or poor as a landless cotter.

  He shook his head. “I promised Anlaf a witch, and a witch he shall have.”

  “All for the sake of a horse?” she scoffed.

  He’d told her moments ago about all the trouble he’d gone to since the king’s emissary had come to him in Birka, including Anlaf’s wily inducements to seal the mission. Her scoffing tone irritated him. Whether he’d been barmy or not to take on this mission was his concern, and whether he did so out of boredom or for a fine stallion did not merit her criticism.

  “Do not forget the slave girl,” he pointed out in a deliberate attempt to rattle her composure. “The one with the bells.” For some reason, he’d mentioned the horse and the jingling Samirah, but he hadn’t told her about Adam. The less people who knew the better, especially his sister Rain and her husband, Selik. They would go off in a rage if they discovered Anlaf’s perfidy regarding their adopted son. In fact, their rage might cause a whole bloody war over an incident that Tykir could handle by simply delivering a witch.

  Her upper lip curled with contempt. “Men are the same everywhere, are they not? It does not matter if they be Norseman or Englishman, men are led by the tail betwixt their legs.”

  Tykir was startled by her blunt words and realized that she was referring to his slave girl comment. He was not accustomed to such crudity from a lady, but he forced his face to remain expressionless. “My lady, you exceed yourself. You would do best not to earn my scorn. Speaking of tails, how much trouble does yours cause?”

  “I…am…not…a…witch,” she repeated, a refrain that was becoming tiresome to him.

  “I would think it could pose problems when you attend your needs in the garderobe,” he said, as if she had not even spoken. He’d already noticed that she hated it when he ignored her words. “Or riding a horse. Oh, oh, I thought of something…”

  “Now, there is a rare event.”

  He frowned at her impertinent interruption. “I am loath to ask, but…do you have a mood tail?”

  He could tell she did not want to ask but could not help herself. “A mood tail?”

  “You know…does it wag of its own volition when you are in a happy mood, like a puppy? And droop when you are in a despondent mood, like when the blood curdles in your witchly cauldron?”

  “I find no humor in your foolery.” She bit her bottom lip with frustration. There was something appealing about the woman when her feathers were ruffled, but he just could not see past those hideous freckles. And even though a crisp wimple covered her bright red hair, he knew it was there underneath, just waiting to spring forth. Moreover, she had no breasts to speak of, as far as he could tell. His preferences did not necessarily lean toward the buxom, but flatter than two eggs on a hot rock held little enticement, either.

  “Keep your eyes in their sockets, Viking,” she admonished.

  Aha! Another feather ruffled. He liked ruffling her. So he added, “Oh, Holy Thor! How could I have forgotten the most important thing? What do you do with your tail when you spread your legs for the bed sport?”

  She gasped, then quickly masked her shock with a bland face. “Since I have been a widow for a year and more, bedsport is hardly something I engage in. Have you all-knowing Vikings found a way to engage in bed sport without a mate?” She batted her eyelashes at him as if she was serious, while in fact she mocked him. “Verily, there was not all that much mating even when I had a mate…not that I ever complained about that.”

  “Oh, lady, that is exactly the kind of provocative remark you should not make to a Viking.”

  He grinned at her lasciviously.

  She glared at him.

  “So, do not distract me with tempting propositions. We must be on our way.”

  “Tem-tempting,” she sputtered.

  “By the by, Rurik and Bolthor and I were wondering if you ever dance naked in the forest.”

  “Dance…dance…oh, you are the most ill-bred, insufferable, loathsome, lecherous lout I have ever encountered in all my life. And believe me, I have met more than a few.”

  “Well, yea, but enough compliments for now. We have no time for man-woman banter.”

  She drew herself up with affront. “Turn aside whilst I gather my undergarments. ’Tis not meet that you should ogle my intimate apparel.”

  “Ogle? Me?” Tykir stiffened. “Lady, despite my mention of temptation, do not delude yourself. Your intimate apparel holds no allure for me. Nor do your intimate parts. Your virtue will not be forfeit in my company, I assure you.”

  Just then, Bolthor approached from the corridor. “I have gathered provisions from the kitchen, and Rurik says the horses are ready.”

  Tykir looked toward Lady Alinor, eyebrows arched in question of her readiness.

  A flush of panic swept her features, causing the freckles to stand out even more. However, before he could assure her of her safety—leastways till they got to Anlaf’s court—a loud rumbling came from Tykir’s gut, followed by a most painful cramping. At the same time, bile rose without warning into his throat.

  Startled, Tykir glanced first at Bolthor, who was gazing at him with concern as he bent over at the waist, clutching his midsection, then at the Lady Alinor, who had the effrontery to grin. He thought he heard her murmur, “’Twould seem I had a choice after all.” Without another word, he made a
mad rush for the garderobe.

  There were two things Tykir heard Bolthor say behind him as he laid one palm over his stomach and another over his mouth, praying he would make the privy before he embarrassed himself: “Lady Alinor, if you have put a curse on my master Tykir, I will light the torch beneath your stake myself. And it will be a slow-burning fire.” Then, “Methinks a good title would be, ‘Tykir the Great and the Raging Bowel.’”

  Two days later, Tykir sat atop his horse in the inner bailey, about to leave Graycote, finally. He was weak-kneed as an untried boy after his first swiving, and he’d lost so much weight he resembled a starvling, but he was alive, praise be to the gods, and there had been times in these past two days when he questioned whether he’d survive the violent heaving and purging.

  “I still say you should have let me kill the scurvy witch when first we realized she had laid a curse on your entrails,” Bolthor complained. “Mayhap the spell would have been removed earlier.”

  All of the castle folk—three dozen of them, from the high castellan to the lowly kitchen carls—were barricaded in the stable under Bolthor’s stern-faced guard. When Tykir and his comrades reached a village later today, or mayhap even tomorrow, they would make sure someone was sent back to unlock them. There was plenty of water to share with the horses, and it would do none of them harm to go a day without food.

  Bolthor left his post and mounted his horse upon seeing Rurik emerging from the manor’s great hall. He led the much-subdued Lady Alinor by a rope tied round her neck, though her eyes sparked green fire of outrage at her mistreatment by her three captors, including himself. Hah! He would like to speak with her about real mistreatment.

  Welt marks stood prominent on her right cheek from Rurik’s slap yestermorn when she finally confessed her perfidy, though she’d claimed ’twas a mere herb, not a deadly curse. Furthermore, she’d avowed that the herbal potion was intended to delay his departure from Graycote, not cause his departure from this world. If she’d wanted to kill him, she would have given the tainted drink to Rurik and Bolthor, as well, she contended. Tykir could have accepted that explanation if she hadn’t then refused to explain what purpose could be served by a delay.

  That’s when Rurik had wielded his open palm on her. It had taken both Tykir and Bolthor to hold Rurik back from more permanent injury. No doubt Rurik would have liked to mark the witch’s face permanently, just as his had been.

  That side of her face was swollen and bluish-yellow with healing—a stark foil against her pale skin highlighted with the ungodly freckles. She was fortunate Rurik hadn’t loosened all her teeth with the force of his blow. Rurik’s hatred of witches had intensified threefold since their arrival at Graycote.

  Tykir stared at her dispassionately. Violence was a common happenstance in a Viking’s life, especially in battle, but it was rarely directed at women. He could feel no sympathy for this woman, though, since he had suffered so much worse at her hands.

  He supposed they should be fearful in her presence after what she had done to him and Anlaf. But the three of them now wore makeshift wooden crosses hanging from leather thongs on their chests. It was Bolthor’s idea. A sure method for warding off evil spirits, including a witch’s magic, or so he asserted. Plus, they had put their braies on backwards to confuse the witch—another of Bolthor’s bright ideas—something that was inconvenient when visiting the garderobe for a mere piss. Finally, Rurik had brought forth a small vial of holy water he’d been given by a monk in Dublin. Periodically, these past two days, Rurik sprinkled each of them with the blessed liquid. He intended to replenish his supply at the minster in Jorvik.

  When Rurik had doused the witch with a generous splash of the holy water, they’d all backed away, fully expecting her skin to sizzle and burn. But nothing had happened, except she resembled a sodden rooster.

  Tykir wasn’t so sure about all these maneuvers, especially when Lady Alinor snickered the first time he explained their purpose, including the backwards braies.

  “Are you an idiot?” she’d asked.

  “Nay!” he’d snapped. Mayhap, he’d thought.

  Two days had gone by without another witchly spell; perchance they were safe for now. And it was past time to leave this bloody Saxon land and return to Trondelag, where witches and trolls and magical events were the stuff of legends. He could scarce wait till this whole witchly mission was over and done. If it weren’t for Adam, he would have abandoned the ill-fated assignment sennights ago.

  Because the Lady Alinor’s hands were bound in front of her, Rurik put his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her up to her saddle, none too gently. She wore loose underbraies so she could sit astride, something she had protested vehemently, but he’d insisted upon for the sake of speed. The lady’s snarl was her only reaction to being touched by a man who clearly repulsed her. With good reason.

  In a rare moment of consciousness these past two days, Tykir had discovered that Rurik was piling tree limbs and kindling in the courtyard…enough wood to feed a huge bonfire. In the midst of this was a wooden stake to which Rurik intended to place the witch the moment Tykir died and went off to Valhalla.

  Luckily, Tykir had not died. Lucky for the witch, as well.

  But the witch’s pyre still stood as a reminder in the courtyard for all to see. And the grim-faced Alinor was all too aware of its continuing existence.

  In the process of arranging the woman on the shifting mare, Rurik jerked her restrained hands forward so she would be able to grasp the front of the saddle. Bolthor had already taken her reins in hand and would lead her horse.

  “You brute!” the foolish woman commented to Rurik.

  “You daughter of Satan!” Rurik countered

  “If I had real powers, I would have struck you dead long ago.”

  “Desist!” Tykir roared. “’Twill be two or three sennights, at the least, on land and sea, till we get to Anlaf’s court. Let me establish here and now that I refuse to listen to you two bickering endlessly the entire time.”

  “But he—” she started to say.

  “But she—” Rurik started to say.

  “But nothing!” Tykir growled, rubbing his forehead. It was an ill omen of things to come if he had a headache even before they began their journey. He fixed Lady Alinor with his gaze now. “You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

  “Hah! ’Tis a fine time to be asking.”

  The expression on his face must have alerted her that she was treading a fine line. “Yea, I can ride, though I’ve never done it with my hands tied.”

  He shrugged. “Either ride thus or on my lap.”

  She looked as if he’d suggested her riding him, instead of his horse.

  “I can ride my own horse,” she said in a strangled voice.

  “Fine. Let us be off then.”

  “Come, Beast,” Rurik called out cheerily to his wolfhound, who stood at Tykir’s side.

  The dog lifted its head haughtily and refused to obey his master’s command—something he never used to do. The animal had switched his allegiance to Alinor ever since Rurik had taken her sheep and her mangy sheepdog, Beauty, to a far pasture. Thereafter, Beast had been alternately despondent and mad with frustration, howling till the wee hours of the morning. ’Twould seem Beast was smitten with Beauty. Their constant chasing of each other about the keep these past two days, with a dozen dumb sheep following after, had driven all the servants nigh mad.

  “So be it then, traitor.” Rurik nudged his knees against his stallion’s sides to prompt him into motion. At the same time, he reached over and slapped Alinor’s mare on the rump.

  The mare bolted.

  And Lady Alinor slipped ignominiously to the ground, smack onto her bottom. Since she appeared merely chagrined, not injured, Tykir assumed her tail had buffered the fall.

  All three men burst out laughing.

  “I thought you said you could ride,” Tykir gasped out.

  “You could have given me fair warning, you…you…”<
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  Bolthor was laughing so hard that his one eye was watering, and Rurik smirked with delight.

  “Curse you all, you heathen louts,” she shouted, scrambling clumsily to her feet. “I hope…I hope…”

  Just then a flock of winter geese came flying overhead, honking loudly…and splattered the three men. Lady Alinor had the good sense, or the mental forewarning, to duck under her mare’s belly. Thus, she was the only one unanointed by the vile “rain.” Tears of laughter were streaming down her face when she emerged from her hiding place.

  Tykir exchanged a meaningful look with his two comrades as they all attempted to brush off the goose droppings with scraps of cloth. And then they exclaimed as one:

  “She really is a witch.”

  Chapter Three

  Five days later

  “Tykir! Ty-kir Thork-sson! What in the name of heaven are you up to now?”

  Tykir put his face in his hands at the familiar female voice addressing him from the steps of the royal palace in Jorvik. “Eadyth,” he murmured under his breath. “Just what I do not need!”

  Standing near the entrance to the king’s garth, where his uncle, Eric Bloodaxe, the Norse king, resided, was Tykir’s sister-by-marriage, Eadyth. All of Britain was under Saxon rule, except for this incessant splinter, Northumbria, which was once more in the hands of the Vikings. And if Eadyth, a Saxon lady, was in Jorvik, the Viking seat of Northumbria, then that could only mean that her husband, his half-Viking brother Eirik, lord of Ravenshire, was close by.

  With Eirik and Eadyth as witnesses, he would never, ever live down this misadventure. Never.

  “What are you doing with all those sheep?” Eadyth started in on him. “You hate sheep. You always claimed your grandmother’s sheep smelled to high Valhalla. Are you trading in sheep now, instead of amber?”