Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

He groaned.

  “Who is that?” Alinor asked. The witch was astride the mare next to him.

  “My sister-by-marriage, Lady Eadyth,” he informed her. “She is married to my brother Eirik, lord of Ravenshire.”

  “You are kin to a Saxon lord?” Alinor’s eyebrows lifted with astonishment. “You have blood links to Norse kings and Saxon lords. What next? A Byzantine emperor?”

  He would have said something witsome and biting back to her, but he never got the chance. Eadyth, fists on hips, was railing at him again. “Why are the hands tied on the woman sitting on that horse? Why does she have a rope dangling from her neck? And why is she glaring at you so? Are those fingermarks on her cheek? Did you strike a woman, Tykir? Did you? For shame!”

  Lady Alinor did look awful. She’d long since lost her wimple and headrail. Luckily, they were not blue, or he would have had to go chasing back after them, in case it was the Virgin’s Veil. Her hair stood out like a curly-leafed fire bush. Though autumn was in full bloom, her pale complexion was sunburned…not a pretty picture with the freckles standing out even more. Her clothing was dirty and disheveled since she’d refused to allow him or Rurik or Bolthor to watch—uh, guard—her whilst she changed.

  He heard Rurik and Bolthor chuckle behind him.

  “Why are you three dolts wearing your braies backwards? Is it some kind of lackbrain jest? And crosses…since when have you turned the religious zealot, Tykir?”

  Rurik snickered, but not for long.

  “Rurik, what happened to your face? Did you fall in a vat of woad dye? Do you attempt to stand out in a crowd? Ah, vanity ever was your weakness, and you no doubt think that silly mark is attractive. Well, it’s not.”

  Now it was Rurik’s turn to groan.

  “And Bolthor, how nice to see you again. Have you come up with any new sagas?”

  “For a certainty, my lady.” Bolthor beamed like a bloody moon. “My master, Tykir the Great, has been so busy I can scarce keep track of all his exploits.”

  “I can just imagine,” Eadyth said, eyeing Tykir with dry humor as she silently mouthed, “Tykir the Great?”

  After five days of riding up one fell and over another, in the company of the most shrewish witch from hell, followed by a smitten sheepdog and a half-dozen sheep who refused to stay in their pens despite being returned to Graycote three times, Tykir had thought he’d experienced the worst days of his life. He soon found out that the worst was about to come.

  Just then, an arrow whizzed by his head, barely missing his right ear, and embedded itself in a passing cart. Amazed, he turned to see a group of armed horsemen approaching. Just entering the high-arched gates that separated the Norse palace from the Coppergate merchant sector of Jorvik, the attackers were still some distance away—at least ten ells—way too far for even an expert archer to aim his bow.

  Startled passersby strolling the stalls of the tradesmen, as well as personages about to enter the palace grounds, gaped with alarm at the peril entering their midst. Many ran for cover or ducked under the canopies of their trading booths.

  “Helvtis!” he swore upon seeing that the two noblemen in front had bushy red hair and green eyes. “Damn!”

  He and Rurik and Bolthor exchanged looks of incredulity, even as they instinctively went into battle readiness. Reaching for weapons and shields, they prepared to fight off whatever foe threatened them. But what man in his right mind would risk starting a fight in the midst of the business center of the city, or so near the palace and its fighting forces?

  One of the red-haired miscreants yelled, “Halt, you whoreson of the North!” He was waving a sword in the air so wildly that Tykir feared he might chop off his own head.

  The other red-haired miscreant seemed to have trouble staying upright on his horse and was holding on to the reins with both hands. From the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, Tykir assumed he was the ill-trained archer who’d attempted to shoot him. The lackwit managed to inform Alinor in a shrill shout, “Never fear, sister dear, we have come to rescue you from the devil’s spawn.”

  Devil’s spawn? Is he referring to me?

  “Eadyth,” Tykir ordered, “get into the palace, out of danger’s way.” She was staring at the impending action, open-mouthed, as if it was a jester’s play. “Make haste now!” he roared, and she nigh jumped out of her skin.

  Bolthor had already released his halberd, affectionately named “Head Splitter,” from its specially designed leather strap at the side of his horse. Grinning with anticipation, Bolthor hefted the long-handled battle-ax in one hand. On more occasions than Tykir could count, he’d seen Bolthor save the day in a fierce fight by severing an enemy from crown to cock with just one swift blow from “Head Splitter.”

  Rurik pulled a leather helmet with a metal noseguard over his head, lay his favorite sword, “Death Stalker,” across his lap, and grinned. He probably relished the prospect of spilt blood, since they’d not exercised their battle skills for a long time.

  As the attackers approached, Tykir noticed another nobleman trailing behind—a short, balding man of at least sixty who was as wide as he was tall. His poor horse looked sway-backed with the excess weight. “No heathen barbarian steals what is mine,” he asserted. He, too, was waving a sword in a dangerous fashion.

  “Halt, if you value your lives,” Tykir warned the group, standing up in his stirrups, sword and shield raised high. The whole time, he surveyed the hird: twelve soldiers, in addition to the three noblemen. He and Rurik and Bolthor could handle the lot themselves with ease.

  Suddenly, in the midst of his assessment, Tykir understood why Lady Alinor had attempted to delay their departure from Graycote. She’d been hoping for her brothers’ arrival. And could that human lard barrel bringing up the rear guard be her latest betrothed? Had she poisoned him so that they would have time to come to her rescue?

  His eyes met hers in accusation.

  She shrugged.

  “And these would be the Lords Egbert and Hebert, I presume?”

  “Indeed,” she said, with less enthusiasm than should be expected from a woman who’d been saved from a fate worse than death—Vikings.

  “And the lord of Lard?”

  Her eyes twinkled with merriment at that misname, the first show of genuine pleasure he’d witnessed since their first meeting. She was almost pretty when she smiled…if one could overlook the freckles…which he could not, of course.

  “Cedric,” she answered.

  “I certainly hope you intend to be on top on your wedding night, lest you be crushed to death.”

  She made a most unbecoming snarling sound.

  Another arrow flew by, far over his head, shot by one of her brothers, the one with the unsteady saddle seat.

  He placed his battle shield in front of his face nonchalantly, fixing a questioning glare alternately at the distant archer and then at Lady Alinor.

  “Egbert,” she answered his silent query.

  “Is he trying to warn me off?” Tykir asked.

  “Nay. He’s just inept.”

  He and Rurik and Bolthor dismounted quickly and drew their swords, prepared to fight off the attackers, who now galloped into the courtyard of the castle. Hebert almost flew headfirst out of the saddle when his horse came to an abrupt halt.

  Lady Alinor sat atop her horse like a bloody queen, oblivious to the impending danger. In truth, these misguided knights would not harm her, not deliberately. But they might accidentally kill the very person they wanted to rescue. With a muttered curse, Tykir pulled her from the saddle and shoved her behind him, where she fell to her knees. Meanwhile the sheep were bleating, the two dogs were barking, Eadyth was screaming into the palace doors, “Eirik, Eirik, come save your brother,” and the riderless horses were bumping into each other with fright as they tried to escape the melee.

  Even worse, Viking soldiers poured from the guard house and passing Saxon soldiers rushed to their allies’ aid. There was a shaky truce betwixt the Saxon and Viking folks in No
rthumbria, though that might change after today, Tykir thought.

  Tykir said a silent prayer then, to both the Christian and Norse gods. “Oh, Lord, and Mighty Odin, please spare me from the fury of bumbling idiots…and witches.”

  Alinor could not believe the scene unfolding before her in the palace bailey, a short distance from the bustling town center.

  Swords were clanking, fists were flying and all around were the sounds of fighting men—grunts, shouts, cries of pain. There were at least two dozen men on either side of the fray now, and more were jumping in by the moment.

  The troll and his comrades in trolldom were proving themselves expert fighters. Tykir and Rurik employed swords, while Bolthor swung a monstrously lethal broadax. And all the men on both sides seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, as most men did. Well, mayhap not her brothers so much. While they relished a good manly fight, they never were much for the spilling of their own blood.

  Alinor scrambled to her feet and out of the way, finding herself next to the lady wringing her hands with concern on the palace steps, the one married to Tykir’s brother. She was the most beautiful woman Alinor had ever seen. Being at least a half head taller than Alinor, she had wisps of silver-blond hair framing a perfectly shaped face under a white wimple and a pale green headrail that matched an exquisite, darker green gown embroidered with silver thread in a floral design. She was not young—she must have seen more than thirty years—and yet her skin was smooth as silk, the color of new cream, marred by no imperfections, except for a single enticing mole above her lip. Not a freckle in sight.

  Alinor didn’t care about such things. And yet she felt somewhat like a barnyard hen in the presence of a silver swan. It was not a pleasant feeling.

  The fighting was tapering off. Three Saxons and one Viking lay on the ground, wounded, but not mortally so. Egbert, Hebert and Cedric, not surprisingly, were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they’d scurried off at first glimpse of Bolthor’s formidable size…or his battle-ax, raised high overhead, ready to crack the skull of any foe who crossed his path. Rurik was holding one protesting Saxon to the ground with a booted foot planted on his chest and a deadly sword pressed to his throat. Tykir wiped a sweaty brow with one forearm but ignored the blood streaming from his bruised nose as he continued to engage in the strike-and-withdraw exercise of swordplay with a Saxon unlucky enough not to have been struck down with a minor wound.

  Alinor realized in that instant that she was missing an opportunity for escape. Slowly, one sideways step at a time, she sidled away from Lady Eadyth, whose attention was still fixed on an uncommonly handsome, dark-haired knight, presumably her husband, who was rounding up the wounded Saxon soldiers who were able to stand. It must be Tykir’s brother, Eirik. Hell’s teeth, did good looks abound in the Thorksson family? Or amongst all Vikings?

  If she could just make it through the gatehouse, she would be able to meld into the busy streets of the market town. Just a few more steps. The guards’ attention was diverted to the fight, leaving the entryway without surveillance.

  She pivoted abruptly then and bolted toward the open gates.

  “Aaarrrgh!” she choked out as the noose around her neck tightened and jerked her head back.

  “Were you going somewhere, witchling?” a smooth masculine voice whispered against her ear. One arm wrapped around her waist from behind, drawing her flush against his hard body.

  “’Twould seem I’m going to hell,” she said in a suffocated whisper.

  “For a certainty,” he agreed, nuzzling her hair…just to annoy her. “Now, you have two punishments to anticipate, my lady. One for the poison spell. Another for calling your brothers down on us. Oh, wait…I misspoke. There are three punishments. The third will be for your attempted escape.” He licked her exposed ear as a final insult, and Alinor felt the outrage all the way to her toes. And, oddly, some places in between as well.

  She struggled against his imprisoning arms. “You bloodthirsty brute! You enjoyed that fight, didn’t you?”

  “Better to be the crow than the carrion.” He laughed and tugged on her neck rope.

  Alinor had forgotten about the rope, which still dangled from her neck. She turned slowly within Tykir’s grasp. He tickled her nose with the frayed end of her rope, which he must have grabbed while she attempted to escape. If she’d been thinking properly, she could have loosened it with her tied hands and pulled it over her head while all the fighting was going on.

  But nay, Alinor realized, escape would have been impossible, even then. Glancing behind Tykir, she saw that the six sheep, one ram and two dogs had been following after her, bleating and barking a traitorous chorus that couldn’t have been more clear to the Viking: “There she goes, there she goes, there she goes.”

  Alinor sighed with dismay. She would have to come up with a new plan, since she obviously couldn’t depend on Egbert or Hebert to rescue her. Plainly, they were no match for the superior fighting abilities of these Norsemen. Before she had a chance to think of a new plan, though, Tykir the Troll bent his legs slightly, grabbed her around the knees and flung her over his shoulder. Then he headed back toward the Norse palace, with the dogs and sheep protesting loudly and masculine laughter and shouts of encouragement surrounding them as they passed.

  “I take exception to your hasty retreat, Lady Alinor. Do you not favor my company?” Tykir teased.

  “About as much as I favor the company of slime-bellied snakes.” She tried to squirm free, pounding his back with her bound fists, missing half the time because she was blinded by her hair hanging down to the backs of his thighs. He chuckled at her antics and clamped a large paw over her posterior.

  That stilled her…for a moment. “You brute…you animal…you…you…Viking”

  “Tykir, tell us true,” she heard Rurik call out with an ominous snicker, “does she have a tail?”

  He rubbed her entire bottom, side to side, even the crease, before announcing, “Nay, there is no tail, but methinks I will have to examine the situation more thoroughly…in private…without these cumbersome garments.”

  More male laughter followed, with ribald remarks on exactly how he might proceed in that regard.

  If the blood were not rushing to Alinor’s head, she would have told him what she thought of his outrageous suggestion and his comrade’s crudity. Instead, she took a good bite out of his shoulder and would not let go.

  His howl of pain rang through the courtyard just before his knees buckled at the surprising attack. He tripped forward, causing Alinor to go with him. She landed on her back, her bound hands raised overhead, her legs spread wide, with the hem of her gunna hiked knee-high and the Viking troll on top of her, with his face planted in her midsection…laughing.

  “How…dare…you?” she sputtered, not sure if she was more outraged by his position atop her or by his laughter. She lowered her bound hands and grasped a hunk of hair, forcing his head off her stomach so she could address the lout directly.

  His nose was still bleeding. A bruise above his right eye was beginning to swell and turn the socket black and blue. Whiskers shadowed his face, though she knew he’d shaved just that morn before they broke camp outside Jorvik. His blond hair stood up on end where she still grasped it.

  Despite all that, the insufferable man was godly handsome.

  She released his hair as if it had suddenly caught fire. Hearing a chuckle, she peered up and noticed all the faces staring down at them…some in wonder, like the Lady Eadyth and her husband Eirik; some in amusement, like Rurik and the Viking soldiers; some in contemplation, like Bolthor, who was mumbling something about sagas and poems and witchly tales…or was it tails?

  Alinor groaned, then groaned again as Tykir raised himself on his elbows, still laughing, and adjusted his body over hers.

  His laughter stopped immediately.

  Alinor’s eyes went huge with amazement at the hard object prodding betwixt her legs. It was unlike any of the limp threads she’d experienced in her three mates. M
ore like the whole bloody spindle.

  Tykir groaned, too, but his was a decidedly masculine sound.

  “My lord, are you in pain?” Bolthor asked.

  Tykir shook his head. He appeared unable to speak.

  “Dost thou have a wound?” Lord Eirik inquired solicitously. “Shall we send for the healer from the hospitium? Or our sister Rain?”

  Tykir continued to shake his head, harder now.

  “Is it the witch?”

  Tykir nodded.

  “A witch? A witch?” Lady Eadyth squealed with horror.

  “Yea, the witch with the Virgin’s Veil,” Bolthor told Lady Eadyth. “Lady Alinor is a witch.”

  Eirik let out a snort of disbelief. “There is no such thing.”

  “Hah! You would not say such if you were King Anlaf,” Rurik interjected.

  “King Anlaf? Our cousin Anlaf?” Lord Eirik seemed genuinely puzzled. “What has he to do with witchcraft?”

  “This witch,” Rurik said, pointing to Alinor, “has put a spell on King Anlaf.”

  “A spell?” Lord Eirik asked dumbly.

  “Yea, a spell that made his manroot take a right turn,” Rurik explained.

  Lord Eirik and Lady Eadyth exchanged a look, then burst out laughing, as did all the Viking soldiers and lookers-on who’d gathered at the outlandish scene. The only ones not participating in the mirth were Rurik and Bolthor, who were chagrined at the lack of belief in their tale.

  Alinor and Tykir were not laughing either.

  Tykir held her gaze the whole time, and finally he whispered in a low, seductive voice, as he insinuated himself more intimately against the cradle of her hips, “I am bewitched.”

  Rurik must have overheard because he commented, “Oh-ho! She must be a witch then, for never would you be attracted to such a pig-ugly wench.”

  “Rurik! For shame!” Lady Eadyth chastised.

  Alinor was barely aware of all the conversations swirling around her. All she could do was gaze back at Tykir, unable to break eye contact. New, unbelievable sensations swept her body. They were horrible, horrible, horrible. And so wonderful she could scarcely breathe.