Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  I am the one bewitched, she admitted to herself then. And this time when she prayed silently, the well-known Anglo-Saxon prayer took on a new format: “Oh, Lord, from the passion of a Northman, please protect me.”

  “I still say we should ride to Selik and Rain’s estate and tell them of Adam’s plight,” Eirik said once again. He’d been saying the same, in one form or another, over the past hour.

  “Nay,” Tykir insisted. “You know they would over-react and demand to come with me. They have enough to worry about with the orphanage, Rain’s hospitium and their four children, not to mention her being with child again. Besides, Adam will be safe at Anlaf’s court till I arrive…just restricted a bit.”

  They both smiled at the image of Adam being restricted. Ever since he’d been a wild youthling, rescued from the Jorvik streets with his sister Adela, no one had been able to hold Adam down. Tykir looked forward to seeing just how Anlaf had managed to confine the man who’d traveled to many foreign lands, despite his young years, in his quest to become a healer, like Rain.

  Tykir was sitting with his brother on the stone steps of the king’s personal steam house within the palace gardens, now brown and dormant with the coming of winter. A young male house servant lifted a heavy wooden bucket of water and tossed it onto the white-hot rocks, causing more steam to issue forth. Soon, they would wash off their perspiration in the icy waters of the adjoining bathhouse, where female thralls would assist them in shaving off the day’s whiskers and donning clean garments.

  Vikings did like their personal comforts, cleanliness being one of them. It was why so many females in so many lands fell at their feet and into their bed furs, in Tykir’s opinion. Oh, he and his fellow Norsemen liked to boast of their great looks and superior talents in the bedding, but he suspected that ofttimes it just boiled down to their smelling a mite less than other men.

  “But why involve the witch?”

  Tykir shrugged. “He asked for a witch in exchange for Adam. At the time, it seemed the expedient thing to do, since I was coming to Northumbria anyhow. You know I could have gained Adam’s release, but it would have involved much coin or fighting. If I’d known then of the excessive delays I would encounter, I never would have bothered.”

  “But to kidnap a lady of high station, Tykir? Really, ’tis pushing the bounds of propriety, even for you.”

  “A witch of high station,” he corrected and took a long sip of mead from the goblet next to him. “And since when have I ever claimed to be proper?”

  “Eadyth will try her best at matchmaking, you know.”

  “With a witch?” Tykir hooted.

  Eirik shrugged. “Well, can you blame her? All her best efforts with every other kind of female have come to naught.”

  Just then, one of the female thralls walked in, carrying a pile of linen towels. She was blond and buxom, and Tykir wasn’t certain, but he thought he knew her. In truth, he might have bedded her once or twice in the past. The woman did a little curtsy and gazed at him shyly.

  He winked.

  She blushed.

  Eirik made a grunting sound of disgust. “I think you should come back to Ravenshire with us for the winter.”

  Tykir shook his head, but his attention was on the woman who was bending over to pick up some items of dirty clothing he and Eirik had tossed on the ground. Her backside was in the air. Yea, Tykir recognized the woman now.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what?” He turned back to his brother, who was grinning in a knowing fashion and shaking his head at his obvious distraction. “Oh…you mean, why not return to Northumbria? I might have if I’d gathered the witch sennights ago, as I’d planned. Now, there will be no time left, even if I make haste, to get to Hedeby, then Anlaf’s court, then home for the winter.”

  Eirik pressed a hand to his thigh with concern. “Ah, Tykir! Is the leg bothering you overmuch?”

  “Just in the winter. ’Tis why I prefer to be snug in my own homestead. Then, too, I want to go to the Baltic lands come spring for the first amber harvest of the season.”

  “I worry about you, Tykir. I have not always been there when you needed me. I would make up for past mistakes.”

  “Do not concern yourself over me, brother,” he said, rising up stark naked before the servant girl, who still lingered. Without saying a word, he lifted the vixen into his arms and carried her, screeching with delight, into the bathhouse, where cleanliness was not his main intent…leastways, not right away.

  Just before the door closed after him, Eirik remarked, “We haven’t finished our talk. What will you do with the witch?”

  Tykir gave a two-word answer, coarse and explicit.

  But he didn’t mean it.

  Really.

  “Tykir is really not a bad sort at all,” Eadyth insisted as she poured a pail of clean water over Alinor’s soap-lathered hair. The unruly strands hung down to her waist when unbound.

  Eadyth had insisted that Alinor call her by her given name several hours past, when they’d left the company of the men back at the palace, excepting Bolthor, who stood guard downstairs. Tykir, his brother and the other men had spoken of a visit to the bathhouse at the palace, where they would steam off the dirt and grime of “battle.” And regale each other with overblown tales of conquest in the little skirmish they’d just ended.

  “In fact, Tykir is one of the most charming men I’ve ever met. And that includes my husband, Eirik, who can be most…ah, persuasive, when he wants to be.” Eadyth flashed Alinor a secretive smile, as if Alinor would understand perfectly. Hah! No man had ever exerted himself to be charming to Alinor. Certainly not her three aged husbands, who’d believed they were doing her a favor by marrying her.

  As to that other assertion…Alinor snorted her opinion of Tykir being proclaimed the most charming man in Eadyth’s acquaintance. Eadyth must live in a nunnery. “He is a troll,” Alinor contended as she parted the wet swaths of her hair to peer up at the woman with disbelief.

  Undaunted, Eadyth countered, “Well, of course. All men are trolls betimes.”

  Alinor couldn’t be concerned about Tykir or the Vikings or even her captivity right now. She was taking too much pleasure in her first bath in over a week. Sitting in a copper tub, she sighed at the joy of mere soap and water. They were in the second-floor bedchamber of Gyda, an elderly Viking widow who was a longtime friend of the Thorksson family. As Alinor bathed, Gyda sat in a straight-backed chair, working a hand loom and listening intently to Eadyth’s palace gossip.

  “I can scarce believe that Eric Bloodaxe is king once again,” Gyda commented, her fingers weaving the various colored threads into an intricate Norse pattern. “He is like a pesky fly that keeps coming back, no matter how often swatted away. I have no love of the Saxons, of course,” she said, casting an apologetic glance at Alinor, “but he has been a thorn in the side of King Edred off and on for years now. I wish he would either leave or manage to stay in power here in Northumbria.”

  “King Eric is uncle to my husband and Tykir, but a more ruthless man I have never met,” Eadyth explained to Alinor, who was lathering up her hair again.

  “Even when they were babes, their father, Thork, could not acknowledge them for fear Eric would come after them,” Gyda added. “That is why they lived with me and my Olaf for many years of their youth, apart from their beloved father, who went off Jomsviking to protect them. Orphans, they were, for all purposes, even with living kin.”

  Alinor paused her hair washing. “I don’t understand. How could the father’s abandonment protect the sons?”

  “Ah! You do not know how Eric Bloodaxe got his name then,” Eadyth declared and glanced toward Gyda. Both women shook their heads in disgust. “King Harald Fairhair, one of the most powerful rulers in Norway, was the father of dozens of sons and daughters alike by his numerous wives and mistresses. He practiced the more danico. Eric was ruthless from an early age in his pursuit of his father’s crown. ’Tis a fact that many of his brothers died und
er his blade to feed that ambition. Thus the name Eric Bloodaxe.”

  “And Tykir and Eirik’s father—Thork, methinks you called him—how did he fit into the picture?” Alinor asked.

  “Thork never had any interest in a kingship, and he was illegitimate, besides. But though Eric’s blood was legitimate, he was hated by the Norse people for his cruelty,” Eadyth said. “There was the unfounded fear on Eric’s part that while Thork disdained a crown, his sons might not.”

  “And so Thork pretended at first that he had no sons, abandoning the babes to the care of others. They were forbidden to call him father, and never did he give them a warm word or gesture of affection. Then later, when word got out that they were indeed his sons, he was forced to pretend an indifference.” Gyda clicked her tongue as her eyes clouded over with unpleasant memories. “And his overprotection was warranted. There was a time…I remember it well…when an evil Viking villain, Ivar the Terrible, chopped off Eirik’s little finger and sent it to Ravenshire in a parchment, all to lure Thork to his death. Which was the final result, in the end. Death. Both Thork’s and my husband’s, Olaf.”

  Eadyth reached over and patted Gyda’s quaking shoulders.

  “And how about their mothers?” Alinor was attempting to break the grimness that had overtaken their conversation.

  “Thea, a Saxon thrall, was Eirik’s mother. She died in the birthing,” Gyda answered. “But Tykir…well, his mother Asbol was a Viking princess who abandoned the boy when he was still in swaddling clothes. Thork offered to marry her, ’tis said, but she sought a nobler marriage, and never once wanted to see her child over the years.”

  All of the women exchanged appalled looks at that unnatural behavior for a mother.

  “They were such lonely children,” Gyda continued, “raised here in Jorvik by me and Olaf, then at Ravenshire by Dar and Aud, their grandparents, till their death, but I think Tykir suffered most, being the youngest. I remember how the little boy would ask every woman he encountered, ‘Are you my mother?’ ’Twas heartwrenching, I tell you. He was left alone when he was only eight and Eirik ten when Eirik went off to foster in King Athelstan’s Saxon court. Eirik was only half-Viking, you recall, but Tykir was pure Viking to the core. I remember how he would proclaim, even when he was too small to lift a mighty sword, that someday he would be a Jomsviking, too…just so he could stand beside his father. Then, his father died later that year, when he was eight, and Eirik was off a-fostering. And finally, his stepmother, Ruby, disappeared in a mysterious fashion.”

  “Gyda!” Eadyth exclaimed with sudden inspiration. “Dost think that is why Tykir has refused to settle in one place all these years? Why he never wed?”

  “I am certain of it,” Gyda said with an emphatic nod. “The boy was rejected or abandoned by everyone he ever loved. So he protects himself from hurt by never caring deeply for anyone. Even his own brother, whom he visits only on rare occasions.”

  “Oh, this is too much. You two are trying to turn my anger away from that troll by playing on my sympathies. The boy has seen thirty and five winters, and if he fails to care for anyone but himself, ’tis because he is a troll.”

  Gyda and Eadyth smiled at the vehemence of her response.

  “Do you think…?” Eadyth arched a brow at Gyda.

  The old woman chortled gleefully. “Mayhap. Mayhap.”

  And they both gazed at Alinor in the oddest way.

  “Here,” Eadyth said then, handing Alinor a small soapstone container filled with a rose-scented cream. “Your hair is just like mine—”

  Alinor surveyed Eadyth’s silken tresses and laughed. The woman must be blind.

  “—curly and unmanageable. I have developed a wonderful concoction for the hair that tames even the wildest tresses.”

  Alinor was skeptical, though the cream did smell wonderful. She usually didn’t indulge in such vanities, but mayhap just this once. As she worked the delicious substance into her long strands, Eadyth addressed Alinor once again. “Is it true that you are a witch?”

  “Do I look like a witch?” Alinor scoffed, then immediately regretted her words as the eyes of both women traveled over her freckle-ridden body. She was aware of that old wives’ tale about freckles being the devil’s spittle, and apparently so were they.

  “’Tis a well-known fact that a witch cannot be discerned by outward aspects. Take Eric Bloodaxe’s wife, Gunnhild, for example,” Eadyth said, as she rinsed the lotion out of Alinor’s hair and motioned for her to stand so she could comb out the tangles in the wet strands. “Yea, Gunnhild, the sister of King Harald Gormsson of Denmark, studied witchcraft in her early days in Finnmark, and a more beautiful woman there never was. At least from outward appearances. ’Tis said Eric rescued her from a most bizarre witchly voyage into the White Sea and over the years has gained strength from her powers.”

  “There are good witches and bad witches, of course.” Gyda stopped her weaving for a moment and stared at Alinor, attempting to determine in which category she fell.

  “I am not a witch,” Alinor said, but neither of the women paid her any heed.

  “You must talk with Gunnhild this eve when we sup at the palace,” Eadyth said. “Mayhap you can share potions and such in the midst of the feast.”

  “Me? Me?” Alinor stammered. “Why would I be asked to participate in some Viking feast?”

  “Because you are Tykir’s captive,” Eadyth declared, as if that was a normal thing to be. “And you must remain under guard at all times. Tykir insists. Tykir wouldn’t want Bolthor or Rurik or any of his men to miss this feast tonight by staying behind to guard you.” Eadyth glanced at Alinor reprovingly, obviously deeming her a most selfish female to think otherwise.

  “I am not a witch,” she repeated again, then exhaled with exasperation. Really, it was like talking to a wall, trying to convince people of her innocence. “Do you even know what this is all about? Do you have any idea what they think I have done?”

  Gyda shook her head slowly, and Eadyth said hesitantly, “Well, I know what Rurik said back at the palace, but I can hardly credit…tell us your version.”

  When Alinor explained, their mouths gaped with amazement.

  “The king’s manpart did what?” Eadyth choked out.

  “Turned right, apparently,” Alinor answered dryly.

  “And you put a spell on him to make it do such?” Gyda grinned, rather impressed by that feat.

  “There are a few men I wouldn’t mind afflicting so.” Eadyth grinned mischievously. “Can you teach me the spell?”

  “I am not a witch. I keep trying to tell you, it’s what they accuse me of, but it’s not true.”

  The women remained unconvinced.

  “You know,” Gyda said, tapping her pressed lips pensively with a forefinger, “it seems to me that I have heard of this malady afore on a man’s private parts. Ofttimes ’tis caused by an injury that scars over and forces the staff to go crooked. The few cases I’ve heard of eventually corrected themselves.”

  “So all King Anlaf needs to cure himself is time?” Eadyth offered hopefully.

  “Mayhap.” Gyda tapped her chin pensively. “Lest the crooked manpart is caused by a witch’s curse, of course.” She looked pointedly at Alinor.

  “I am not a witch. Why won’t anyone believe me?” Alinor felt like weeping with frustration.

  “What of the bowel spell you put on Tykir? Surely you cannot deny that.” Eadyth folded her arms over her chest and nodded her head, as if she’d just won some point of argument.

  “Well, nay, but—”

  “Aha!” Eadyth and Gyda said as one.

  “—but it was a mere herb that grows—”

  “A poison?” Eadyth lashed out. “You gave Tykir a bane drink? That is as bad as a witchly potion, Alinor. I could kill you myself for that.”

  “It wasn’t a deadly potion…oh, what’s the use? No one believes me anyhow.”

  “EA-DYTH!” a loud male voice rang out from downstairs.

  Ead
yth cringed and Gyda gathered up her weaving items, preparing to leave the room.

  “Oh, the brute! He knows I hate it when he yells for me like a cow in the field.”

  “EA-DYTH!” her husband shouted once again, his voice coming closer. “Where are you? I have something to show you.”

  Eadyth’s face bloomed bright red. “I have seen it more than enough times, believe me,” she informed Alinor with a wink. “Here,” she said, handing her a towel. “Best you dry yourself afore my husband comes blundering in here.”

  Both Eadyth and Gyda left the room, giggling.

  Through the closed door, she could swear she heard Eirik say, “Ea-dyth! I dropped honey on the front of my braies back at the castle. Can you think of any way I can remove it?”

  Eadyth said something that Alinor could not overhear, but Eirik let loose with a low, masculine growl of pleasure at whatever it was.

  And Alinor decided that Eadyth needed no lessons at all from a witch.

  Tykir leaned against the doorjamb of Gyda’s house and watched with amusement as his brother greeted his wife with a familiar pat on the behind and a deep, noisy kiss.

  Seven years they had been wed, and still they acted as lovestruck youthlings. Three children they’d had together—Thorkel, Ragnor and Freydis—and three others they’d brought into the marriage betwixt them…Eadyth’s John, and Eirik’s Larise and Emma. Ravenshire rang with the joyous sounds of children of all ages, and yet these two behaved as children themselves.

  There was a Norse legend about a golden apple and how adventurers searched for this treasure a lifetime and more, across many lands, risking life and family. The moral of the tale was that often the precious fruit was growing in one’s own orchard.

  Eirik had found that golden apple.

  Tykir was pleased for his brother, truly he was. There weren’t many men fortunate enough to find a lifemate who was steadfast and loving. He never had.

  “Have you left any mead for me back at the castle?” Bolthor asked as he passed by him through the doorway.