Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  Her mouth gaped open with incredulity at his vehement words. Her lips were not quite so kiss-some when sucking air like a North Sea puff fish. Thank the gods!

  “What? You want to be my guardian angel?” she asked, once she’d clicked her teeth shut.

  “Nay, I do not want to be your guardian angel. I do not want to be your…anything.” Now, that was a near mistake. He’d almost said that he did not want to be her lover, which was a lie, he admitted to himself now. Yea, ever since he’d seen her naked, the thought of wetting his wand…rather, whetting his sword…at least once…had been hovering in his head like a tiresome headache. Once? Hell, in his mind pictures he was wetting and whetting endlessly.

  “It was a foolish notion, I admit.”

  What is she talking about? I am so busy thinking about sex I’ve lost the thread of her talk. Now I remember. Angels, that was it. She thinks I’m her guardian angel, of all things. “Aha! So that is why you wept. They were tears of relief that your One-God had sent you the most handsome, bravest, perfect guardian angel.” I swear, my tongue has gained a mind of its own.

  “Are you really as lackwitted as you appear betimes?”

  Yea. “No more lackwitted than you…that you would insult a fierce warrior as you do, constantly.”

  “’Tis just that you provide so many instances of idiocy.”

  “Aaarrrgh! Your head must be like a pond and your thoughts like little frogs, jumping from one lily pad to another.”

  “How poetic!”

  He made a low, snarling sound of exasperation. “Could you just once finish one subject before hop-hop-hopping to another?”

  “If you insist,” she said demurely. What a farce! The woman wouldn’t recognize demure if it smacked her in the middle of her freckled forehead. “What would you like to know?”

  “Why did you think I was your guardian angel?”

  “Well, not precisely a guardian angel,” she amended. “More like a protector sent by God.”

  “Sounds like a guardian angel to me,” he argued.

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Leastways, this was my logic…”

  Logic and women are an impossible contradiction.

  “…you know how some people believe that if you save a person’s life, they are forever beholden to you? Well, I was thinking that mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me to—”

  “Anlaf sent me for you. Last time I checked he was no way close to being a god.”

  “Stop interrupting me, you clod.”

  “Tsk-tsk. Is that any way to speak to your guardian angel?”

  She made a scowly face at him, which made her resemble an angry rooster. Not an attractive picture.

  “As I was saying…mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me, by way of King Anlaf, so that you could rescue me from my brothers’ latest outrage. In truth, I suspect He sent King Anlaf to that Northumbria nunnery in the first place to set His plan in motion. And further, I was thinking that mayhap you are now responsible for protecting me. So, really, I should not be worried anymore about what will happen to me in Trondelag because you will be there as my personal…well, Viking angel.” She flashed him a brilliant smile of satisfaction at her deduction.

  Incredible! The gall of the woman! “And that is why you wept?”

  “Yea, in relief.” She shifted her eyes, avoiding direct contact, and he suspected she twisted the truth more than a bit.

  He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed out the furrows. “First off, methinks you think too much. Second, you surely jest if you say your One-God sent Anlaf a crooked cock in order to lure me to your side. Third, I am in no way responsible for your safety. Get that through your muddled head. Once I deliver you to Anlaf, I am done with you. And, finally, do not for one minute think of me as an angel, Viking or otherwise. Believe me when I tell you that I have led a less than saintly past, and believe me when I say that the picture of you, naked, in my head does not prompt visions of me flapping my wings about you in protection. More like I am flapping another body part, in you.”

  She gasped at his crudity.

  Good. ’Tis best to set the witch straight from the start.

  “You…are…a…troll.” It was a favorite refrain of hers.

  “Well, then, just call me Saint Troll.”

  “I don’t care what you say. You won’t abandon me to some wretched king who might…who might—”

  “Lop off your head?” he offered.

  “Yea.”

  “You have the wrong opinion of me, my lady. The wrong opinion, by far. I know I jest overmuch, but do not be mistaken in thinking I am soft. I am not. From the age of fifteen till recently, I was a warrior in the armies of any king paying the price, whether it be Jomsviking or Byzantine, it mattered not to me. I cannot count the men I have killed.”

  “So?”

  “So? What do you mean, ‘So’?”

  “I never questioned whether you had been a stalwart soldier, or are still. But I misdoubt you ever killed a woman, leastways not without some great provocation.”

  “Oh, my lady, best you think about how much provocation you have given me thus far.”

  “You will not abandon me to some tyrant if there’s the least chance of his killing me,” she insisted.

  “Well, that is no longer the issue.”

  She tilted her head in bafflement.

  “Now that I have seen you naked, and once Anlaf sees you naked, I know that the king would take you on as his sixth wife.”

  He could see by her fisted hands that she barely restrained herself from clobbering him…or trying to. “Even if I am a witch?” she asked in an overly sweet voice.

  “Even if you have a tail.”

  “Well, I still say you won’t abandon me. I’m your responsibility now,” she persisted.

  He used a very coarse word in connection with responsibility.

  She raised her chin and glared down her nose at him. “I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight. Among other things, I intend to beseech the Blessed Lord to cleanse your foul tongue.”

  “Hah! When you tell your beads this eve, best you pray that this image of you, naked, leaves my head. Otherwise you will have a lot more than my foul tongue to worry over.”

  “And that would be?”

  A warrior, such as himself, knew when to charge and when to retreat. A trader, such as himself, knew when to bargain and when to accept defeat. The wench, who apparently had the skills of a rock, did not have the sense to stop when she was ahead.

  He raised up on his knees with a palm braced on either side of her hips on the storage box. Leaning closer, he pressed his manhood against the joining of her thighs. Layers of clothing separated them, but his message was clear. His lips were almost touching hers. He felt her breath against his gritted teeth as she inhaled and exhaled with some strong emotion. Their eyes held the entire time, his in challenge, hers in irksome defiance. He stayed in that position for only a moment before rising to his feet. It was enough time…for both of them.

  He proceeded to leave her then, and the lady called out in a foolish attempt to have the last word, “Well, speak up, you oaf. What do I have to worry about with you?”

  His final words—rude and provocative and, yea, just a little bit enticing—lingered on the sea breeze long afterwards:

  “You do not want to know, my lady. Truly, you do not want to know.”

  Several days later they approached the land of the Danes and its famous market town at the base of the Jutland peninsula. Hedeby, which the Vikings referred to in their Northern tongue as æt Hæum, was located at the junction of several major trade routes, by sea and land.

  Despite being more than a thousand miles from home and in the heart of Viking territory, Alinor had more than one reason to feel a vast relief…and not just because she would finally be stepping on land again.

  It was only noon, but already, three times that day, they had encountered vicious-looking pirates. Seamen often put their long shields on the mast-
top with the point turned downward to indicate that they came as friends. Not these sea wolves! With their scarred faces and burning eyes, these scavengers of Zealand put a bone-deep fear in Alinor, as Tykir and his Vikings had not thus far. Bolthor had explained that these particular sea outlaws, led by a man called Hord the Rat, maintained a den somewhere between Zealand and Funen…a place of terror to one and all. They had gained much success of late in terrorizing the southwest coast of Norway, the Øresund Passage and the Baltic.

  The pirate leader had bidden his sailors heave to and grapple the nearest of Tykir’s ships. Fortunately, they had given up their attempts quickly on getting a closer view. The mere presence of the fierce fighting forces on Tykir’s ships had convinced the pirates to keep their distance thereafter and let them pass by unmolested. Alinor wondered if her prayers in regard to her fate in King Anlaf’s court hadn’t helped in this regard as well. Or perchance it had been the sight of Tykir and his tall, imposing Northmen, their muscles well honed by battle, donning chain or leather shirts and pulling out sharp swords and battle-axes.

  One thing was certain: With each passing pirate sail, Alinor’s respect for Tykir as a leader had risen a notch. She didn’t have much respect for him as a man, since he’d captured her and disrupted her life on a whim and still declined responsibility for her fate. But as a ship’s captain and a chieftain of fighting men, she’d never met better.

  There had been times when Tykir’s longships rode close to shore, and on some of these promontories and river mouths she’d sometimes seen bearded heads on pikes, indicating that the peoples of that particular land did not welcome seamen from the north. Even when they’d been Northmen themselves. Fortunately, Tykir seemed to know how to choose his battles, and when to ride away from a fruitless fight…though Alinor suspected that he enjoyed a good fight like any other man. ’Twas the nature of the beast.

  Now Alinor was leaning against the ship’s rail near the prow, with Bolthor at her side. He was the only one of Tykir’s men who would speak with her. Though even Bolthor, giant as he was, made sure that his wooden crucifix was visible and that he was doused with Rurik’s holy water. As a further precaution, he kept making the Christian sign of the cross on his chest when, in the midst of conversing with her, he recalled that it was a witch with whom he made discourse.

  Yestereve, Tykir had doled out small sacks of coins in payment to his men, though he’d cautioned them that a wise seaman never counted his wealth till he was home. Some of Tykir’s sailors would be disembarking in Hedeby, staying with two of the longships that would be beached there over the winter. Amongst those men, some would take ship on other vessels leading to their homelands, to return next spring for the amber harvest in the Baltic. The other five ships would travel to Trondelag in a day or two, first to King Anlaf’s court, then onward to Tykir’s home.

  Tykir was busy with the ships’ last-minute business, and he had ordered Bolthor to stand guard over her, which was ridiculous. How did they expect she would escape here? Jump overboard and swim in the frigid waters? Fly away on one of the blustery late autumn breezes? And to what safe haven? A shark’s teeth? The pirates’ den?

  Now the seven ships were making their way across the smooth lake at the head of the river Schlei. It was a beautiful day with clear skies and only a faint breeze, the kind of day when autumn is shiveringly over but winter’s icy blanket not yet covering the land. The lake resembled a blue-tinted mirror, broken only by the wake of the longships as they rowed smoothly across its calm surface.

  “It’s spectacular,” Alinor said, staring at the unbelievable sight before them. Hedeby.

  A huge timber rampart and a lengthy moat surrounded the trading center in a rough semicircle. To the east it was bounded by the waters of Haddeby Noor, with its notably shallow and therefore protective entrance from the Schlei. There were three wide gateways or tunnels—paved with stones—one south and one north for the transit of men, horses and wagons, and one on the west, where a thin stream ran between its piled and strengthened sides down to the fjord.

  “Have you never traveled much with your brothers?” Bolthor asked, no doubt amused at her gaping at every new vista like an awestruck child.

  She gave the giant a sideways glance of disbelief. “My brothers took me nowhere…lest it be some estate or royal gathering where they might barter my body for yet another marriage bed. Never outside Britain.”

  Bolthor shrugged, as if it was the lot of women. Not worth discussing. Alinor thought about filling the oaf’s head with a thought or two about what it was like to be a young woman…an uncomely young woman with freckles and unmanageable red hair. Could he imagine the humiliation of being rejected, over and over these past ten years and more, since the age of fourteen, as a mate by all the eligible men below the age of fifty of suitable line-age and wealth? No, she guessed that this thick-headed fool—like men of all nations—would fail to see the unfairness of a system that placed women lower than thralls and fine-bred animals. He would consider it a woman’s lot, and that was that.

  “I’ve been to Jorvik many a time, of course,” she said, instead. “I have an agent there who sells my raw wool and fine fabrics for a good price in the trading stalls of Coppergate. I go into the market town at least twice a year. ’Tis best for a person to keep a hand in her own business.”

  Bolthor smiled down at her. “You sound like Lady Eadyth. She is ever protective of her honey and mead interests, as well. In truth, Tykir carries many of her products with us this trip to see if he can get a better price for her in the north lands than she does in her native England. Mayhap the jarl will do the same for you when…if…”

  His words trailed off, and Alinor knew he stammered because he was unsure whether she would be returned to her home and her sheep. It was disconcerting to know that Bolthor shared her reservations about her fate.

  I am not going to think doomful thoughts. I will return. I will trust that God placed me in the Viking’s hands for a reason. It was hard keeping the niggling doubts at bay, however.

  “Tell me about Hedeby,” Alinor urged.

  Bolthor nodded. “There are more than twenty-four hectares enclosed between the ramparts and the sea. See that long, narrow strip of flat land on the open side of the ramparts, facing the water? It is here that some ships and small boats are beached. And here, too, are slips for shipbuilding and repairing.”

  “It’s not as big as Jorvik. Still, it looks intriguing.”

  “Yea, ’tis. You can find anything of value in Hedeby, whether it be human flesh or fine gold adornments. Next to Jorvik, Tykir sells most of his amber here. In fact, he maintains a house and market stall here year round, watched over by a most trusted craftswoman, Rachelle of Frankland.”

  “A woman? Tykir trusts his business interests to a woman?”

  “Yea? And why not?”

  Alinor shook her head. Tykir ever did throw roadblocks in her condemning assessment of him. “And do you come here often?”

  “Nay, twice a year at most these past five years or so. Tykir was not always a merchant, you know. He has much word-fame as a soldier and leader of fighting men. Kings of many countries still seek his services. Alas, his injury at Brunanburh harmed him more than is visible to the eye. And in the winter months, or in seasons of heavy rain, the leg wound pains him sorely, to the point where he becomes almost lame.” His head jerked up. With a startled expression on his face, he remarked, “You have a knack for making a man run at the mouth, without caution or discretion. Is it a witch thing?”

  Alinor laughed. “Nay, ’tis a woman thing.” She jiggled her eyebrows at him, and the big man laughed back at her. Turning more serious, she said, “It was at Brunanburh that you lost your eye, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Holy Thor! Never have I been engaged in a battle like that one. It marked the end of Viking domination in Britain, for one thing, and amongst those who fed the vultures that day were five kings and seven earls from Ireland, not to mention the son of the king
of the Scots. I was left for dead, but Tykir came back for me. To his own peril. ’Twas then a bloody Saxon struck his sword into the jarl’s thigh, clear to the bone. Still, he carried me off the battlefield. The surgeons wanted to remove his leg, but fortunately his sister Rain, a healer of much note, was able to save the limb for him.”

  “Tykir’s sister is a healer?” Alinor was astounded. What else did she not know about the dolt? “So how did Tykir get involved in the amber trade?”

  “Well, the master was fascinated years ago when he witnessed amber harvesting whilst visiting the Baltic lands. At first, he just engaged in the trading end. Now, he has his own workers there to harvest for him.”

  “And is there a woman who handles this, too?”

  Bolthor laughed. “Nay, ’tis Arnor No-Teeth who heads that enterprise.”

  Tykir walked up then. “Are you regaling Alinor with another of your wondrous sagas?”

  Alinor could see that he was in a rare good mood. No doubt he was as relieved as she to finally set foot on soil. And be one step closer to the end of his mission. “Yea, he was,” she answered cheerily, “and I was helping him get the words right.”

  Bolthor’s lips turned up with amusement at her lie.

  Tykir made a face of mock horror.

  “’Tis called ‘Tykir the Troll Angel.’”

  Chapter Six

  More than two hours later, the seven ships were anchored a short distance from shore, the products to be offered in the trading town had been unloaded, and all the men, except one guard per ship, had disembarked and gone off to enjoy a night of drinking and wenching before going to their winter abodes.

  Tykir approached Alinor with a loop of rope in his hand.

  “Nay,” she protested, backing away from him.

  “Yea,” he insisted, stern-faced and unyielding. “Do not gainsay me now. I have much to do afore nightfall, and no patience have I for your balking.”

  “But there’s no need for you to tie my hands…nor my neck. I have nowhere to run here.”