Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  “That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t try.” He moved in closer and waved the end of the rope in her face. “I give you two choices, my lady. I tie you to the masthead till the morn, when I return to the ship. Or I tie your hand to mine.”

  “Or you could just let me walk freely at your side.”

  He wagged a forefinger in her face. I give you to the count of five. Einn, tveir, rr, fjrir, fimm—”

  “Oh, give me the bloody rope.” She grabbed the rope from his hands and tried to tie her own wrist.

  With a smirk, he took the rope back from her and proceeded to bind their hands tightly together at the wrist. There was no way she would be able to undo the knots without attracting his attention, unless he was drunk, or asleep, or dead.

  “I suppose you are so thirsty you could drink a tun of ale,” she commented casually a short time later as the oaf dragged her after him down the rocky shore, toward the edges of the town.

  “At least a tun,” he called back to her, “except I have to meet with Rachelle, and there is much produce I need to stock up on for the winter months.”

  Hmmm. It appears drink is out of the question.

  “Well, you will have to sleep sometime,” she offered brightly.

  He gave her a sideways glance of suspicion as she did a little skip and caught up to his side.

  “Where will I sleep tonight, by the by? Back on the ship?”

  He shook his head. “In my home here, behind the market stall. ’Tis cramped quarters they will be, and you will have to share my bed furs.”

  Alinor’s head came up with alertness. “You jest.”

  “I’m not letting you out of sight, my lady witch…not even in the dark.” He grinned, aware of her shock. “I am loath to ask, but do you snore? I cannot abide a snoring bed partner.”

  Alinor’s upper lip curled back and a most unfeminine growl emerged from deep in her throat. If he hadn’t held her at bay with his outstretched free hand, she would have lunged for him. “Do not think for one minute that you are poking me in the dark with that…that thing.”

  “What thing?” Tykir asked, dancing back when she swung an arm to slap his laughing face.

  “That limp wick you and all other men carry around betwixt your legs. That’s what.”

  “Limp? Wick?” he hooted. “Oh, milady, you have obviously never seen a Viking…wick.”

  “You…are…a…troll,” she seethed at him, then stomped ahead of him, jerking him along behind her by their bound hands. The most alarming thought occurred to her then. She’d already exhausted the first two possibilities for escape: him being drunk or asleep. That left only dead. She wondered briefly if she would have the stomach for that. But then who would be her guardian angel?

  She glanced over her shoulder at the brute, who deliberately hung behind, forcing her to tug on him. Then she glanced again, and wished she could sink into the ground with mortification.

  The troll was staring at her bottom. And smiling.

  Even wearing Tykir’s heavy fur cloak, Alinor shivered. The air had turned blustery and the winter harsh. Suddenly gray skies portended snow or, at the very least, an early frost.

  She and Tykir were walking toward the town of Hedeby, the fingers of their bound hands laced together like lovers. It was not really a loverlike body contact, however. First of all, Tykir had forced it on her. Secondly, Tykir was gazing ahead, stone-faced and tight-lipped. He was “sore bedeviled,” or so he said, at Alinor’s constant hammering away at his less-than-admirable virtues:

  “Stop picturing me naked.”

  “Why do you walk so fast? Dost think me a giant like you?”

  “Stop picturing me naked.”

  “Where did you get that silly earring? And why do you braid your hair on one side only? To show off the ornament or your winsome face? Ugh! You are so vain, you…you prideful fop.”

  “Stop picturing me naked.”

  “I am hungry…but not for gammelost. I’d give anything for roast woodcock and a loaf of fresh-baked manchet bread and a…why are you smirking? Do not dare suggest what I think you are about to, you…you lecherous troll. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Stop picturing me naked.”

  “Best we find a garderobe…soon!”

  “Hver fjandinn!” Tykir cursed finally. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He halted abruptly and turned on her. Taking a deep breath, he conceded with ill grace, “I must yield to your sharp tongue. A truce, my lady?”

  Actually, it was rather tiresome to nag away at someone who wouldn’t respond to every little jibe. She nodded hesitantly.

  “I will consent to stop ogling your…uh, tail”—he grinned at that last word—“if you will stop pecking away at me like a demented wood-pecking bird. Peck, peck, peck! ’Tis enough to drive a sane man mad.”

  “And what an appropriate choice of birds! Especially since your brain is naught but a block of wood.”

  He chuckled, obviously enjoying their banter.

  “A truce,” Alinor agreed then.

  Which was a mistake.

  On the one hand, there was what he said next…in a low, rumbly drawl. “Ah, sweetling, I knew you and I could get on together if we tried.”

  Sweetling?

  On the other hand, there was what he did. Even as he spoke, Tykir swooped down to seal their bargain with a kiss. It was just a light brush of his lips across hers, but, oh, they were so warm and firm and persuasive. With just that fleeting touch, Alinor felt such a fierce yearning…for things she could not even imagine, or had never considered within her grasp.

  Tykir jerked back, as if she’d passed poison from her lips to his. But, intuitively, she knew. He was experiencing the same frightening emotion that she was.

  Who knew? Alinor thought. Who knew?

  She did her best to hide her traitorous reaction from Tykir, and he did his best to blanket his demeanor of incredulity. Their hands were still joined, though, and where his palm pressed against hers, skin to skin, she felt an odd connection.

  Mayhap he truly was sent to her, by her God or his gods. ’Twas an outlandish idea, of course. But it stayed in Alinor’s head and nestled in her heart, giving her momentary hope.

  Fortunately, her unwanted thoughts were interrupted by the loud barking of a dog. Beast came galloping toward them, yipping and yelping happily, much to the consternation of Rurik, who was being dragged along by his pet, clutching a length of rope. Rurik was grumbling mightily in the Norse language—foul words, no doubt.

  Beast flew through the air with an ambitious leap, from three arm-lengths away, and stood on his hind legs, putting his paws on Alinor’s shoulders. He almost knocked over both her and Tykir, who was laughing uproariously. Then he licked her enthusiastically in greeting.

  “Oh, aren’t you the friendliest dog in the world?” she cooed. “Must be you have Saxon blood in your veins. For a certainty, there is no sign of the ill-tempered Viking in you. Nay, there is not. And, praise the Lord, ’tis a comfort to know that at least one male amongst you plunderers has good taste.”

  “Come back here, Beast,” Rurik demanded. “Now! I mean it. Make haste, or you will be sorry.”

  Still propped against Alinor’s body, his tail wagging and his tongue lolling with ecstasy at her ruffling of his head fur, Beast looked back over his shoulder at Rurik with an expression that could only be translated as, “Go away, Viking. I’ll come when I’m bloody well ready.”

  “See…see…” Rurik sputtered to Tykir. “The witch put a spell on my dog. Five years I have had Beast at my side. My closest companion he has been…excepting you, of course,” he added hastily. “But now the witch has taken him from me with a spell. Lop off her head, Tykir. ’Tis the only remedy.”

  Rurik stood glaring at her with misplaced outrage. A dozen magnificent animals must have given their lives for the various furs that adorned his body in layered mantles, and his head was topped by a high black bearskin hat. Gold and silver jewelry bedecked his neck and chest and arms and fi
ngers. Truly, the man was bone-meltingly handsome, even with the woad face mark, in a vicious, overbearing sort of way. With a snort of scorn at her scrutiny, he placed a hand on each hip and tapped a booted foot impatiently, as if he seriously expected Tykir to comply with his order to behead her.

  He wouldn’t, of course.

  Would he?

  “Rurik, I swear, you are the world’s greatest dunderhead. Didst your mother drop you on your head as a babe?” Sometimes Alinor questioned whether she might have been dropped, as well, especially when her witless tongue raced hither and yon.

  Rurik clawed his hands and stretched them out toward her neck. The low, ferocious growl that emerged from his throat would have done Beast proud.

  Tykir took Beast by the scruff of the neck and set him aside. Then he quickly shoved Alinor behind him and warned, “Have caution, wench. Push a man too far and even the greatest warrior will be unable to protect your head.” He raised his free arm to impede Rurik’s approach.

  “But the man is deranged,” she protested, Still forced to stand behind Tykir, she peered around his right shoulder as she spoke. Meanwhile, the dog thought they were playing a game and ran circles around both her and Tykir. “Beast comes to me, Rurik,” she explained, “because he can smell the scent of Beauty on my clothing.”

  With a hiss of exasperation, Tykir put a palm on her face and rudely pressed her back again so she was hidden totally by his body. Beast thought that was a wonderful trick, apparently, because he jumped up and tried to put his paws on her face, too. Between trying to peer around Tykir to reason with Rurik and trying to calm the dog, Alinor had trouble standing upright.

  “That makes sense, Rurik,” Tykir said, his one arm still upraised to halt his progress. At the same time, he squeezed her hand tightly with his other hand in a silent message that she was not to interfere anymore.

  Alinor peeked under Tykir’s uplifted arm and saw Rurik’s face soften somewhat, but he continued to insist mulishly, “I still say she is a witch. She stole my dog. ’Tis a crime for which she must pay. The wergild for stealing a man’s horse is the thief’s life. I demand the same for the loss of my dog.”

  “You can hardly equate a dog with a horse, Rurik,” Tykir argued. “Be reasonable.” A mischievous chuckle escaped his lips as some thought occurred to him. “Mayhap Alinor could wag her tail for you in recompense for the loss of your dog’s devotion.”

  “Ah ha!” Rurik exclaimed. “So, you have seen her famous tail, after all, Tykir.”

  “Well, not precisely,” Tykir admitted. He was clearly enjoying his ridiculous jest.

  “God’s teeth! I didn’t steal your dog, Rurik,” Alinor asserted. “Beast merely shifted his affections.”

  “Affections?” The sound of mirth was in Tykir’s voice.

  “Affections?” Rurik shouted, not a hint of mirth in his voice. “I will give you affection. I swear, woman, I could cleave you to your clacking teeth with a single blow and feel not a lick of remorse. With a swing of my sword, Death Stalker, you will get affection.”

  “Yea, affection, Rurik. You should learn to be more affectionate. Mayhap then your dog would love you again. Furthermore, if you had shown a bit more affection to the Scottish witch, you might not be wearing her mark for life. And personally, I do not think that woad design is half so unattractive as the scowl you wear all the time.”

  “I am going to kill her, Tykir. I am sorry if that offends you, but I cannot help myself.” He was already releasing his sword from its scabbard.

  “Nay, Rurik, leave off. The witch will be with us only a short time longer. Then Beast will gladly come back to you. Go now, find yourself a wench. You know ’tis the best way to cool a hot temper. That and a tun of mead.”

  After Tykir soothed Rurik with more cajolery, he proceeded to leave, reluctantly. At the last moment, though, he shot daggers of icy promise at Alinor from his blue eyes. Beast stayed behind, unrepentant at his lack of loyalty.

  Soon Alinor and Tykir and Beast were walking purposefully toward his home and place of trade in Hedeby. The wood-paved streets cut in an orderly fashion at right angles or parallel to a channeled stream, which ran through the center of Hedeby, west to east. Some of the buildings on these streets were small, less than three-by-three ells, while others were as much as six-by-fifteen ells. The neat dwellings were stave-built with vertical or horizontal planking, or frame-built with wattle-and-daub panels. All of them had reed-thatched roofs and uniformly low doorways. In general, the buildings were placed so that the gable end faced the street, and the attendant outhouses stood behind them. The structures were fenced-off neatly from their neighbors and had their own gates and pathways.

  Large numbers of men and women passed by, but Tykir assured Alinor that this was a much-diminished number. Winter approached, and many traders had already left for their homelands. Even so, Alinor could see that a large contingent of people lived here year-round, as evidenced by the young children scampering about at some of the residences. Visible in the backyards were small vegetable patches, bare now of their autumn harvests.

  Hedeby was a center for craftsmen who had quarters of their own, much like the Coppergate sector of Jorvik. In front of some of the structures, both homes and businesses, rude stalls had been erected—wood tables with cloth canopies overhead. Here were offered for sale the foods of many lands. Hares, pigeons, chickens, joints of venison, mutton, pork and wild boar, and every fish conceivable. There were also sticky sweets from the east, breads of many different grains, pots of honey, exotic dried fruits from the warmer climates, jugs of the much-prized Norse mead and potent wine from Frisia. There was even gammelost and lutefisk, which Tykir pointed out with a laugh.

  “People actually pay good coin for that?” Alinor turned her nose up with disdain.

  Many people addressed Tykir by name as they passed, and a few came up and clapped him heartily on the shoulder in welcome. They gave almost no attention to the fact that she was bound to him with rope, but they did stare at her backside. Rurik, or Bolthor, or the seamen from Tykir’s ships must have already spread witchly tales of her tail. No doubt the passersby deemed her a personal thrall, or a slave about to be sold in Hedeby.

  In fact, on one street, Alinor saw a group of chained men and one woman being led toward a large structure with a wide yard. The men were of dark complexion, possibly of Moorish background, but the woman’s skin was pale. Her wails of anguish rose above the din of the crowds as she told her beads and sang psalms aloud in the Frankish tongue.

  “Oh, blessed Lord!” Alinor cried. “That woman could very well be a nun.” She attempted to rush forward to offer aid but was pulled back short by her restraint.

  “You will not interfere,” Tykir said firmly. “’Tis none of your affair.”

  “But…but she is clearly a woman of religious conviction…a Christian.”

  He arched a brow at that. “Ah, so you are saying that it is acceptable for only non-Christians to be slaves?”

  “That is not what I am saying.” Is it?

  “Nay?” he inquired mockingly. “Then you must be implying that your fellow Christians do not keep slaves.”

  “Well, yea, they do, but—”

  “Slavery is a fact of life in every land. Accept what cannot be changed,” he advised.

  Alinor would have argued that point with Tykir, except that an even more outrageous event was taking place before the eyes of one and all. In the courtyard of the slave mart, where dozens of slaves were restrained in chains or tied to vertical posts in the ground, a young woman was being offered for sale. But worse than that, her clothing had been stripped from her body and the prospective buyer, a seamen—mayhap even from one of Tykir’s ships—was examining her intimately. All the while, he was being encouraged by the guffawing crowd of men.

  Tykir dragged her away from the scene, cursing under his breath at her kicks to his shins and her attempts to scratch him with her free hand. When they were far enough away from the slave mart, Tykir
slammed her up against the side of a building and used their bound hands as a brace against her neck. “I’m going to release my hand from your mouth now, and if you so much as let a whisper escape your lips before I am done talking to you, you will be next in line at the slave mart. This I swear on my father’s grave. Furthermore, whilst my men may have avoided you and your witchly aura like the bloody flux, there are many men who would pay highly for the unique privilege of tumbling a sorceress. Do not doubt my word on that. Are you listening to me, you stubborn witch?”

  She nodded her head, fighting back tears of pain at the constricting press of his forearm against her neck.

  “You are not in your own land, foolish lady. Nor in mine. What you see and hear may not be to your taste, but no one—least of all me—bloody well cares. I can protect you whilst here…to a limit. If you step over that line, you are on your own.” He inhaled sharply, as if to control his roiling temper. His smoldering eyes met hers. “Have I made myself clear?”

  She nodded again, and he released his arm. Her knees felt soft as butter, and she almost sank to the ground. Tykir caught her with a hand on each side of her waist.

  In the distance, she could hear the continued sound of male laughter and a woman’s scream.

  “Come,” he said, more gently now. “There is an ale house over there, which I recall to be reasonably clean. We will have a cup of mead and a plateful of gammelost.”

  She refused to laugh at his rough attempt at jest. Never would she forget that scene at the slave mart, but she couldn’t really blame Tykir for failing to intervene. Slaves were sold in Britain, as well, though she’d never witnessed it firsthand. At the back of her mind was the thought, It could be me.

  Alinor thought she wouldn’t be able to drink or eat, but she had been wrong. Despite her horror at what she’d witnessed, the mead tasted cool and honey-rich. And she ate three thick slices of warm manchet bread, their centers hollowed out halfway and swimming with chunks of rabbit and leeks in a thick broth.