Two days out of Hedeby, some of the men had adopted the practice Tykir and Rurik and Bolthor had engaged in at Graycote. They were wearing their braies backwards as a charm against her potential spells. This was a particularly lackwitted exercise, not to mention laughable in appearance, in Alinor’s opinion, and she told them so every opportunity she got. For the seaman with the loose bowels, this new fashion custom was more than demented.
Naturally, they all kept checking her backside on the odd chance that her tail would emerge. And they wore wooden crosses, and splashed themselves with holy water repeatedly, which immediately froze into icicles on their beards and noses. Alinor suspected that Rurik had run out of his cache of holy water long ago, and was filling his vials with sea water, which he sold to his fellow shipmates.
Bolthor had come up with so many sagas involving a witch and her evil doings that he constantly bemoaned the fact that his head was becoming fuzzy and the stories getting mixed up. Although he wasn’t much nicer to her than any of the other men, Alinor was developing a fondness for the gruff giant.
Worst of all in Alinor’s ongoing travail was the Troll-Kisser.
Despite Tykir’s warning to desist, Rurik relished the retelling of how he’d come upon Tykir kissing her in the bed furs. Each time he retold the tale, the details got more exaggerated, to the point where now he claimed to have seen them both naked, down to the freckles on her buttocks and Tykir’s mighty “prow,” which had been just about to dip into her “waves.” The very fact that Tykir would kiss a witch was proof that she’d put a love spell on their master, according to Rurik’s ill-logic.
Alinor didn’t need any reminders of Tykir’s kisses. They were firmly imbedded in her memory. Just the thought of them—and there were far too many thoughts—turned her hot and strangely restless. Never in her wildest imagination, even as a young girl with dreams still intact, did Alinor suspect a man’s kiss could be so…well, exciting. And the last thing she needed in her life was more excitement, she told herself over and over again.
To make matters even worse, Tykir’s leg was bothering him. With the cold dampness that pervaded the air, he could scarce put his full weight on the limb without wincing in pain. He’d taken to limping slightly and often rubbed the scarred thigh through his thick braies. She might have been able to help him, to prescribe some herbal plaster or exercise regimen or—oh, sweet heaven!—massage it herself. On second thought, she misdoubted she could bear exposure to his bare flesh…again…without some dire consequence. She trembled involuntarily at imagining what form that dire consequence might take…and whether it would affect her, or him, or both of them.
She’d been avoiding Tykir as much as he avoided her since the unfortunate kissing incident. But there had been times when she glanced up suddenly to find Tykir watching her, and she knew he was remembering, too. Once he even licked his lips while studying her.
She’d felt like leaping across the ship to slap the wretch.
Or kiss him.
“Well, have you decided how you will handle the situation?” Tykir asked, limping up beside her now.
She stood at the rail, watching the men steer the longships into berths along the banks of the wide river fronting the palace grounds. Hundreds of other longboats, along with smaller vessels and the larger knarrs used for transporting massive cargoes, were anchored midriver or turned upside down along the shore, beached for the winter.
“What situation?”
“The curse. How will you remove the curse from Anlaf’s manroot?” Idly, he reached a hand out and flicked a big snowflake off her eyelashes. Then, to both of their amazements, he put the same forefinger to his mouth and licked.
Alinor felt that lick like an erotic arrow to the pit of her stomach. Luckily, she was able to stifle a groan.
He blinked those big brown, disgustingly thick lashes of his at her, equally affected, she would wager. Or else he played a game with her…a game for which she was sorely ill-equipped and woefully mismatched. Forget about her being a witch. This man had beguiled her, good and proper, with a few measly kisses.
Well, not measly.
Concentrate, Alinor. Forget the kisses. Forget his nude body. Start remembering that he’s your enemy.
“You’re imagining me naked,” Tykir teased with a little playful tap to her chin.
“Me? Me?” she sputtered.
“Do not worry, though. I like it.”
“You are the expert on naked looks, not me,” she asserted.
He just grinned, and gave her a quick once-over assessment that clearly did not involve any clothing.
“To answer your question—”
“Which question?” He was fingering the edges of her hair and sniffing. The man did have a fondness for the rose-scented hair cream Eadyth had given her.
She slapped his hand away. “The question of how to handle ‘the situation.’”
“Oh, that question.”
“I have decided to do nothing.”
“What?” Tykir looked magnificent in a rust-colored wool cloak lined with red fox fur, despite a sennight’s worth of whiskers shadowing his face. None of them had been able to bathe or change their salt-crusted clothing these past eight days, but Tykir had managed to braid the one side of his damp hair and don the thunderbolt earring and amber pendant in preparation for being received in the king’s court.
Alinor, on the other hand, suspected that she looked like a dirty-faced, speckled hen, even in the luxurious sable mantle of Tykir’s that she still wore.
“I will do nothing,” she repeated. “I am not a witch. ’Tis no fault of mine that Anlaf suffers…an affliction. ’Tis no fault of mine that I have been subjected to kidnapping and tortures, and forced to endure indignities be-fitting a mere thrall. ’Tis no—”
“Tortures?” Tykir’s right brow raised. “Name one.”
“Kissing. Having two hundred men staring at my posterior all the time. Eating gammelost.”
He grinned at her, and, Blessed Lord, he was nigh irresistible when he grinned. “Torture by kissing?” he scoffed.
“Yea,” she insisted, raising her chin defiantly in the face of his laughter. “Therefore, it is your fault that I am here. So I leave it to you to solve the problem.”
“Me? Me?” He thought a moment, then narrowed his eyes at her. “We are back to the guardian angel theory, aren’t we?”
She shrugged. “It makes no less sense that you have a set of hidden wings than me having a hidden tail.”
“I refuse to be your guardian angel,” he said, then realized how ridiculous that sounded. “I mean, I refuse to be responsible for your well-being after today. I will present you to King Anlaf. I will make him promise to treat you with the respect due your high station. I will ask him to return you to your home once you have straightened his staff. But I will not be your protector after today.”
“Aaarrgh! Have you heard one word I’ve said the past few sennights? I…can’t…straighten…a…a…a…cock. There! I’ve said the word. Are you happy now?”
He smiled.
Yea, he was happy.
The troll!
“Never fear, witchling. You will think of something.”
The man had a moat between his ears.
“If all else fails, you could try kissing Anlaf. Believe me, you have a talent in that arena. Yea, that might be the perfect solution. Kisses to cure a curse. I know your kisses straightened me out.”
She gave him a look of utter disbelief at his callousness and swung her arm in a wide circle before clouting him in his grinning mouth.
He barely winced at her blow. But he did concede, “Then again, mayhap not.”
Anlaf’s castle stood on a high motte, or earth mound, overlooking the joining of two rivers. At the base of the flattopped hillock was the usual water-filled moat. There were hutlike homes and small longhouses down by the piers, but most of the people lived within the royal ramparts and the vast surrounding stockade. It appeared as if it could accommo
date hundreds, even as many as a thousand inhabitants.
“Are there always so many people here?” Alinor asked Tykir.
“Nay, it must be a feast of one sort or another.”
“’Tis the marriage celebration for Anlaf’s oldest daughter, no doubt,” Bolthor said in passing, with a huge wooden chest on his shoulder. “Yea, methinks I heard that Signe was to wed this season.” He grinned at Tykir. “She finally gave up on you.”
Tykir grumbled something in the Norse language…probably a foul expletive.
But then she considered Bolthor’s news. Wonderful. I get to have my head lopped off during a wedding feast.
Stop it, Alinor. Naught will happen. You are under the protection of a fierce warrior…an important merchant prince.
A troll.
Oh, God!
Having already passed through the gatehouse, Tykir led her with a hand under her elbow. With the onset of the cold weather, his leg wound had started to bother him, and Alinor could see that he fought against limping, or letting anyone see him limp. Prideful man! Most of his men had gone on ahead, or scattered in various directions. For many of them, this was home for the winter. Others would be traveling on to Tykir’s homestead, or to their own homes in this immense northern wilderness. The huge double doors were opened by a guard who in turn signaled to another guard who blew a horn announcing their arrival.
The earth and timber castle was enormous, like a palatial fort. It had no clear architectural style, having been added to indiscriminately over the years. But the doors and lintels and various crenallations, even those of stone, were highly carved in the Norse style. Everywhere, there were fierce-looking sentries of tremendous size, carrying swords and shields and battle-axes.
They entered the vast great hall, which at present surely seated more than five hundred men and women, though the latter were in much shorter supply. A dozen enormous free-standing, raised hearths were arranged down the long center of the rectangular room. Mostly, they were intended for warmth during the interminable winter months, since cooking was done in a separate kitchen wing, but with all the body heat being generated by the eating and drinking crowd on this festive occasion, the fiery blazes were hardly needed. On either side of the hearths were arranged three very long rows of trestle tables, starting at the dais, where the high table stood, and leading to the far end of the room, where the lesser guests were seated.
“Come,” Tykir said, taking her hand in his and leading her along the right wall toward the dais. Rurik and Bolthor followed behind them, having tied Beast to a post outside. Many friends and acquaintances nodded and greeted the three men along the way, giving Alinor only a passing glance of curiosity. She had the hood of Tykir’s cloak pulled up over her head, so there was naught about her appearance to spark any interest.
“Tykir! When did you get back? Did you bring that case of Frisian wine I ordered?”
“Come tell us the news of that weasel, Edred! Is he still nipping at Eric Bloodaxe’s heels?”
“How was the amber harvest this year? My third wife has a yearning for one of your baubles.”
“Come share a cup with us when you have finished with your king’s business, Tykir. We would hear again about the time a sultan’s harem was opened to the Varangian Guard.”
“Bolthor, is that you? Have you any new sagas to regale us with? I still chuckle betimes over that ‘Tykir the Great and the Spitting Contest’ tale that you related last year at Gudrik the Glutton’s funeral feast.”
“Stay here,” Tykir told her when they finally reached the head of the first table. He didn’t even frown at the reminder of one of Bolthor’s sagas, which invariably poked fun at him. The solemnity on his usually open face scared Alinor. Why wasn’t he jesting and teasing her in his usual manner? Why wasn’t he smiling at all his laughing countrymen who greeted him? Why did he act as if her head was already on the chopping block?
Rurik stepped to the side, about to speak to a group of half-drunk Norsemen dressed in the rich cloth of Norse nobility.
“Keep your teeth shut for a change,” Tykir warned Rurik, who was no doubt about to spread his stories about Alinor the Witch.
Rurik seemed about to argue with Tykir’s command, but then came back to stand next to Alinor. Glowering at her, he pulled his wooden cross from inside his tunic and waved it in her face.
She crossed her eyes at him.
His face turned bright red under the woad design and he looked as if he might be choking on his tongue.
Good.
“Would you two stop?” Tykir hissed, then proceeded to walk up the steps to the dais.
“Tykir!” The enthusiastic greeting came from a regally dressed Viking man with an ornate gold circlet sitting on his forehead holding back his long blond hair. His luxurious beard was braided with precious stones and his mustache was full and drooping practically to his jaw. King Anlaf, she presumed from his appearance and his position at the head table. “Welcome! Welcome, my cousin! You have come to help celebrate Signe’s wedding, eh?” the king roared jovially, giving Tykir a bone-crushing clap on the back.
The two men were of the same size and age, though Tykir was by far the more handsome. Aaarrgh! I do not care about such things. Leastways, I never did afore hooking up with the beauteous troll. Somehow, Alinor had thought Anlaf would be much older, especially with a daughter of marriageable age, but then she reminded herself that a man of five and thirty was certainly capable of siring a daughter of seventeen or so winters.
But Alinor was woolgathering whilst events were taking place which could affect her destiny. Tykir was kissing the new bride now…a petite, flaxen-haired girl with even features and a dimpled smile. She was not beautiful, but comely nonetheless in a wholesome sort of way. He was also speaking his good wishes to her groom, an attractive young man of about eighteen winters. No elderly husband for this precious daughter.
“’Tis Torgunn…a younger son of King Sven Fork-beard of Denmark,” Bolthor told her. He had to bend over at the waist in order to place his mouth near her ear.
“Tykir!” a dark-haired man shouted from across the room. He stood abruptly, knocking over the ivory pieces of the Viking game knefatafl that he had been playing with several other men. The sinfully attractive man, no more than twenty, with skin burnished a dark brown like those of men residing in a desert clime, rushed across the room and up the steps. He wore the oddest garment, a sort of long white robe, highly embroidered along the edges with an ornate foreign design she could not identify. It was belted at the waist, with a burnoose hanging at the back of his neck. The attire was much like Alinor had seen on the Arab traders in Jorvik. He did not at all resemble the Vikings in this great hall, though they apparently accepted him as one.
“Adam!” Tykir said with a wide smile, taking the young man into a tight embrace.
So, this was the infamous Adam the Healer…the nephew for whom Tykir went to so much trouble.
After much back thumping, Tykir said to the young man, “You don’t seem much the worse for wear, despite having been a hostage these many months.” Alinor was fortunately able to hear their conversation, standing as they were at the bottom of the dais.
“A hostage?” Adam inquired, clearly puzzled.
Tykir quickly scanned the hall, his eyes latching on to the messenger, Bjold, who was slinking toward one of the exterior doors. With an expression of growing suspicion, Tykir turned on the king. “Did you not send a messenger to me several months past, urging me to deliver a witch to you?”
“Well, yea, but—” the king blustered.
“And did you not offer me your finest stallion, Fierce One?”
“Well, yea, but—” Anlaf shifted from foot to foot, obviously embarrassed about something.
“And did you not promise me the slave girl of the bells?”
“I did?”
“You did.” Tykir narrowed his eyes at the wily king. “Most important, did you not say that you would hold Adam hostage here till I deliv
ered the witch?”
“Anlaf!” Adam accused the king. “Did you say such? ’Tis a lie, of course, Tykir. What kind of man dost think I am that I could not escape such ‘captivity’?”
A low growling sound began deep in Tykir’s chest and was rising upward, like an angry bear.
“The malady went away of its own accord. Is that not a miracle?” a beaming Anlaf informed Tykir. “But there is no harm done. Come share the feast with us.” He waved a hand magnanimously. “Mayhap I can even find the jingling bell maiden for you. Ha, ha, ha.”
“No harm done?” Tykir sputtered.
“Yea, no harm done.” Anlaf’s brow furrowed with bafflement over Tykir’s anger. “Dost thou disbelieve me? Wouldst thou like to see my newly straightened staff?” He turned his back on the great hall and dropped the front of his braies for Tykir’s perusal.
“Very nice,” Tykir observed with droll humor as his face flushed purple with fury. Meanwhile, Adam was laughing so hard tears streamed down his face.
These Vikings are the crudest men in the world.
“Anlaf, you have to be the bloodiest fool in all the world,” Tykir raged, not at all amused. “You did some lackbrain things to me when we were youthlings, but this time you have pushed the bounds of kinship. Have you no idea what you have done?”
“Me?” Anlaf asked, putting a palm to his chest in affront. “By the by, why do some of your men wear their braies backwards? Is it the new fashion in the Saxon lands? I always thought they were assbackwards. Now I know for a certainty. Ha, ha, ha.”
Tykir crossed his eyes with frustration. “You asked me to deliver to you the Saxon witch,” he pointed out, as if speaking to a dimwitted child.
“And?”
“You have her.” Tykir pointed in her direction.
All eyes turned then toward Alinor.
Uh-oh!
Rurik, the mean-spirited oaf, flipped Alinor’s hood back so that her bright red hair sprung forth. By the light of about a hundred candles and an equal number of wall torches, her numerous freckles were no doubt evident, too.
Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] Page 16
