Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  “Let us torture her secrets out of her first,” Gudny exhorted.

  “Does she dance naked in the forest? Mayhap we could watch her dance naked first,” one young soldier proposed. “’Twould be good entertainment for a wedding feast.”

  Others nodded enthusiastically.

  “Or trial by water. That would be worth watching,” another person offered.

  More vigorous nodding.

  “Trial by water? What’s that?” he heard Alinor inquire of Bolthor.

  “They hold you under water for ten minutes or so. If you survive, you must be a witch. If you drown, then your good name is clear.”

  Alinor thought for a second. “And that is Viking justice?”

  “We learned it from the Saxons,” Bolthor told her.

  Meanwhile, the Norse revelers were continuing to throw out suggestions to the king regarding the witch’s fate.

  “Has anyone checked for a tail yet?” one man cautioned.

  The murmuring throughout the hall was ominous, to him as well as Alinor, whose face had gone bone white under her horrible freckles. He saw that Rurik’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist in a vicelike grip.

  He stomped down the dais steps, stormed over to Alinor’s side, smacked Rurik’s hand aside with a hissing sound of rage at the blue finger marks already marring the delicate skin and dragged her forward with him, an arm protectively draped around her shoulder. Though they stood at the bottom of the short stairway, everyone at the high table rose from their seats and took two steps backward. The bride, who had regained consciousness, was whimpering. The bridegroom was comforting her with a sweeping hand across her back that kept returning to the rump region. Tykir didn’t think he was searching for a tail.

  “Enough!” Anlaf dropped his shield to the floor and shouted in a roaring voice, which carried across the great hall like thunder, causing waves of silence to follow in its wake. When all was quiet, Anlaf announced, “I have come up with a solution. Tomorrow we will hold a Thing to decide the witch’s fate.”

  The Thing was about to start by midmorning the next day.

  If Alinor had expected a disorganized governing body run by an unruly bunch of primitive Vikings, green-faced from overdrinking the night before, she was woefully mistaken. The Norsemen apparently held their laws in great respect, for they were groomed and dressed accordingly. Many of them had bathed and donned clean clothing, shaved or trimmed mustaches and beards and combed or braided their long hair. They must have risen at dawn to prepare for this event. Either that or they’d stayed up all night, though none the worse for wear, except for a few bloodshot eyes and breath odor that could wipe out a troop of soldiers with one mighty exhalation.

  There were spaces for twenty-one men to sit in a half-circle at the head of the room, facing toward the empty dais…three each, including the chieftains, from the seven “tribes” or geographical regions in attendance at the gathering. Tykir, Rurik and Bolthor would sit there, as well, once the Thing began. The rest of the free men were seated on benches behind their chosen representatives. King Anlaf, dressed in his full royal regalia topped by a narrow golden circlet banding his forehead, was to act as the Thing-Leader. He sat in an armed chair in the center of the half-circle.

  There were few women present in the assembly itself, though they could be seen in the background, moving about their chores, or eavesdropping on what must be mostly a male event.

  She and Tykir were sitting on a bench off to the side, along with other parties who had disputes to be settled by the Thing. Bolthor, Rurik and Adam sat on either side of them on the bench.

  Primitive wooden crosses abounded on the chests of many. Alinor suspected that Rurik was doing a prosperous business in crucifixes and holy water. She wished him a bad case of splinters.

  An ancient, gray-bearded man rose from the assembly and was making his way slowly toward the front, his progress impeded by those who stopped him along the way in warm greeting. He wore a full-length coat of marten skins. His neatly combed white hair hung about his shoulders like a silken mantle. In his right hand, he carried a long, wooden staff intricately carved with runic symbols. It resembled a bishop’s crozier.

  “Who is that?” Alinor whispered to Tykir.

  He just stared ahead, stone-faced. This was the first she’d seen him since last night, having been taken forcibly to a storage room, where she’d been locked in alone till this morning. It was clear that Tykir blamed her for the whole predicament.

  Was it her fault she found herself in the middle of Viking lands? Was it her fault they’d declined to allow Tykir to dump her there whilst he went on his merry way? Was it her fault a storm was brewing outside, turning the skies black and it not yet noon? Was it her fault a threat loomed of their being snowbound at Anlaf’s court for the winter?

  Adam leaned forward from his seat on the other side of Tykir and informed her, “That’s Styrr the Wise, the Lawspeaker. The Norse people have many law codes, but they are seldom written down. It’s the responsibility of the lawspeakers to commit those laws to memory and recite them before the Thing begins.”

  Tykir gave Adam a piercing glare, labeling him traitor for speaking to Alinor when he would not.

  Adam ignored Tykir and graced Alinor with a roguish smile that had probably melted more than one maiden’s heart. “I am Adam of Godwinshire, by the by. We’ve not been properly introduced.”

  Tykir made a snorting sound of disgust.

  She smiled back at Adam, more to annoy Tykir than to respond to the younger man’s seductive grin. “I am Lady Alinor of Graycote…victim of this oaf’s ridiculous mission,” she said, rolling her eyes toward Tykir. “He wants to blame me for this turn of events, but deep down he knows he is at fault.”

  “It must be real deep,” Tykir mumbled.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I am not speaking to you.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a trifle immature?”

  “Adam, will you be coming with me to Dragonstead for the winter…assuming we get out of here afore the fjords freeze?” Tykir inquired, speaking over her. “Or will you stay with Father Caedmon at Anlaf’s court?”

  “I know not for certain. It depends on whether it comes to combat here at the Thing. If we have to fight our way out of this mess…” he shrugged, “…then there will be no choice.”

  “Combat?” she protested. “I thought this was a law court.”

  Before anyone could answer—not that anyone was rushing to attend to her concerns—Rurik leaned forward from the other side of Adam and addressed Tykir. “Methinks you should let me take the wench outside and lop off her head. That would solve everyone’s problem. What say you? Shall I unsheath my trusty sword?”

  Alinor told Rurik what he could do with his trusty sword; it was that selfsame vulgar expression she’d used on rare occasions afore. All four men, including Bolthor, on her other side, gaped at her as if she’d sprung three heads.

  Hell’s teeth! Had they never heard a coarse word from a lady’s tongue afore?

  Apparently not.

  “That is not the first time she has used that expression with us. Is that not so, Tykir?” Rurik curled his upper lip with distaste. “It must be a trait of Saxon women to speak with the roughness of men. Mayhap ’tis just Saxon women who live with sheep. Ones little inclined toward meekness.”

  Alinor said nothing, but she waggled her fingers in the direction of Rurik’s manparts and muttered some nonsensical words. “Mimje hwan ziba-ziba.”

  Rurik stood at once and sputtered, “See…did you all see her put a curse on me?” With a gasp, he rushed from the hall.

  “Where is he going?” an amazed Adam asked.

  “To the privy to check for curves,” Bolthor replied with a dry humor she hadn’t known he had. “He does it at least thrice a day.” He seemed to catch himself then. “Begging your pardon, my lady, for my crudeness.”

  Then Bolthor launched into one of his sagas. “Hear one an
d all, this is the saga of Rurik the Beautiful:

  “Rurik was a Viking

  Who had a grand passion.

  But he chose a witch

  To dip his wick.

  And now he regrets

  The ill-fated lesson.”

  Tykir and Adam’s slack jaws clicked shut with a resounding snap. Truly, Bolthor was not the world’s best skald.

  “What were the words of that curse you put on Rurik’s manpart?” Adam wanted to know, turning his attention back to her.

  “God spare me from blue-faced lackwits,” Alinor answered.

  It took only a moment for Adam to realize that Alinor was not serious. He threw his head back and laughed heartily, uncaring of the Vikings who turned to stare at him. “I like you, Lady Alinor. Mayhap we could…ah, talk later, if things work out with the Thing.”

  “Talk? Hah!” Tykir observed. “She’s too old for you, Adam. Why don’t you go jingle some bells or something.”

  “Too old? Tsk-tsk, Tykir. Where are your manners? A chivalrous man does not comment on a woman’s age. You must forgive Tykir’s testiness, m’lady. He is not himself today.”

  “Really? He is always testy, as far as I can tell.”

  “Uh, just to satisfy my curiosity, how old are you, Lady Alinor?” Adam posed the question with studied casualness.

  Now where did that come from? Oh, I see. The rascal probably thinks I’m a centuries’ old witch. “Twenty-five.”

  “Hah! That is only five years’ difference. Besides, I have always liked older women.” Adam jiggled his eyebrows at Alinor.

  She couldn’t help but smile at the outrageous rogue.

  “She nags incessantly,” Tykir said of a sudden, startling them all. “And her voice! Blessed Freyja! Betimes it is so shrill it makes your ears ache. In truth, I would wager she nags even in the midst of bedsport.”

  Alinor gave him a sharp jab with her elbow, which did not even budge the immovable lout. “What makes you think I would participate in the bedsport with him, or any other man?”

  “What? Did you think Adam was interested in conversing with you? About sheep? Or the black arts?” He pondered a moment. “Or freckle cures?”

  Freckle cures? Ooooh, that was a low blow. There are black arts I would like to employ with this wretch.

  “I like to talk with women,” Adam countered defensively. “Sometimes.”

  Tykir and Bolthor exhaled with a communal, “Hah!”

  “And disasters follow her everywhere,” Tykir divulged. “Whether it be her witchly arts or just coincidence, I cannot say for certain, but it gets tiresome after a while, I can attest.” Bolthor nodded in agreement.

  “Disasters? Like what?” Adam scoffed.

  “Manparts curving, seagulls dying, twins a-birthing, wine souring, bowels fluxing, storms brewing, even geese shitting on hapless travelers—”

  “What hapless travelers?” Adam asked, clearly confused by Tykir’s recitation of her supposed ill-doings.

  Tykir and Bolthor looked at each other, turned red-faced, and refused to respond.

  Adam hooted with laughter. “God’s blood! ’Twould seem I have much to catch up on. Mayhap I will go to Dragonstead with you, after all, Tykir. Have you committed all these happenstances to sagas, Bolthor?”

  Bolthor beamed at Adam. “Yea, I have. Most of them, leastways. I intend to recite all winter long at Dragonstead.”

  “I cannot wait.” Adam beamed innocently as he spoke.

  Everyone else groaned under their breaths.

  “Now let me see, Tykir.” A mischievous grin crept over Adam’s lips. “You have told me the wench—I mean, witch—is not for me because she is too old, too talksome and too magical. Is there aught else I should fear afore taking her off your hands?”

  “Who said I wanted you to take Lady Alinor off my hands?” Tykir snapped.

  “You did,” Alinor declared, baffled by his change of mood.

  “I did not. I said that Anlaf must take responsibility for you now. I never said Adam should take on that irksome duty.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he answered enigmatically. “Being a woman, ’twould be hard for you to fathom the deeper workings of a man’s mind.”

  “Did it take you a long time to think up that nonsense?”

  He cast her a sheepish sideways glance. “Nay. It just came to me. An inspiration.”

  She rolled her eyes heavenward.

  “Well, if you do not want her…” Adam began, studying the two of them with lips twitching with mirth. The thick-headed Tykir obviously failed to see the teasing that underlay Adam’s words. “I guess I could be her protector…for a while.”

  “Please, Adam! Spare us your whims. You would be her protector only till the next winsome maid strolls by…not that Lady Alinor is winsome. I mean…I did not mean…” Tykir slanted an apologetic look at Alinor, as if she did not already know how little appeal she held for him. Tykir let out a whoosh of exasperation. “Face the truth, Adam. You would not like the freckles that cover her from head to toe,” Tykir blurted out, and seemed surprised at his own words.

  She gasped. The dolt!

  But wasn’t it odd how Tykir was trying to deflect Adam’s interest away from her? Here was a perfect opportunity for him to be rid of her, and what did he do? Sabotage his own plan to relinquish responsibility for her.

  She reached over for his hand and had to pry the fingers apart before lacing it with hers. And, oh, how good it felt to press her flesh against his! He was her anchor in this sea of danger. He would save her. She knew he would. “Do not mind the lout,” she told Adam. “He is my own personal guardian angel, but he fights his fates mightily.”

  “Tykir…an angel?” Adam shook his head with disbelief. But then he homed in on Tykir’s words. “How do you know she is covered with freckles from head to toe?” Adam asked, chuckling.

  “Because he saw her naked, back in Jorvik,” Rurik explained. He’d just returned from the privy, apparently satisfied with the shape of his beloved staff if his swagger was any indication. He dropped down into his seat next to Adam. “And he has not been the same since. Smitten he is with whatever it was he saw.”

  “I am not smitten,” Tykir said with consternation, as if that would be the most horrible thing in the world. Well, it would be, of course. She did not want him smitten. Still, he was a brute for saying so with such vehemence.

  “As I recall, ’twas the raspberry belly button that got his attention when first he saw her naked. And he cannot get that image from his mind now,” Bolthor interjected, tapping his chin with a forefinger thoughtfully. “Nay, ’twas a raspberry birthmark on her belly.”

  “Raspberry nipples,” Tykir corrected.

  Oh, the humiliation of such talk! Alinor pulled her hand out of its clasp with the lout and buried her face in her hands.

  “This is the story of ‘Tykir the Great and the Raspberry Feast,’” Bolthor began.

  “Tykir the Great?” Adam questioned.

  “Shut up,” Tykir retorted.

  And Bolthor shared his latest creation:

  “Viking men have many a yearning

  Some cravings liken to a burning.

  A-viking, a-plundering, a-swiving

  Are but a few that be tormenting.

  But Lord spare the maid when

  The Norseman gets a yen

  For raspberries in his bed.”

  A long silence ensued. Finally curiosity gave way, and Alinor peered up between her fingertips.

  All four men were grinning.

  And staring at her chest.

  Chapter Ten

  Tykir felt as if his feet were planted in quicksand and his upper body were being assailed by buffeting winds. He was being pulled in a dozen directions at once, but somewhere along the way he’d lost his inner life-compass.

  How could he have thought this mission for Anlaf would be a simple matter? He must be as lackwitted as Alinor always said.
>
  He wanted to be rid of her.

  And he did not.

  He wanted to trust her fate to the fairness of a Norse Thing.

  He feared what that fate might be.

  He swore the whole misadventure was her fault for hurling a curse in the first place.

  Yet guilt nagged at him like an aching tooth.

  The most alarming revelation had come to him moments ago when Adam had offered to take responsibility for the witch. Oh, he knew the scamp had been half-jesting, but he was the one who’d reacted like a green youthling. For the first time in his life, he’d tasted the bile of jealousy, and that scared him mightily.

  At what point had he stopped noticing the ungodly color of her hair or the overabundance of skin splotches? In truth, the witch was starting to look good to him. Yea, to his horror, he was developing a taste for coppery hair and freckles. Other women, even some comely ones at Anlaf’s court, appeared pale in comparison.

  Tykir was going mad. His life was unraveling, thread by thread. In the midst of this royal assembly, he fought the compulsion to pull at his hair and roar like a wild bull. That is it, he concluded, I have gone berserk.

  He needed to get away and think. Alone. Once he was home at Dragonstead, his mind would become clear once again. He would remember why it was essential that he shield his emotions because, for the life of him, he couldn’t stop the ice around his heart from melting now. Much more of this and he would be as vulnerable as a wingless bird.

  Besides that, his thigh wound was throbbing with more pain than he’d experienced since the Battle of Brunanburh, when it had been inflicted. He feared he was doing irreparable harm to his leg, hobbling around on it when the limb needed to be elevated and the scarred skin packed with hot poultices. His sister Rain would flail him alive with angry words if she saw how he’d abused her good work in saving his leg fifteen years earlier.