He cocked his head in surprise. “I had no friends as a child. We moved about too much, and had no real home, as such. Except later for a short while, mayhap, when I lived with my grandparents at Ravenshire. Nay, there was just me and my brother Eirik, and he was older, and much too somber in his ways for such trivial pursuits as snow-play.”
He seemed to make a conscious effort to pull himself out of his wistful musings then, and added with a deliberate twinkle in his eye, “But, yea, I recall now that I did give more than one girling hot pursuit with many a cold icicle. ’Til one day the goatherder’s daughter, Elfrida, upset with my harmless taunting, stuffed a handful of snow down the front of my braies. God’s bones! ’Twas an experience I would not want to repeat.”
She smiled at that image. “And did it teach you a lesson?”
He shrugged. “For a short while. But I got back at Elfrida, to be sure. I flipped up the back hem of her robe during a Michaelmas feast. Turns out she wore no undergarments. And everyone got to see her bare backside…as wide as a fat bishop’s, I might add.” He grinned at her, unabashedly.
“For shame!” she scolded, but only halfheartedly.
“Well, Wallace the Privy Builder proposed marriage to her the following sennight,” he informed her with a continuing grin. “Must be he had a taste for overlarge backsides. Perchance it had something to do with his trade.”
God above! The man is adorable.
Aaarrgh! Where did that thought come from? He is not adorable. Not, not, not!
“So, you like your first view of Dragonstead?” Tykir asked, changing the subject.
“Yea,” she said with much enthusiasm. “It must be so beautiful here in the summer.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’m always gone by then.”
Her heart went out to the lout—way too many times this day, actually. She could see how much Dragonstead meant to him, and yet each spring he tore himself away to wander on his various travels. There was something significant to be learned here.
But Alinor had no time for that. She had just noticed something more important. Tykir’s face was flushed, and not from the cold.
“Are you sick?” she demanded, reaching up to place a hand on his forehead.
He was burning up with fever.
He tried to step back from her but swayed from side to side. The rigors of the trip, on top of his already sorry condition, were finally catching up with him.
“Bolthor!” she cried, and the giant came immediately to her side, taking in the situation at a glance. Just in time, he caught Tykir and picked up his lifeless form in his arms.
Tykir the Great was deathly ill.
It was a most auspicious beginning to Alinor’s winter stay at Dragonstead.
Three days later, Alinor sat at the kitchen table chopping a plump raw chicken, along with leeks and various dried herbs for yet another kettle of rich chicken broth. Later she would drop tiny dough balls into the soup pot, once the dish had been bubbling for three or four hours, when the meat began to fall off the bones in shreds. The dough balls were a secret touch she’d learned from Leah, a Jewish merchant’s wife who’d passed through Graycote a year past. Leah had also suggested keeping the chicken feet, gizzard and heart in the brew for extra flavor, even though some cooks tossed them in the midden.
“Chicken again?” Bolthor asked, rolling his eyes heavenward. “’Tis past time to put a haunch of wild boar on the spit. Or a few rabbits. Men need red blood, lest their virility suffers.”
Men need red blood? For virility? Where did that bit of male non-wisdom come from? “Chicken broth is good for the winter ailment,” Alinor said defensively. “I know some of the men…well, most of the men…are stallfed on my chicken soup, but—”
“You’ve been serving it three times a day since our arrival at Dragonstead,” he pointed out dryly.
Alinor knew many at Dragonstead were still leery of her as a possible witch, but fortunately, they’d allowed her to minister to their master’s illness. They watched her closely, though.
“I care not a fig for the finicky palates of you men if the liquid strengthens your sniffling systems, especially Tykir, whose fever broke only yestereve, praise be to God!
“Finicky appetites! You are killing our appetites,” Bolthor grumbled. “But, yea, ’tis good news that Tykir is finally on the mend.”
Bolthor had paused to speak with her as he was passing through the scullery with a huge armload of firewood. It took a massive amount of wood to heat the three hearths in the great hall, the cook fire in the kitchen and the fire-places in two of the upper bedchambers, from late autumn till spring. Luckily, the woodmen had worked nonstop since last winter to set by a goodly supply.
As Bolthor left the kitchen, she heard him muttering something about a new saga, “Alinor the Witch and the Deadly Chicken Potion.”
“Pay no mind to Bolthor,” Girta the Round said. Alinor had forgotten Girta was behind her in the kitchen, rolling out circles of unleavened dough made of rye, barley and peas, to be baked on flat wheels with a central hole. Later the bread would be stored by threading on a pole near the hearth. “Men don’t know what’s good for them. Take Jostein the Smith, who has been smitten for years with Bodil the Ripe, our head dairymaid.”
Huh? Alinor didn’t even know half the people Girta spoke of. Alinor’s gaze followed Girta’s flour-covered finger to the open door of the buttery, where the voluptuous Bodil was making the Viking soft-curded cheese known as skyr.
“Jostein took her to bed, on more than one occasion, I might add, and never offered her the wedding vows,” Girta rambled on. “Now Bodil is about to wed with Rapp of the Big Wind, and Jostein is heartsick. Moons about the keep like a wounded cow, and for the life of me, I cannot fathom…”
As Girta gossiped on, Alinor smiled at the jolly, talkative woman, with her distinctive blond-braided crown. Girta supervised the affairs of Dragonstead with an iron hand, along with her husband, Red Gunn, the steward, who was as slim as Girta was round. Dragonstead was a small estate, but it ran with remarkable efficiency due to this couple’s combined efforts, both indoors and out, with the master in residence or not.
Alinor was impressed.
When Tykir was gone on his trading ventures, there were at least two dozen house carls—freemen and women, not to mention a handful of children—living at Dragonstead, not including the village folks. When Tykir returned, that number often increased by a hundred or more. Not an overlarge populace, even for a small keep.
But Girta was still talking about the Dragonstead household whilst Alinor’s mind had been awandering. Alinor interrupted her. “Why do they call him Rapp of the Big Wind?”
“Oh! You might very well ask that,” Girta tutted. “Because he can break wind at will, and does so overmuch. Men think it is a great talent, foolish dolts that they are. In truth, Rapp can clear a room in a heartbeat, if you get my meaning.”
Alinor had to laugh, despite her revulsion.
“Poor Bodil! Methinks she should whack that Jostein on the head with a butter paddle. Mayhap it would knock some sense into his dull brain. ’Tis not too late…not ’til the vows are exchanged. What say you?”
“I have no idea,” Alinor said honestly. But then she brought up a subject that was bothering her more. “How soon do you think it will be afore Tykir is up and about?” she asked.
The barrel-bellied Girta shrugged and divided a new batch of dough into a series of balls, which she plopped onto a floured board. Before she answered Alinor’s question, she began to roll the dough into a number of wide circles, the top and bottom crusts for the first of a series of eel pies that would be baked and served for the evening meal, along with Alinor’s chicken broth. The men were going to be pleasantly surprised by the tasty menu addition.
“I would not expect too much too soon,” Girta said. “The warm bricks you’ve been applying to his thigh have helped…not to mention the chicken broth you’ve been force-feeding him.” She chuckled at that
last. Even in his delirium, Tykir had taken to making grunting sounds of “Yeech!” through gritted teeth when she fed him her chicken broth. She’d resorted to pinching his nose till his mouth opened for her spooning.
“I’ve been so frightened,” Alinor confessed. “Never have I encountered a fever so fierce, nor long-lasting.”
“Well, the Master Tykir has had many a year to master his war wounds. He knows well enough not to be abusing the leg when it starts to ache. And, for a certainty, in the past he has always been back here at Dragonstead afore the cold weather set in. I don’t know what the foolish man could have been thinking.”
“His men blame me for all the delays.”
“And are you at fault? Is it guilt that prompts your vigil by his bedside?”
“Nay! The clodpole kidnapped me. ’Twas not my fault it took him so long to find me, nor that delays happened along the way. But he did stay at Anlaf’s court to defend me, and he did bring me here against his wishes. For that, I owe him plenty.”
“Don’t be beating your breast over this, dearie. You’ve spent way too many hours hovering over the man as it is. When did you sleep last? If you’re not careful, Lady Alinor, you’ll be getting sick yourself. And don’t be thinking the master will be thanking you for your ministrations, or your lack of rest on his behalf. The way I hear it, the master is planning some grand punishment for you.”
Alinor felt her face flame. “Adam has been talking.”
“You could say that.” Girta put a floury hand to her mouth and giggled. “But Adam would not give us any details. All he does is waggle his eyebrows and make suggestive remarks to tease everyone. The rascal!”
Alinor put all her broth ingredients into the large cauldron over the fire and added a goodly amount of water. Stirring it with a large copper ladle, she then covered the pot and moved the spider hook to the back of the hearth for slow simmering.
Having finished rolling the first of her crusts, Girta clapped her hand to remove the flour, then wiped her hand on the open-sided Norse apron that covered her from shoulder to ankle. Next Girta took the lid off the eel barrel on the side of the fireplace and reached into the murky water to retrieve a particular long, slimy creature—about the size of a battle pike. With nary a grimace, Girta pressed the squirming eel onto a cutting block and whacked its head off with a cleaver. Alinor flinched at the sight of the headless, still flailing eel, spurting blood.
With an economy of effort, Girta made a slit the length of the snakelike animal and peeled its skin back, all in one clean piece. As she chopped the eel meat into pieces, and dropped it into a bowl of thick cream and wild onions garnished with peas, Alinor was staring at the eel skin on the floor. An outrageous thought had occurred to her.
Do not be ridiculous, Alinor. Stop it right now. You are becoming as wild and unrestrained as these heathen Vikings.
Still, the mischievous thought persisted.
“Do you know where Rurik is?” Alinor asked tentatively.
“In the guard room, sharpening weapons, methinks,” Girta answered distractedly as she worked to crimp together the crusts of the first eel pie.
The blue-faced Viking had been blathering high and low since they’d arrived at Dragonstead. Tykir may have defended her before Anlaf’s court, but Rurik still proclaimed her a witch. At the same time, he was profiting mightily on her magic wordfame, selling wood crosses and holy water. Truly, Rurik was the biggest, most irksome thorn in her side.
Mayhap ’twas time to shake that thorn loose.
Oh, I couldn’t.
Yea, I could.
’Twould be childish.
Yea.
Alinor leaned down to pick up the eel skin gingerly, between a thumb and forefinger. It resembles a…well, tail, she thought and smiled with wicked anticipation.
Before she had a chance to surrender to her more rational misgivings, Alinor hiked up the back hem of her gown and tucked the end of the eel skin into the waistband of her underdrawers. Then she dropped the gown back in place. Peering over her shoulder, she saw the eel skin emerging along the floor, like a tail.
“For the love of Freyja!” Alinor looked up to see a startled Girta watching her, mouth gaping open. Then the cook smiled widely as comprehension dawned.
Alinor sauntered off to the guard room, hips swaying, tail swishing. “Oh, Rur-ik,” she called out.
“What in bloody hell do you want now?” the surly knight answered her.
Well, I certainly feel no guilt now.
At first he paid her no nevermind, just murmured something about wenches having no business in a man’s workroom. So, she wandered around the room, examining the armor and shields and deadly weapons that lay about.
The rasp of a sword edge along the whetstone slowed, then stopped.
A bare instant later, Rurik emitted a loud masculine shriek, then a shout of “Aaaaack! Run, everyone! Run!” that reverberated throughout the castle. As Alinor scurried through the kitchen, tossing the eel skin under the table, paying no nevermind to a clucking Girta, she heard one of the young armor boys back in the guard room say, “The master Rurik ’pears to be having a fit. His mouth is sucking in and out like a fjord flounder.”
Alinor hid in the buttery for more than an hour, laughing till tears rolled down her cheeks. What had possessed her? It was the most foolish, impetuous, uncharacteristic thing she had ever done in her entire life. And the most satisfying.
The scent of roses drew Tykir from his deep sleep.
He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but he was weak as dragon piss. His body weighed him down to the mattress, heavy and aching. Most of the ache was centered in his thigh, which throbbed painfully. But, in truth, he felt better than he had in days.
The roses pulled at Tykir’s senses…a memory tugging at him that he couldn’t quite grasp. Was he in an English flower garden? Or an eastern harem, where floral oils were often used by the hour is? He opened his leaden eyelids slowly and realized he was in the huge bedstead in his upper chamber at Dragonstead. The air was chill in the room, though he was warm as a babe in the womb under the layers of bed furs covering his body. And there was some heat generated by the roaring fire he heard crackling in the fireplace, though the hearth heat did not fill the entire chamber. Sometimes the walls were covered with ice in winter, even as the fire blazed.
Tykir turned his head slowly on the pillow toward the hearth. Ahhhh! Now he recognized the source of the rose scent.
Lady Alinor, of the rose-scented hair.
He licked his dry lips and tried to focus. He was not really surprised to see the witch standing there. Every time he’d awakened during the past three days of fever, she’d been in his bedchamber, leaning over him, pressing cool cloths to his forehead, forcing spoonfuls of chicken broth into his mouth. It wasn’t that the broth tasted vile; there was just so much of it. In his dreams, he’d taken to crowing like a rooster. At least he wasn’t laying eggs. Yet.
Had she really pinched his nose to force his mouth open? She would pay for that.
He’d been barely conscious…seeing everything through a filmy haze…sometimes flailing and muttering senselessly…but he’d recognized her as a continuing presence during his illness. And been strangely comforted.
It was probably a spell.
Alinor was combing her wet hair in front of the fire…thus the roses. Damn his sister-by-marriage for giving Alinor the hair cream. Just how much had she given her? Hopefully, Alinor would run out soon. Then again, mayhap he did not really want her to stop enticing him thus. Aaarrgh! I’m being driven mad by rose hair cream. Could Eadyth perchance be a witch, too?
Alinor must have just taken a bath because she wore a loose chemise, the type women usually donned after rising from their baths. Over and over, she raised the ivory comb—his comb, he realized by the by, with an odd tug in his chest—then pulled it through the waist-length strands. Each time she lifted her arm, the outline of her breast under the white linen raised, as well. Every time she fo
llowed through on the comb stroke, the breast relaxed into its natural, delicious shape.
Someday he would like to watch her perform this sensuous exercise nude. And he had no trouble imagining how she would look. He knew exactly how to picture the witch naked. It was an exercise at which he’d become adept.
He stared, mesmerized, at the rhythmic motion of her hand, and her body in profile.
And another part of his body reacted to the rhythm with a hardening rhythm of its own. Leastways the fever had not caused any permanent damage to vital organs.
He tried to smile, but his chapped lips cracked. He barely noticed, though, because his eyes were already fluttering closed. There must be some sleeping herb in that bloody chicken brew.
As he drifted off to sleep again, he began to dream. And they were very interesting dreams. Not just erotic, which were his favorite kind, but accompanied by their very own smell.
Roses, of course.
It was an odor that drew Tykir out of sleep once again. But not roses.
Chicken broth, he realized sluggishly and gagged. “Yeech.” Which gave the witch an opportunity to shove a wooden spoon sloshing chicken broth into his mouth, practically to his throat. He knew it was the witch because his eyes shot wide open.
It must have been some time since his last awakening because Alinor’s hair was dry now and hanging in a single braid down her back. Her chemise was covered with a dark green, thick wool gunna, covered with an open-sided Viking apron.
Too bad! He much preferred her earlier attire. Or non-attire.
Oh, well, I can always imagine her naked.
“You’re awake,” she said cheerily. I am not in the mood for cheerily. She shoved another spoonful of the broth into his mouth. I am not in the mood for more chicken broth. This one had a glob of dough floating on top. I am not in the mood for globs of dough.
“Glpugglup,” he sputtered as he attempted to choke and speak and chew at the same time. Then he grabbed the wrist of the hand dipping the empty spoon into a bowl on the bedside table and growled, “Yea, I’m awake. How can I not be awake with all that slop you are feeding me?”
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