Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  She winced, but not from his tight fingerhold on her wrist, which he immediately released. Nay, she’d winced because he’d hurt her feelings.

  Bloody hell! Why should I feel guilty for voicing a fact that should be apparent? She has been overdoing the chicken broth. But mayhap I shouldn’t have referred to her good efforts as slop. He wasn’t in the mood for apologizing, though.

  “I want some real food,” he said, sitting up suddenly, then immediately dropping back to the pillow when an invisible broadaxe cleaved his skull. He pressed the heels of both palms to his brow to stop his brains from spilling out. “Did you poison me again? Did you give me a potion to explode my head this time, instead of my bowels?”

  She ignored his accusations and immediately reached forward with concern, placing a cool palm on his forehead. I am not in the mood to be placated, but her hand does feel good. Mayhap I will let it rest there for a moment.

  “What is amiss? Is it your head?”

  “Nay, it’s my arse.” Hell and Valhalla! I am in a vile mood.

  She made a tsk-ing sound as she adjusted the furs around him, tucking them in tightly at the sides till he felt like a corpse being dressed for the coffin.

  He slapped her hands away. “Stop fussing over me.”

  “I’m only trying to help.”

  “Help me by fetching some bloody damn food.”

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you like.”

  “My, my, you are testy today. Must be you are getting better when you begin to sound like Rurik. Grumble, grumble, grumble all the time.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Was that Rurik I heard shouting earlier today?”

  She examined her fingernails with blatant guilt. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep track of Rurik’s doings.”

  “What did you do to him now?” he demanded to know.

  “Me?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  He rubbed his bristly jaw. “God, my mouth tastes like a midden on a hot summer day.”

  “Your breath smells the same.”

  “Thank you for pointing that out. Chicken breath, that’s what I must have. Now get me some food. Anything, as long as it doesn’t have feathers. Mutton would be good. Or lamb chops. Baby lamp chops.”

  All that talking had worn him out, and he yawned widely, feeling his body closing down for sleep once again.

  He thought he heard the wench giggle then as she eased herself off the high bed and asked, “How about some eel pie?”

  “What’s so funny about eel pie?” he grumbled.

  “If you’re lucky, Viking, I might just show you.”

  A smell drew Tykir out of his sleep once again.

  It was a strong, pungent smell this time…not unpleasant, but different. Soap. That’s what it was. Girta’s homemade soft soap, used in the bathhouse.

  He opened his eyes a mere slit and saw that Alinor was bathing him. The nerve of the wench! Bathing him like a newborn babe. But, nay, there were other possibilities. Immediately, he closed his eyes, hoping for “other possibilities.” He was too weak to engage in any vigorous activity, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t enjoy laying back for a few lustful…possibilities.

  He tried to regulate his breathing to emulate sleep, a hard task when she was lathering up his neck and shoulders and—Oh, my God!—his chest. He did have a fondness for touching…both being touched and doing the touching himself. There was an art to good touching. Alinor was an artist, if he did say so himself…or she would be once he’d given her the advanced tutelage of a touch master.

  She used a damp, soapy cloth to wash his neck and shoulders, wiping the area off with the same cloth, which had been rinsed and wrung out. But she worked the soap into his chest hairs with her fingertips, over his flat nipples, skimming his abdomen and waist, over and into his navel.

  He bit his bottom lip to hold back a moan. ’Twas a good thing his private parts were covered with a breechclout. Else he would, no doubt, scare her with the size of his appreciation.

  She finished with the palate of skin from collarbone to groin, much too soon. But then she entered a different territory. Carefully raising his arms overhead, she began to lather the hair in his surprisingly sensitive armpits. He almost shot up off the bed at the intense pleasure her fingertips brought there. To be sure, he was going to make her play in that newly discovered erotic spot once they made love.

  And there was no doubt in his mind that they would be making love sometime soon. She owed him.

  Yea, he could picture the scene. He would be lying on the bed, naked, with his arms folded behind his head. She would be straddling his waist, naked. Or should she be lying on her side, naked? Regardless, he would have his arms upraised, and she would lower her head to kiss and suckle first one nipple, then another. He would have his eyes closed the whole time because he’d want to prolong the anticipation. That was another thing women loved about him…how he prolonged the anticipation. In any case, after she’d nigh melted his bones by suckling on his nipples, she, still naked, would trail soft kisses up to his armpits where she would…

  Nay, nay, nay, he had a better idea. She could be wearing that little harem outfit he’d gifted her, and every time she moved, there would be a tiny jingling of bells.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered.

  Uh-oh. Had his heart lurched against his chest walls with all these imaginings? Or had he inadvertently grinned? He didn’t think she’d noticed the tentpole in his breechclout. Otherwise, she would have no doubt slapped him with her damp washcloth. But wait till he got her naked. Then her goose was cooked…so to speak. Or was it her chicken that would be cooked? In all humility, she wouldn’t be able to resist him, naked…her naked, not him…well, actually, both of them.

  “Are you awake?” she repeated softly.

  He said nothing to her question, just moaned softly, as if in deep sleep. He planned to do a great deal more moaning sometime later, and she would be moaning, too. That was one of his greatest talents, making a woman moan. And prolonging anticipation. And…well, he misremembered all his bedsport talents now, but there were plenty of them. He could scarce wait to hear how a witch moaned. Or would a witch howl? He shrugged mentally. Moan, howl…either one would suffice. He planned to roar, himself. And moan and howl. And those other things he couldn’t remember.

  But wait, there were interesting events taking place whilst his mind had been wandering. Alinor had flipped the bed furs up to cover his chest and stomach, exposing his legs. She was using the cloth to wash the furred skin from loins to toes. He called on every bit of self-control his battered body still held in store as she skimmed the tense muscles of his inner thighs. A good warrior, forced to ride unruly destriers into battle, soon honed those inner thigh muscles, and with honing came heightened sensitivity. The unbelievably intense pleasure her soapy caresses engendered caused him to clench his fists and grit his teeth, but he could not stop a certain part of his body from rising to the occasion. Never had his staff felt so hard and long. Never had it throbbed with such wonderful pain.

  But then her fingers worked in the lather, rather than the cloth, and that was his undoing. Much more, and he would humiliate himself.

  With a roar of protest, oblivious to the pain in his head, he sat upright and shoved her hands aside. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”

  She blinked at him with surprise. “You’re awake.”

  “Yea, I’m awake. I would have to be a cadaver not to revive after all that prodding and poking.”

  “Prodding and poking?” she exclaimed indignantly.

  “Blessed Lord, Alinor, were you using a washup as an excuse for finding every blessed erotic spot on my body?”

  “Erotic spot? What’s an erotic spot?”

  He couldn’t help himself. He began to laugh. When he finally calmed down, he informed her, “Everyone—man and woman alike—has erotic spots on their bodies. Plac
es that are especially susceptible to excitement. Some have more than others. Some have them in very…uh, different spots. The inner thighs are among my particular favorites, as you very well discovered. I thank you not to torture me so…leastways, not till I am well enough to follow through on your invitation.” He smiled at her to soften the blow of his criticism.

  She frowned, and he could tell that she did not really understand his words. A widow three times over, and she was naive as a virgin farm girl.

  “Why, you ungrateful cad! Where is your appreciation for all my ministrations these past three days? Where is your thanks for my taking on the odious task of bathing your body? Where is…”

  Her words trailed off as her eyes latched onto his midsection. He cupped his hands over himself, but it was too late. She’d seen enough. She narrowed her eyes at him, then began whacking him all over with her wet washcloth…his shoulders, his arms, his legs, his “tentpole.” The whole time, she was berating him, “As if I would deliberately tempt you…or any other man! You lecherous lout! You odious oaf! You perverted puddinghead! You—”

  She drew herself up suddenly, as if realizing the impropriety of beating a sick man.

  He pushed his luck just a mite too far when he inquired with a grin, “Does that mean you’re not going to finish bathing me?” He looked pointedly down at a part of his body that would really, really like to be bathed by her soft woman hands.

  She answered by storming out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Instantly, the door opened again, and she was the one grinning now, except the grin never reached her flashing green, evil eyes.

  “I showed Rurik my tail today.”

  “Really?” He grinned, never having believed that tail nonsense.

  “If you’re not careful, Viking, I’m going to show you my tail—and a whole lot more.” Then she slammed the door again.

  I’m counting on it, witchling. With all my being, I am counting on it.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a cozy, familiar scene that met Tykir’s eyes as he made his way carefully to the great hall the next afternoon, to the warm greetings of his men.

  The burly warriors and seamen, dressed in leather tunics and braies, huddled close to the three roaring hearths for warmth as wind whistled through the closed shutters of narrow, arrow-slit windows. Other heartier souls, covered with cloaks of wolf, sealskin, bear and fox, sat about the hall in small groups. Some of them were drinking mead and playing dice, while others polished swords and armor. Two men in the corner squinted and cursed as they painstakingly sewed a tear in one of the longship sails spread over a trestle table.

  From the kitchen came the chattering voices of house carls and maids at gossip and the delicious scent of meat roasting on a spit. Tykir sniffed several times. Not chicken, thank the gods! Probably reindeer.

  He sauntered over to Rurik, who was whittling shards of wood off a chunk of oak and forming them into crosses on leather neck thongs. Tykir shook his head in amusement at his friend, who appeared to be amassing a fortune off the back of Lady Alinor…or rather her tail.

  Tykir was still chuckling over the tale Rurik had regaled him with the night before in his bedchamber, something about a grand jest the witch had played on him involving an eel skin. He had to give the lady her due. He had not thought she had a bit of humor in her bones.

  Bolthor, who’d accompanied Rurik to Tykir’s room, had then burst into a new saga:

  “Slippery and slimy

  The rascal was…

  The eel,

  Not the blue-faced warrior.

  But the witch was

  Smarter than both of them.

  For she got the last laugh.”

  “I swear, Bolthor, someone is going to slice off your tongue one of these days,” Rurik had raged. “Your sagas get worse and worse. And I’d better not hear that particular one being recited belowstairs. I’ll not be the jest of any more of your stories.”

  “Why should you be any different than the rest of us?” Tykir had remarked with a chuckle.

  But now Tykir was making his first trip downstairs since his illness began. His fever was gone, and his leg felt better than it had in years…flexible and pain-free. He supposed he had the witch to thank for that.

  “Where is she?” he asked Rurik as he dropped down to the bench beside him.

  “Well and good you should ask!” Rurik growled and continued with his whittling.

  A maid handed Tykir a cup of mulled ale, along with a trencher piled high with several slices of flat bread and some skyr. At least it was not gammelost, he thought, though he would not tell the Saxon wench that he, too, was sick of the smelly fare. Then he berated himself for always thinking about the wench. She was ever on his mind these many days, and he did not know why, nor care at all for the obsession.

  “Where is she?” he repeated to Rurik.

  “Walking.”

  “Walking? Where? The parapets?”

  “Nay, not the parapets. That would be the choice of a normal woman.”

  A long silence followed. “Well, speak up, man. Where is she walking?”

  “Around the lake.”

  “The lake! ’Tis colder than a witch’s tit out there.” He immediately realized the fitting nature of his choice of words when Rurik slanted him a look of approval and said, “Indeed!”

  “Really, Rurik! Lady Alinor could get lost, or freeze to death in these strange surroundings.”

  “Oh, that we would be so lucky!” He continued his infernal whittling and added, “Beast is with her. Of course, Beast is always with her. The animal is no longer my pet. In truth, he gives me the same condescending, I-am-better-than-thou looks as the witch when he passes by. Furthermore, Beast laid a pile of dung in my bedchamber yestereve after I yelled at the witch for her eel prank. Methinks it was deliberate.”

  Tykir put a hand over his mouth to hide an unbidden smile. But, actually, Rurik’s continual criticism of Alinor was starting to annoy him. Not that Alinor didn’t annoy him, too. But it was not Rurik’s place to…well, never mind. He cut those wayward thoughts short and took a long drink of mead. Once he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he commented, “I have been thinking…I am not so sure the Lady Alinor really is a witch.”

  “Easy for you to say! You have been lying abed these many days whilst she conjured up trouble hither and yon.”

  “Like what?” he scoffed.

  “The chicken soup, for one.”

  He laughed. “Mayhap she was overzealous in her cooking, but her intentions were pure. And Girta tells me it cured the sniffles amongst the men, and helped bring my fever down.”

  “Girta is under the witch’s spell, too.” Rurik’s mulish expression reminded Tykir of a little boy’s stubborn whining. Next he would be sticking out his lower lip and pouting.

  Rurik stuck out his lower lip and pouted. “’Tis true.”

  Tykir grinned. Then, more sober, he lectured, “Rurik! ’Tis unlike you to accuse someone without just cause.”

  “Well, mayhap Girta is not really ensorcelled, but there have been strange happenings. Inga, down in the village, gave birth to triplets. Three girls! Explain that.”

  Tykir nodded, giving serious consideration to Rurik’s charge. “Dropping three babes at once is a rare occurrence, but not unheard of. And ’tis true, many a man would be disappointed in having not one girl child, but three. I suppose it could be within a witch’s power to influence the birthing, but I cannot be certain ’twas Alinor’s doing.”

  “She is e’er interfering in men’s work and play.”

  “Like?”

  “Like this morn, we men were engaged in a mere contest. The witch raised such a to-do amongst the women, we had to disband for all the shrieking.”

  “A mere contest?” Really, ’twas like pulling a plow-horse out of a bog to get a clear answer from Rurik.

  “Oh, if you insist! ’Twas a pissing contest…who could spell the foulest word in the shortest time in the new fallen
snow. Now, is that such a bad thing that the Lady Alinor would fly into a rage? Is that any reason for Girta to call me a crude oaf? It could have been called a learning situation…those who can read and write teaching those who cannot.”

  Tykir choked on his ale and spit out a shower onto the table as he attempted to swallow and laugh at the same time. When he finally wiped his mouth and the table with a linen cloth, he gave Rurik a level look. “Methinks you need to find a life-purpose. Methinks you dwell too much on a witch who is not a witch because you are idle too much. Methinks Girta is correct…you are a crude oaf. Methinks there is no proof of witchcraft, Rurik. Face that fact and get on with it.”

  “Nay, my friend. You are the one not facing facts. Those are only a few of the witch’s crimes.”

  He exhaled loudly, then waved Rurik on. “Proceed.”

  “Three of the maids have refused to service us men, even though they always did in the past. Those that will are barley-faced and stiff as sticks in the bed straw. ’Tis like swiving a loaf of bread.”

  “Come now, Rurik. ’Tis a maid’s prerogative whether she wants to sate a man’s lust or not. Leastways, that has always been the rule at Dragonstead. You cannot blame that on a witch.”

  “Yea, I can.”

  “If Alinor interfered in that regard, it was no doubt as a high-born lady, not a witch. We have become accustomed to living the rough life here for overlong. My sister-by-marriage, Lady Eadyth, would have advised her female servants much the same, and you know it.”

  “Why do you defend the witch, Tykir?”

  “I do not defend her. I am trying to be fair.”

  “Well, you cannot say that the witch is not responsible for interfering in the planned wedding of Bodil the Ripe and her intended, Rapp.”