The Bewitched Viking

by Sandra Hill

  Well, mayhap she would feel differently if she was as beauteous as Eadyth, with her luxurious silver-blond hair lying wimpleless about her shoulders under a gossamer-thin headrail of palest lavender, held in place by a gold circlet of twisted flowers. Her headrail matched her misty violet eyes and her darker lavender gunna, which was embroidered at the edges in the orphrey style with gold thread.

  Then, too, she might feel differently if she'd ever been wed to a man as young and roguishly handsome as Eadyth's husband, Eirik, who was a few years older than his brother Tykir. God's mercy! He was a sight to behold, with his black hair and blue eyes, bedecked in a deep blue wool tunic over black braies, belted at the waist. A short mantle was pinned back off one shoulder with a most unusual gold brooch in the form of a twisted dragon with amber eyes.

  Tykir made a coughing noise, recalling her attention to him. " 'Tis not polite to ogle another woman's spouse."

  "I was not ogling. I just wondered how such a comely man as Lord Eirik could have such a homely troll as you for a brother."

  "Some women like my looks." The grin on his face told Alinor how much he cared whether she considered him ugly or not. And she had to admit that even with a blackened eye and bruised nose, he was far from ugly.

  "Some women cannot see past a man's money pouch. And speaking of looks, I would appreciate it if you would stop looking at me in that manner." She said this in an undertone. Ever since he'd come barging into Gyda's bedchamber, he'd been staring at her in the strangest way. And smiling.

  "What manner?" he asked with a knowing chuckle.

  She must have spoken louder than she realized because Rurik, who sat on the other side of Tykir, leaned forward around the buxom Viking maid who sat on his lap and commented, "Yea, Tykir, you have been gaping at the witch like a tasty sweet from a sultan's harem. Are you drunkkinn?"

  "Not yet," Tykir said, taking another long swig of mead from his cup, his eyes holding Alinor's the entire time. No man had ever looked at her in quite that way before, and she found it discomfiting.

  Even more annoying was Tykir's appearance. No man should be so beautiful. Or so rascally.

  He was wearing a buttery brown tunic of the softest wool over a pair of dark brown braies. The star-shaped amber pendant hung by a gold chain against his chest. She assumed that he had bathed in the palace bathhouse that afternoon because the flaxen strands in his light brown hair glistened, resembling threads of spun gold. One side of his hair was braided so that his thunderbolt earring was exposed, as it had been the first time she had seen him. His sword was in the scabbard at his hip, and his sable-lined cloak lay on the bench, on his other side. Tykir winked at her.

  And Alinor wished she could sink into the rushes to hide her mortification. It was one thing to be caught ogling Eirik of Ravenshire, but quite another unacceptable thing to be caught ogling the troll.

  "You must not let the witch cast her spells on you, Tykir," Rurik warned. "Are you still wearing your cross?"

  In answer, Tykir pulled the wooden cross on a leather thong from inside his tunic and settled it on his chest next to the amber pendant.

  "Well, if you are going to take risks by engaging in eye contact with a witch, you must exercise every precaution." Before anyone realized what he was about, Rurik stood, dropping his lap companion unceremoniously to the floor. She shrieked with outrage before scurrying off indignantly.

  Annoyed at the interruption, Beast shifted in the rushes at his master's feet, growled, then immediately went back to sleep.

  Still standing, Rurik pulled a vial out of a flap in his tunic and commenced to sprinkle holy water all over Tykir. Except that he was feeling the effects of about a tun of mead, and the water came out in a splash, instead of a sprinkle, all over Tykir's meticulously groomed hair and forehead.

  "Bloody hell, Rurik! I'm not bewitched... well, I probably am bewitched... but not because of some dark spell." He stood abruptly, forcing Alinor to stand as well, and shook his head like a shaggy dog, thus causing her and everyone else around them to be anointed as well.

  "What do you mean?" Rurik asked. "Bewitched, you say, but not by the witch's spell?"

  Yea, I truly am in Viking hell. Or a Viking madhouse.

  "I saw the Lady Alinor... naked," Tykir confessed, as if that was any explanation at all.

  Everyone gawked at Tykir in shock, not the least of all Alinor. Quickly regaining her wits, she swung her free arm in a fist to land on the lackbrain's chest. It was like hitting a stone wall. The man didn't even flinch.

  "What?" He put his free hand up in surrender.

  "You're not supposed to tell people that."

  "I'm not?"

  "Most definitely not."

  "You can look at my nude body if you like," he offered magnanimously. "Then we will be even."

  "You are drunk," she accused.

  "Nay, I am not."

  "Well, what does that signify?" Rurik wanted to know. "Seeing a nude witch... I have seen such, as you well know."

  As one, everyone stared at his blue face marking in sympathy, including Bolthor, who'd just come up and sat next to Alinor. He'd been off with the Nubian slave girl, for the fourth time that evening, by Alinor's count.

  "That design appears to be made by woad, much like the Scottish warriors adorn themselves with in battle," Eadyth remarked, "but I have never known it to stay permanently."

  " Tis not just woad. The dye had essence of zephline mixed with it, I warrant," Alinor observed, flicking at some crumbs on the table in front of her.

  "You... you know how to remove this mark?" Rurik sputtered incredulously. "You are a witch, then."

  "Nay, I'm not a witch. I am a shepherdess and weaver, with a talent for dying fabrics. In truth, I make the best wool fabric in all Northumbria."

  Eirik let out a whoop of laughter.

  Eadyth jabbed him with her elbow. "Behave yourself, husband."

  "My wife has spouted similar such modest claims on occasion," Eirik elaborated.

  Eadyth clucked her disapproval at Eirik and explained to Alinor, "I make the best mead and honey in all Northumbria."

  Rurik cared not about wool or mead or honey, however. "Can you remove the mark, witch?" he demanded impatiently of Alinor.

  "Mayhap I can, and mayhap I cannot."

  "Mayhap I can lop off your head, and mayhap I cannot," was Rurik's response as he made a low, primitive sound of outrage. He would have jumped over Tykir, to decapitate her no doubt, if her rope-mate had not raised a hand in caution.

  Grumbling with frustration, Rurik stopped a passing house carl and took another jug of ale from his tray. "And you find attraction in this bitch... I mean, witch?" He took a long draw, from the jug, then swiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

  "I never said I was attracted," Tykir protested.

  The harsh sentiments smarted, and she could not keep her face from heating up.

  "Tykir! I'm disappointed in you," Eadyth remonstrated. "Surely you above all others know to look beneath the surface. Remember the lecture you gave your own brother at our wedding feast about good Viking men knowing how to judge a woman fairly?"

  "Del er ikke gull alt som glimmer," Eirik added, nodding his head in agreement. "All that glitters is not gold. And some of the glitter you have been sniffing after of late has the lackluster of brass, if you ask me."

  "I do not recall asking you," Tykir said huffily. "And 'tis unfair of Eadyth to remind me of things I said seven years ago."

  Alinor cringed and felt like putting her face on the table. She abhorred the idea that these people were discussing her as if she was not there... as if she was of no significance.

  "All I said was that I had seen the witch naked," Tykir objected. "And it was a surprise. A big surprise." He rolled his eyes in emphasis.

  "Oh! I am beginning to understand, Tykir. Did you finally see the tail?" Rurik said those last words in a whisper... the inference being that if he spoke aloud she might do something witchly, like levitate and ride o
ut of the Norse castle on a broom or a black cat.

  Dumber than dung, the whole lot of them!

  Just then, an older Viking nobleman could be seen approaching their table. He was accompanied by a finely garbed woman—a Saxon would be her guess, by her mode of dress—and a daughter of no more than fifteen years... a girl of passing fair appearance, buxom and pretty.

  "Oh-ho, you are truly snared now, Tykir," his brother teased. "Earl Orm and his lady have been trying to contrive a marriage betwixt you and his youngest daughter, Eneda, for the past two years."

  "You could have warned me," Tykir mumbled but stood as a courtesy when the nobleman stepped closer with his family.

  He must have forgotten that his left hand was bound to Alinor's right because he raised his arm in greeting, which caused her arm to raise as well, like a puppet. And as he gesticulated while talking with a wave here and a wave there, Alinor's arm was forced to follow suit. In the end, she grumbled with disgust, tugged on his wrist in reminder and stood beside him.

  Tykir had the nerve to wink at her. Apparently, he had remembered their bound hands the whole time and chosen to embarrass her. The troll!

  She saw the lips of Lord Orm's wife flatten with disdain as she noted their tied wrists.

  The young girl, though, twittered shyly with a hand fluttering coyly to her face. Clearly, she would favor this union, if it could be arranged. Her mother was not so predisposed, if her clenched fists were any indication.

  And Alinor noticed something else. The woman was as condescending in her demeanor to Eadyth as she was to her. Eadyth caught Alinor's eye and pulled a face to show her opinion of the haughty lady.

  Alinor startled herself by feeling an unaccustomed roil of annoyance at the fuss Tykir was making now over the young girl. Could it be jealousy?

  Nay. Never.

  Mayhap.

  I'm losing my mind.

  When the couple and their marriageable daughter walked away, finally, with Tykir's promise of a visit to their Northumbrian estate sometime soon, Tykir sat down with a long sigh, dragging Alinor with him. "Whew," he said.

  His family and friends were grinning at his discomfort.

  "So, would you like my help in finding a bride gift for the fair Eneda?" Eadyth inquired cheerily.

  "Not bloody likely," Tykir responded, taking a long gulp from his cup of mead.

  "Tell me," Alinor deliberately paused, "would you be taking a wet nurse with you to the bridal bed?"

  Everyone laughed at that, except Tykir.

  "Are you saying I'm too old for the maid?"

  Alinor gave him a look that said, "What do you think?" But then she had to concede, "Actually, I was her age when I was first wed. And my husband was a bit older than you."

  "How much older?"

  "He was five and sixty."

  Tykir began to choke on his ale. "A bit? A bit? I am only five and thirty."

  "Ah, well," Alinor declared with a shrug, "men do deteriorate quickly. 'Tis why they buy young wives, to put on a false front to the world that they are still virile."

  Tykir's face flushed with affront.

  Eadyth reached across the table and patted Alinor's hand. "I am developing a fondness for you, Alinor. You and I appear to be cut of the same cloth."

  "You must admit that the maid had a fine set of breasts," Rurik commented with his usual crude bluntness.

  "Rurik! Mind your tongue in the presence of ladies," Eirik cautioned.

  Rurik ducked his head. In truth, the wretch was so often in the company of men that he probably forgot himself. And Alinor didn't mind all that much. She'd heard much worse in the company of Egbert and Hebert's troops.

  But she quickly changed her mind when Rurik added, "Do not be gloating so, Tykir. You were the one back at Graycote who said that the Lady Alinor had a chest so flat her breasts probably resembled two eggs on a hot rock."

  It was Tykir who chastised Rurik now. "Such talk is not becoming amongst ladies, Rurik." To Alinor and Eadyth, he apologized for Rurik by saying, " 'Tis just the mead talking."

  "Did you say that?" Alinor blurted out, and immediately wished she could take back the words.

  Tykir shrugged. "Mayhap. But if I did, I have surely changed my mind."

  "I never have been able to understand a man's over-fascination with the female breast," Alinor opined, before she had a chance to bite her tongue. "Really, if you men are so fascinated by that particular portion of the female anatomy, I have a good milk cow with a fine set of udders that would no doubt set you to drooling."

  Rurik reared up, as if he would strangle her.

  Bolthor held him back, chuckling.

  Tykir saluted her in congratulation for having won this particular bout of cross-wills.

  Meanwhile Eirik and Eadyth were laughing heartily.

  Eadyth wiped tears of mirth from her eyes with the edge of her headrail. "Yea, Alinor, I do believe you would suit."

  She didn't say for what precisely Alinor would suit. Still, her words heartened Alinor.

  But then, their attention was drawn to another quarter.

  "Wouldst look at that," Eirik said suddenly, pointing to the high table, where a group of Saxon nobles were talking animatedly to the king and his castellan. "The nerve of the villains!"

  It was Egbert, Hebert and Cedric, along with a few of their high-born associates.

  Alinor groaned.

  " 'Tis naught of concern." Tykir waved a hand airily in voicing that opinion. "The king told me earlier that Alinor's brothers are protesting her abduction to the Saxon King Edred."

  Alinor should have known that her brothers would not give up so easily. "That's Edred's Northumbrian toady, Earl Oswulf, who is addressing Eric Bloodaxe's son Maccus over there to the side," she informed them.

  Everyone gawked at her with surprise, wondering how she would know such.

  "Edred is my cousin."

  "The king of England?" Eirik exclaimed and gave a reproving glare at his brother.

  "Oh, Tykir!" Eadyth said on a sigh. "When will you learn to exercise caution?"

  "You didn't tell me that the king of all bloody Britain, excepting Northumbria, was your cousin," Tykir accused her.

  "Well, he's my cousin thrice-removed," Alinor amended.

  "That makes me feel better," Tykir said with dry humor.

  "Once, twice, thrice... it matters not. King Edred will surely send an army to rescue one of his kin," Eadyth insisted on a wail of dismay. "What have you gotten us into, Tykir?"

  Alinor would have liked to rub the salt of their disapproval into Tykir's wounds, but she had to be honest. "I have no illusions about Edred's motive in helping me... if in fact that is what's happening. Edred isn't much older than me, you know, and I have five and twenty years. But the king is so weak of digestion at times that he can swallow only the juices of food he has masticated, to the great revulsion of his guests. 'Tis a disease that afflicts many in the House of Wessex."

  "Well, thank you for the fine saga," Tykir said sarcastically. "Is there a point? Or an ending?"

  Alinor shot the troll a sideways scowl and continued. "While I might sympathize with Edred's maladies, I am not so naive as to believe my cousin exercises familial concern. There are two sides to Edred, as most Englishmen know. He is a devoutly religious man who suffers his bodily pain with stoic acceptance. His palace in many ways is a school of virtue. On the other hand, he can be brutal as... well, as a barbaric Viking."

  Alinor got a number of glowers for that remark, including from Eadyth. Though a Saxon herself, she clearly defended her half-Norse husband and his countrymen.

  "Recently, Edred destroyed the entire town of Thetford just to avenge the death of the local abbot. Every man, woman and child," Alinor said, in explaining the king's brutal side.

  The question was: Which side was Edred acting from today?

  Edred's emissary could help her, if he wanted. Of that there was no doubt. But was she important enough? What were Egbert and Hebert, or even Cedric
, offering in return?

  Alinor's heart lurched with sudden hopefulness, but then an odd depression settled over her. She was betwixt and between in this situation. Two choices, and both of them bad. Be rescued by her brothers and end up with—what was it Tykir had called him—yea, she remembered now... the lord of Lard. Or be carried off to some heathen land to face a Viking king who expected her to remove a nonexistent spell.

  Tykir squeezed her hand. "Never fear, Lady Alinor. The king won't interfere in my business. He plays with your brothers and the Saxon king's emissary. He will bleed as much coin in ransom from them as he can, but in the end you are mine."

  You are mine.

  What a disconcerting thing to say! A shiver ran through her body from head to toe. If he meant to reassure her, he was sadly misguided. Especially since one of Eric Bloodaxe's house carls came up and notified them that the king wished to speak with Tykir Thorksson and his captive, the Lady Alinor. Soon Tykir, Alinor, Eirik, Eadyth, Rurik and Bolthor were walking toward the dais in a group.

  "Like a swarm of bees, we are," Eadyth said under her breath.

  "You should know, dearling. You should know," Eirik told his wife, with a pat on her rump.

  Her squeal of consternation was drowned by the din of hundreds of revelers enjoying the feast.

  Alinor had been in this very hall years ago with her second husband, and it actually looked much better now. The Vikings were great ones for decorating their door and window surrounds, not to mention the roof beams, with intricate carvings. And the Vikings themselves were certainly an attractive lot, with their colorful clothing, magnificent jewelry and meticulously groomed hair and beards. These were a people taller than the average Saxon, and cleaner, too. No wonder so many Saxon men and women fell in love with their Norse counterparts.

  All these observations Alinor made as they moved along the aisle separating the long trestle tables. Their passage was barely noticed, except for a few guests who huddled their heads together, whispering and pointing at Alinor's nether end.