by Sandra Hill
As he walked off to assist the helmsman maneuvering the tiller on the steering oar, Alinor had to agree with him. These long, slim ships, with their carved prows and big, single square sails of red and black stripes, were works of art, as well as being functional... a credit to some of the finest craftsmen in the world. The oaken vessels were low in the center, rising gracefully like a swan's neck at prow and stern, soaring high above the waves. They were light in weight—in fact, they could be lifted overhead by the men for portage on reaching stretches of dry riverbeds—yet the ships sailed equally well in shallow waters or rough seas. Rich carvings in the form of intertwining dragon beasts etched the sides of Tykir's ships where the black and yellow battle shields of the warriors hung majestically on the outer edge. Those colors, and red as well, were picked out on the carved dragon heads that embellished the prows, as if the fierce animals were leading a bold path through the dangerous seawaters.
The crew, tanned by the sun and burned by the wind, their clothing stained with salt, were brawny examples of prime manhood. The sailors had to have dexterity to step adroitly about the moving ship, where two men sat on personal seachests at each of the sixteen oar holes lined up on either side of the ship—one to row and the other to spell. At the same time, great strength was needed to raise the long mast and to row in a continuous, backbreaking rhythm.
One of the smaller Norsemen, a nimble-footed lad, was performing a feat he'd done on one other occasion... dancing over the ocean atop the shafts of the spears. It was a contest the bored seamen engaged in on occasion, betting to see who could perform the oar dance without falling into the salty depths.
Alinor had to smile. It was a beautiful day, just as Tykir had said. There weren't many occasions on which Alinor had the free time to just sit back and admire God's nature around her.
But what she did, instead, was start to weep. First one tear, then another escaped her brimming eyes. With a muffled sob, Alinor used the hem of Tykir's cloak to wipe her cheek. But no sooner did she sop up one tear than another replaced it.
It was untenable. Alinor did not cry. Long ago, when she was no more than eight or so, she'd realized that tears colored her eyes with gold, glistening with wetness. Remarkable, really, how beautiful her eyes were in a face mottled with those ugly freckles.
"En me mjg falleg augu," he murmured. "You have very beautiful eyes." Now, why would I feel the need to tell her that?
"What did you say?"
"Your eyes are crossed," he lied. "When you weep, your eyes look crossed." Her beautiful eyes set on him, but not with sorrow. He suspected that she got so few compliments in her life that his rude criticism rang with with her. No doubt her One-God exercised fairness in giving the woman one single mark of beauty to make up for all those other less beauteous attributes.
But, nay, that wasn't quite true. There were other attributes. Like that naked body he had seen. Nay, nay, nay! I promised myself not to think about that. "Not crying? My lady, you are making more water than a war horse. Soon we will have to bail out the bilge again." He thought she would smile at that jest, though her smiles were infrequent, and reserved only for Bolthor, or for her bloody sheep. Mayhap that was what caused her sudden dispirit. She missed her sheep.
"Do you miss your familiars?"
"My what?"
"Familiars. Don't all witches have familiars?" He felt rather silly now and could feel his face heat up.
"And my familiars would be... ?"
He hated that superior attitude she exhibited betimes. Like now. "Sheep."
"Sheep?" Stunned, she blinked at him.
No doubt his perception stunned her. Perchance if he made a baaing sound that would cheer her up. Better yet, he could butt her derriere like that randy ram of hers.
He couldn't help but grin at that.
"Stop smirking. I am not crying. I never cry. 'Twas just the wind. Furthermore, you have strange objects rattling about in your skull if you think my sheep are familiars."
"Your freckles are growing." Now where did that half-brained observation come from? Humph! I guess I'm just trying to avoid noticing those magnificent eyes. Or thinking about her naked. Nay, nay, nay! I have wiped that image from my mind.
"What nonsense do you speak now? Do you think to disconcert me with your idle remarks? Well, you can forget about that nonsense. I care not if you like my freckles or not."
Truly, your tongue wags more than a puppy under the high table at a drunken feast, my lady blabberer... rather, blubberer. "I am wounded at your unjust criticism, my lady. What I meant was that your freckles grow larger when you blubber... or leastways, they appear to do so when your nose reddens and your face splotches up." Well, I feel better now.
"You are a troll."
"So you have said afore." Leastways, she must be feeling better, if sniping at him caused her to stop sniveling. Tykir puffed out his chest with pride. He ever did have a talent for brightening the spirits of fair maidens. Not that she was fair, but... "Just so you stop your watery show. It bothers my men."
She suggested he do something to himself that he knew for a fact was nigh impossible. And she said his bothered men could bloody well join him in the exercise. He put a hand over his heart with exaggerated shock. "I have never heard a high-born lady use such words afore. Of course, you are a high-born lady witch; mayhap the rules of your society are different."
"Go away," she said with a slump of the shoulders.
He hated it when she slumped her shoulders. It made him feel as if he was responsible for her woes, which he was not.
Instead of going away, he hunkered down in front of her, his forearms resting on his widespread knees. Instinctively, she shifted her body so they were not touching.
That annoyed him. So, of course, he moved in closer. Now his inner knees bracketed her tightly closed thighs, under the enveloping cloak. His cloak, by the by, he noted with a clutch of unreasonable warmth that she was wearing his garment. Almost as if she were under his protective shield.
Nay, nay, nay. She is a mere captive. To be delivered and be done with. Do not get involved, Tykir. But he was never one to listen to good advice, especially his own. "Tell me why you weep," he urged.
"I was not weeping," she said with a break in her voice. "But if I were... weeping... which I'm not... I well, I have good cause, do you not think?"
"And why, pray tell, is that?"
Alinor wore no wimple or headrail today, but her rust-colored tresses, held in place by a braided silk cord around her forehead, did not fly about, as was their norm, because she had taken to using a pomade that Eadyth had given her, causing her hair to lay in gentle waves. The rose fragrance of the cream wafted out to him in delicate enticement.
"Why are you sniffing like a hedgehog?"
That brought him back to reality with a rude jolt. Lopping off her head was gaining more and more appeal. Or, leastways, lopping off her tongue.
"And would you mind moving?" she snapped, trying unsuccessfully to shuffle backwards, away from his legs' embrace. "You are blocking the sun."
He smiled at that. He was a large man, but not that big.
"Lady, you avoid my question. Why would you have good cause to weep?"
"I was not—"
He held a forefinger to her lips to prevent her further protestations.
A big mistake, that. Touching her body. Her lips parted with surprise under his finger, which lingered in place. And he noticed for the first time that her lips were full and puffy. And kiss-some, truth be told. Furthermore, they were raspberry-colored, just like her nipples.
Aaarrrgh! Forget I thought that. 'Twas a mistake. I have forgotten entirely how the wench looks naked. It has been so long since I've seen a raspberry, I no longer even remember how they look, or taste. Taste? Bloody hell!
'Oh, good Lord, not that again!" she said, swatting his finger away.
"What?"
"You are staring at me naked, again."
"I am not," he lied.
"
Yea, you are, and I will not stand for it."
He wondered how she could stop him. In truth, he would like to know so he could stop himself. Then his reckless tongue took on a mind of its own. "My lady, do you deliberately remind me of your raspberry nipples, which match your raspberry lips, by the by, to avoid speaking of your tears?"
"And to think I was envisioning you as my guardian angel!"
Now, that remark surprised him. The woman did have a knack for catching him off-guard. "What? Who? Me? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Yea, it is humorous, isn't it?"
"Humorous? It is preposterous." He thought a moment. "Why is it so preposterous? Dost think there are no Vikings in your heaven? Dost think we have no godliness in us? Dost think you Christians hold the rights to goodness? Dost forget that many of us Vikings practice both the Norse and Christian religions?"
Her mouth gaped open with incredulity at his vehement words. Her lips were not quite so kiss-some when sucking air like a North Sea puff fish. Thank the gods!
"What? You want to be my guardian angel?" she asked, once she'd clicked her teeth shut.
"Nay, I do not want to be your guardian angel. I do not want to be your... anything." Now, that was a near mistake. He'd almost said that he did not want to be her lover, which was a lie, he admitted to himself now. Yea, ever since he'd seen her naked, the thought of wetting his wand... rather, whetting his sword... at least once... had been hovering in his head like a tiresome headache. Once? Hell, in his mind pictures he was wetting and whetting endlessly.
"It was a foolish notion, I admit."
What is she talking about? I am so busy thinking about sex I've lost the thread of her talk. Now I remember. Angels, that was it. She thinks I'm her guardian angel, of all things. "Aha! So that is why you wept. They were tears of relief that your One-God had sent you the most handsome, bravest, perfect guardian angel." I swear, my tongue has gained a mind of its own.
"Are you really as lackwitted as you appear betimes?"
Yea. "No more lackwitted than you... that you would insult a fierce warrior as you do, constantly."
" "Tis just that you provide so many instances of idiocy."
"Aaarrrgh! Your head must be like a pond and your thoughts like little frogs, jumping from one lily pad to another."
"How poetic!"
He made a low, snarling sound of exasperation. "Could you just once finish one subject before hop-hop-hopping to another?"
"If you insist," she said demurely. What a farce! The woman wouldn't recognize demure if it smacked her in the middle of her freckled forehead. "What would you like to know?"
"Why did you think I was your guardian angel?"
"Well, not precisely a guardian angel," she amended. "More like a protector sent by God."
"Sounds like a guardian angel to me," he argued.
She waved a hand dismissively. "Leastways, this was my logic... "
Logic and women are an impossible contradiction.
"... you know how some people believe that if you save a person's life, they are forever beholden to you? Well, I was thinking that mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me to—"
"Anlaf sent me for you. Last time I checked he was no way close to being a god."
"Stop interrupting me, you clod."
"Tsk-tsk. Is that any way to speak to your guardian angel?"
She made a scowly face at him, which made her resemble an angry rooster. Not an attractive picture.
"As I was saying .. . mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me, by way of King Anlaf, so that you could rescue me from my brothers' latest outrage. In truth, I suspect He sent King Anlaf to that Northumbria nunnery in the first place to set His plan in motion. And further, I was thinking that mayhap you are now responsible for protecting me. So, really, I should not be worried anymore about what will happen to me in Trondelag because you will be there as my personal... well, Viking angel." She flashed him a brilliant smile of satisfaction at her deduction.
Incredible! The gall of the woman! "And that is why you wept?"
"Yea, in relief." She shifted her eyes, avoiding direct contact, and he suspected she twisted the truth more than a bit.
He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed out the furrows. "First off, methinks you think too much. Second, you surely jest if you say your One-God sent Anlaf a crooked cock in order to lure me to your side. Third, I am in no way responsible for your safety. Get that through your muddled head. Once I deliver you to Anlaf, I am done with you. And, finally, do not for one minute think of me as an angel, Viking or otherwise. Believe me when I tell you that I have led a less than saintly past, and believe me when I say that the picture of you, naked, in my head does not prompt visions of me flapping my wings about you in protection. More like I am flapping another body part, in you."
She gasped at his crudity.
Good. 'Tis best to set the witch straight from the start.
"You... are... a... troll." It was a favorite refrain of hers.
"Well, then, just call me Saint Troll."
"I don't care what you say. You won't abandon me to some wretched king who might... who might—"
"Lop off your head?" he offered.
"Yea."
"You have the wrong opinion of me, my lady. The wrong opinion, by far. I know I jest overmuch, but do not be mistaken in thinking I am soft. I am not. From the age of fifteen till recently, I was a warrior in the armies of any king paying the price, whether it be Jomsviking or Byzantine, it mattered not to me. I cannot count the men I have killed."
"So?"
"So? What do you mean, 'So'?"
"I never questioned whether you had been a stalwart soldier, or are still. But I misdoubt you ever killed a woman, leastways not without some great provocation."
"Oh, my lady, best you think about how much provocation you have given me thus far."
"You will not abandon me to some tyrant if there's the least chance of his killing me," she insisted.
"Well, that is no longer the issue."
She tilted her head in bafflement.
"Now that I have seen you naked, and once Anlaf sees you naked, I know that the king would take you on as his sixth wife."
He could see by her fisted hands that she barely restrained herself from clobbering him... or trying to. "Even if I am a witch?" she asked in an overly sweet voice.
"Even if you have a tail."
"Well, I still say you won't abandon me. I'm your responsibility now," she persisted.
He used a very coarse word in connection with responsibility.
She raised her chin and glared down her nose at him. "I'm going to say a prayer for you tonight. Among other things, I intend to beseech the Blessed Lord to cleanse your foul tongue."
"Hah! When you tell your beads this eve, best you pray that this image of you, naked, leaves my head. Otherwise you will have a lot more than my foul tongue to worry over."
"And that would be?"
A warrior, such as himself, knew when to charge and when to retreat. A trader, such as himself, knew when to bargain and when to accept defeat. The wench, who apparently had the skills of a rock, did not have the sense to stop when she was ahead.
He raised up on his knees with a palm braced on either side of her hips on the storage box. Leaning closer, he pressed his manhood against the joining of her thighs. Layers of clothing separated them, but his message was clear. His lips were almost touching hers. He felt her breath against his gritted teeth as she inhaled and exhaled with some strong emotion. Their eyes held the entire time, his in challenge, hers in irksome defiance. He stayed in that position for only a moment before rising to his feet. It was enough time... for both of them.
He proceeded to leave her then, and the lady called out in a foolish attempt to have the last word, "Well, speak up, you oaf. What do I have to worry about with you?"
His final words—rude and provocative and, yea, just a little bit enticing—lingered on the sea breeze long afterwards:
"You do not wa
nt to know, my lady. Truly, you do not want to know."
Several days later they approached the land of the Danes and its famous market town at the base of the Jutland peninsula. Hedeby, which the Vikings referred to in their Northern tongue as cet Hcedum, was located at the junction of several major trade routes, by sea and land. Despite being more than a thousand miles from home and in the heart of Viking territory, Alinor had more than one reason to feel a vast relief... and not just because she would finally be stepping on land again.
It was only noon, but already, three times that day, they had encountered vicious-looking pirates. Seamen often put their long shields on the mast-top with the point turned downward to indicate that they came as friends. Not these sea wolves! With their scarred faces and burning eyes, these scavengers of Zealand put a bone-deep fear in Alinor, as Tykir and his Vikings had not thus far. Bolthor had explained that these particular sea outlaws, led by a man called Hord the Rat, maintained a den somewhere between Zealand and Funen... a place of terror to one and all. They had gained much success of late in terrorizing the southwest coast of Norway, the Oesund Passage and the Baltic.
The pirate leader had bidden his sailors heave to and grapple the nearest of Tykir's ships. Fortunately, they had given up their attempts quickly on getting a closer view. The mere presence of the fierce fighting forces on Tykir's ships had convinced the pirates to keep their distance thereafter and let them pass by unmolested. Alinor wondered if her prayers in regard to her fate in King Anlaf's court hadn't helped in this regard as well. Or perchance it had been the sight of Tykir and his tall, imposing Northmen, their muscles well honed by battle, donning chain or leather shirts and pulling out sharp swords and battle-axes. One thing was certain: With each passing pirate sail, Alinor's respect for Tykir as a leader had risen a notch. She didn't have much respect for him as a man, since he'd captured her and disrupted her life on a whim and still declined responsibility for her fate. But as a ship's captain and a chieftain of fighting men, she'd never met better. There had been times when Tykir's longships rode close to shore, and on some of these promontories and river mouths she'd sometimes seen bearded heads on pikes, indicating that the peoples of that particular land did not welcome seamen from the north. Even when they'd been Northmen themselves. Fortunately, Tykir seemed to know how to choose his battles, and when to ride away from a fruitless fight... though Alinor suspected that he enjoyed a good fight like any other man. 'Twas the nature of the beast.
