Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  All the men wore slim black wool braies and short leather ankle boots, cross-gartered up trim legs. The one on the left was a veritable giant—at least a head taller than the other two, and they were exceedingly long of frame themselves. His white-blond hair hung loose to shoulder-length. He wore a brown wool tunic, belted at the waist and covered at the shoulders with several layers of matching mantles of different length that left one arm exposed, an arm that rested on a long-poled battle-ax, braced now on the ground. He had probably seen no more than thirty winters, but harsh lines etched his face, aging him beyond his years. A black patch over one eye completed the picture of battered soldier.

  The Viking on the right was dark haired, and, Alinor guessed, vain as a peacock. At least five years younger than the giant, he stroked his silky mustache. His beard and hair were woven into intricate braids—a habit many warriors adopted to avoid their hair flying into their eyes in the midst of battle—but this Viking’s plaits were interlaced with colored beads. Most interesting was the blue jagged line down the middle of his face, which detracted not at all from his appearance; in fact, some might say it enhanced his attraction. He wore a blue wool tunic, matching his eyes and his face design, but instead of a shoulder mantle, a gray fox skin was tossed carelessly from shoulder to opposite waist, front and back, tucked into a wide belt of tanned leather. The animal that had died for his comfort must have been huge. Reaching down nimbly to the ground, he patted the clamoring dog, cautioning, “Shhh, Beast. ’Tis just a scurvy bitch. Beneath your interest for a quick dalliance, my good dog.” He grinned at Alinor as he spoke, making it unclear whether he was referring to Beauty or to her.

  But it was the Viking in the middle—the apparent leader—who caught and held her interest. Alinor’s head had never been turned by a man’s pleasing countenance in the past. It was now.

  His long hair was light brown streaked with pale yellow strands, giving the appearance of shimmering gold—the effect caused by the bleaching effects of the sun during many years on the open seas, she would wager. He was older than the rest, possibly five and thirty, and godly handsome. Blessed St. Bonifice! His years sat well on him, indeed.

  His hair, too, was braided, but only on one side, where a silver earring in the shape of a thunderbolt dangled from one exposed ear. Dressed all in black—braies, tunic, belt—he was covered shoulder to ankle by a cloak of magnificent wool of the best quality, lined with black sable. The cloak was pinned off one shoulder with a heavy gold brooch in a design of intertwining snakes with clear chrysolite eyes. Hanging from a chain around his neck was an amber pendant in the shape of a star with a bloodred drop in the center.

  “Well?” he said, his honey brown eyes taking her measure with icy disdain.

  “Wh-what?” He must have been talking while her mind had been woolgathering.

  “I said, my lady,” he repeated with exaggerated patience, “é heiti Tykir…My name is Jarl Tykir Thorksson, and I have not come this great distance for your food or drink.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Why then have you come?”

  “’Tis for you I have come, Lady Alinor.”

  “Show me your tail.”

  “Ta-tail…?” Alinor reeled inwardly with shock. Oooh! She would like nothing more than to take a wooden trencher off the table and whack the thick head of the crude oaf, Tykir Thorksson. His reference to a witch tail was the latest in a series of outrageous remarks he’d made to her since they’d come from the sheep pasture, the first and most outrageous being that he’d come all the way from Norway for her.

  She was sitting next to him at the high table in her great hall with an iron hand clamped on her forearm, locking her to the arm of her chair. Otherwise, she’d have risen long ago and exited his presence, forthwith. He and his two comrades had refused to leave her out of their sights since returning to the manor house, not even when she’d gone to the garderobe.

  “Listen, uh…” The brute had informed her from the first of his title, jarl, which was one step below a king and similar in nobility to an English lord. He held this rank of the upper Norse nobility, thanks to bloodlines linking his grandsire, the famous, long-dead King Harald Fairhair. As if she cared whether he was a lowly thrall or a high jarl! Or whether he was Viking, Frank, or Saxon, for that matter. The man was still a crude oaf. But how does one address a Viking of higher station? My lord? My jarl? My barbarian? “Listen, my jarl—”

  He let out a hoot of laughter. “Call me Tykir.”

  Nay, a wooden trencher would be too mild a punishment for this one. Better a rock. A big one.

  “Well, are you going to show me your buttocks and end these bothersome protests? If you have no tail, prove it…though I am inclined to believe that a true witch could make a tail appear and disappear at will.”

  Despite her efforts at restraint, she bared her teeth and made a low hissing sound of affront.

  He grinned.

  “If I were a true witch, I would put a spell on you right now and turn you into a toad.”

  He laughed. “Be that as it may, I have wasted more than enough time in pursuit of you. I expect to be aboard my longship in Jorvik three days hence. So end your senseless malingering.”

  Aaarrrgh! She’d been trying to convince the stubborn blackguard of her innocence ever since he’d told her out on the fells that he’d come to Graycote for the witch who’d put a spell on some Viking king. A likely story! No doubt he was searching for a target to pillage. Well, he’d find naught of worth in her poor keep. Or perhaps he hoped to kidnap her for hostage. Little did he know that her brothers wouldn’t pay even a farthing for her return. Her only value to them was in the bride price they received for her every blessed time they arranged another marriage…along with the estates that ceded to her on widowhood, of course.

  And her aging castellan, Gerald, would be of no hope. She grimaced with dismay as her gaze hit on her supposed protector, leader of her hird of soldiers. He was over there at the end of the high table, nodding off to sleep, and it barely past high noon. These Vikings must think they’d been handed a gift from their heathen gods on viewing the weak protection of her keep. Hah! That was a deliberate tactic on her part. Her prosperous farms and sheep pastures were in sharp contrast to the starkness of her keep, which was well-maintained and stocked with provisions, but with no embellishments or luxurious furbelows, like wall tapestries or silver tableware. If ever Alinor enlarged her timber and stone manor house into a fine castle, Egbert and Hebert would take it from her in a trice. The same was true of her hird of soldiers under Gerald’s leadership. Strong fighting men would just draw her brothers’ attention.

  “Look at it this way, you have no children here that demand your presence,” the Viking said.

  Huh? She’d been half-attending while the insensitive clod prattled on.

  “You are free to leave your estate in the care of minions. Actually, you could consider this a pleasure trip to the Norse lands.” He folded his arms and puffed out his chest then, well pleased with himself for coming up with that ludicrous justification for his actions.

  “A pleasure trip?” She could scarce keep her voice down to a low shriek. “Wouldst that be comparable to plucking out a person’s fingernails and calling it good grooming?”

  “Probably,” he said unabashedly.

  She thought a moment. “How do you know whether I have children?”

  “Your castellan told me so.”

  She was going to have a serious talk with Gerald about his loose tongue. In the meantime, if he could bring up children, then so could she. “What will your children think of you hauling an unwilling woman halfway ’round the world?”

  His face turned a rosy shade of red under his deeply tanned skin. “I have no children…that I know of.”

  She arched an eyebrow at his wording. “That you know of?”

  “My family or lack of one is none of your affair,” he said icily and put up a hand to bar any further words. “I have been kind to you thus
far, Lady Alinor. We can do this nicely, or not. It matters not to me.”

  “But—”

  “Gather your belongings, I beseech you. Or I will. One way or another, we must be on our way if we are to make camp at Aynsley afore nightfall.”

  “But—”

  He refused to allow further argument. “Know this, my lady: I promised to deliver a witch to Anlaf, and a witch I will deliver.”

  “I…am…not…a…witch,” she said in evenly spaced words, so the halfwit would understand.

  “Prove…it,” he said, mimicking her pacing.

  She bristled. Say nothing, Alinor. Keep your wits about you. A clear head has gotten you out of worse situations than this.

  “Everyone knows a witch has a tail,” the lout continued.

  “Everyone?” she scoffed.

  “Thus I’ve been told,” he said defensively. His wonderfully thick, brown lashes fluttered with uncertainty.

  “By whom, pray tell?”

  Tykir’s whisker-stubbled face reddened as he pointed ruefully to the side where the one-eyed giant, Bolthor—the world’s most unlikely skald—was imbibing great draughts of mead, mumbling something about, “Hear one and all, this is the saga of Tykir the Great, who met a flame-haired witch-shepherdess…”

  “Tykir the Great?” Alinor asked, unable to stifle a chuckle.

  “To straighten a king’s tail

  Did the brave warrior come.

  To lose her tail

  Did the bold witch aspire.

  Which tail will win

  In this battle of the tails?”

  Tykir shrugged sheepishly and shared a chuckle with her at his own expense. She liked that in a man—or woman—the ability to laugh at oneself.

  “But you must recognize that this whole situation is absurd. I’m no more a witch than you’re a…a troll.” Her lips twitched with amusement at that remark. “On the other hand…”

  “Why, you impudent wench! Are you implying that I’m a troll?” He squeezed her forearm as punishment, but not very hard. “In truth, I must needs be honest with you, I cannot help but admire your bravery, though it passes all bounds of recklessness. Has no one ever warned you about tweaking the wolf’s tail?”

  “Don’t you mean the troll’s tail?” she asked cheekily.

  He laughed. “Too bad you are not a more toothsome morsel. I might have enjoyed tasting your charms on the long journey back to Trondelag.”

  His dancing eyes assessed her form in its clean gunna of fine forest-green wool, with a matching headrail. Her wild hair was tucked neatly under a white wimple, but she knew she held no appeal for him. It was the freckles, of course. They repelled most men, superstitious fools that they were. And if not superstitious, then overly concerned with the traditional standards of beauty, like milk-white skin. “Dost think I care if you find me lovely as a goddess or homely as a hedgehog? Three husbands have I buried. The next man, wedded spouse or not, who tries to sample my wares will do so over his dead body.”

  The Viking’s mouth dropped open with surprise. Then he slapped his free hand on his knee with appreciation. “Thor’s blood! Your tongue does outrun your good sense. Don’t you know I could pull that talksome appendage from your mouth, slice it off with a mere flick of my sword and roast it for dinner?”

  Now, that is an image I do not need planted in my head. She decided to try a different tact. “Dost thou honestly believe in witchcraft?”

  “Yea. Nay.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Mayhap.”

  She cocked her head, trying to understand how a seemingly intelligent man—well, leastways, not a drooling lackbrain—could give credence to dark magic.

  “You must needs understand that the Norse lands are harsh and wild, especially the far north of Norway where I live. ’Tis vastly different from Britain, even up here in Northumbria,” he explained. “There are times during the summer when there is continuous daylight, and times during the winter when there is continuous darkness. In a land where darkness is a fact of life for long periods of time, ’tis easy to appreciate how my people have a superstitious bent. Out of the deep forest, down from the mountains, up from rivers and fjords they believe that the magical creatures come: the hulders, the nisser, the fosse-grimmer, the nøkker. Witches are naught, compared to this. Oh, I forgot. There are also the elves, the dwarfs and the trolls.” He waggled his eyebrows playfully at the last word. “These are not all bad beasties, though. Some of them are quite playful, spurred by our god of mischief, Loki.

  “Further, I wouldst tell you a tale of King Harald Fairhair. An intense loathing for wizards and magic did my grandsire have, despite the fact that one of his sons, Ragnvald Rettlebone of Hadeland, practiced such. In the end, he ordered his other son, Eric Bloodaxe, to kill his own son. Eric did not only that, but killed eighty other wizards as well, for good measure.

  “So, yea, I believe in the black arts.”

  “Humph!” It was all nonsense, as far as Alinor was concerned. But then a sudden thought occurred to her. This fierce warrior could fight off her brothers with a swat of his hand, if he so chose. What if she went to the Norse lands with him, for a short time, just till her brothers gave up on their latest matrimonial efforts? Wouldn’t that be a way of solving both their problems—the Viking would fulfill his promise to deliver a “witch” to remove the curse, and she would escape a fourth wedding?

  “Unhand me, Viking,” she said then, looking down to her arm, still pinioned to the chair by his long-fingered grasp. “I would hear more of your mission. Exactly how long would it be afore you could return me to Northumbria?”

  “My duty ends once I present you to King Anlaf.”

  She tilted her head in puzzlement.

  “After the curse is removed, I’m fairly certain Anlaf would send you home with an armed escort, but by then the winter ice would have set in, I predict. So, I would guess you could be home by Easter.”

  Fairly certain? Then his other words snagged her attention. “Easter? Easter? That’s six months from now. I can’t be gone for that long. What of the winter weaving? And the spring lambing? And the first shearing? I have more than a hundred sheep to care for here at Graycote.” She gave him a fulminating glower, then concluded, “’Tis impossible.”

  “You have no choice, my lady.”

  Well, we shall see about that. I don’t want to take drastic measures, but I will if you force my back to the wall, Viking. “Tell me again. Exactly which high Viking personage am I accused of cursing?”

  “Are there so many?”

  Are there so many? Alinor repeated snidely in her head. “No, there are not. I cannot remember even one.” She paused as a quick flash of memory came to her. “Except …oh, surely you do not refer to that Viking assault on St. Beatrice’s Abbey last year?”

  He nodded. “’Twas King Anlaf of Norway.”

  Her forehead furrowed with confusion. “I thought Haakon the Good was king of Norway.”

  “Well, yea, my uncle Haakon is the all-king of Norway, but there are many minor kings. My cousin Anlaf is the chieftain or low-king of a region in Trondelag.”

  “Your uncle…your cousin? Kings?” she sputtered.

  “At last! Now you understand.”

  “Understand? Why, that brute—your cousin—was about to rape Sister Mary Esme.”

  He shrugged. “And you put a curse on him.”

  “I did?”

  “And waved the magic veil?”

  “Which magic veil?”

  “The Virgin’s Veil. And, by the by, do not forget to bring the blue veil with you. Anlaf will want to see it when you remove the curse.”

  Alinor crossed her eyes with frustration. “That blue veil was my headrail, and I was not waving it. It fell off my head in the tussle to get the barbarian off of Sister Mary Esme.”

  “You jest.”

  “And another thing, I may have cursed the man, but I did not put a curse on him. There is a difference.”

  “Dost thou try to befuddle me
with words?”

  That wouldn’t take much.

  “Did you or did you not proclaim, ‘By the Virgin’s Veil, may your manpart fall off if you do this evil thing’?”

  There was a long, speaking silence during which Alinor let his words sink in. Her face heated with embarrassment, then, as she asked, with awe, “And did his manpart fall off?”

  “Nay, it just took a right turn.”

  “It?”

  “His manroot.”

  “It did what? Oh, I can barely credit what you say. His manpart took a right turn?” Alinor choked with laughter.

  “It’s not funny,” he protested, slapping her heartily on the back to stop her choking.

  “Oh, yea, it is. But please,” she said, wiping at her tears with the edge of her headrail, “please do not tell me that you and that cloddish king think I would touch his…root.”

  Tykir waved a hand airily. “I know not of witchly rites for straightening a man’s lance. Touch it or touch it not, for all I care. Just remove the spell.”

  “And if I cannot do so?”

  “There are laws held sacred at the Things—our governing bodies—where witches can be stoned or drowned. If they are bad witches, that is.” He slitted his eyes to study her for a moment. “By the by, are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

  “Aaarrrgh!”

  “It matters not, actually. I misdoubt that Anlaf would wait for a Thing to be called if you cannot remove the curse.”

  “Oh?”

  “Anlaf will, no doubt, just lop off your head.”

  “You don’t have to watch me every blessed minute.”

  “Do I not?”

  “A big, fearsome warrior like you! What have you to fear from a harmless little female like me?”

  You were not harmless from the day you came squalling from the womb, I wager. Seems to me, I’ve heard that red hair and a shrewish temper go hand in hand. Or was that just something Bolthor put in one of his sagas? Enough! I waste my thoughts on nonsense.