Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  Tykir hadn’t even smiled when she’d jested with him, “Besides, sacrificing my sheep would not bring you luck. They are Christian sheep, you see.”

  “You have an answer for everything, my lady. But the fact is, my men believe you are a witch.”

  “Of course they do. They are encouraged by Rurik’s rancor and Bolthor’s skaldic imagination, not to mention your constant grumbling. And speaking of men, who knew there would be so many of them? ’Tis not proper that a lady should travel, unchaperoned, in the company of so many men.”

  “Didst think that Rurik, Bolthor and I would row the ships ourselves?” he answered with undue sarcasm.

  “Mayhap I should have known a great number of sailors would be required…to man one vessel. But how was I to know the number of ships you own?” The longship on which she traveled now, Swift Dragon, was one of a fleet of seven dragonships, each manned by more than sixty Viking warriors. The other ships were Fierce Dragon, Bold Dragon, Brave Dragon, Savage Dragon, Mad Dragon and Deadly Dragon, all of them owned by Tykir. Apparently, it was necessary to travel in convoy to fight off pirate ships, which lurked off the coasts of the northern market towns.

  “Didst think I was a pauper?”

  “Nay. I know you for what you are. A troll.”

  He bared his teeth in a gritted smile, and she knew she pushed him dangerously.

  To her surprise, the number of ships and the treasure trove of market goods they carried bespoke great wealth on Tykir’s part. It was a good thing her brothers didn’t know about Tykir’s affluence. They’d probably try to make a marriage pact with him. But, nay, he was too young for their devious designs. They would want an old man, soon to die. Besides, Tykir would never agree to wed such as her.

  Where are these horrible thoughts coming from? “Tykir,” she began in a conciliatory tone, “I was standing at the prow of your ship, avoiding the sailors, as you told me to do. I was trying to eat the midday meal, as you told me to do. But I just could not stomach that revolting gammelost. So I fed crumbles of it to some passing seagulls. And before I knew it, there were dozens of the birds taking the bits of the smelly stuff right from my fingers.” She sniffed first one hand, then the other. “I still stink.”

  “It is just old cheese.”

  “Old cheese?” she scoffed. “That cheese could walk by itself.”

  Despite his best efforts, a grin tugged at his lips. “Actually, there is a legend that says gammelost contributed to the victory of King Harald Fairhair, my grandfather, at the Battle of Hafrsfjord in 872,” he disclosed with a sheepish smile.

  She arched a brow in question.

  “The story goes that the king fed his warriors gammelost for the breaking of fast in the morn, prior to battle, thus transforming them into berserkers.”

  “See, it wasn’t my fault. The seagulls just went berserk.”

  “I…don’t…think…so,” he said with a short laugh. “In any case, stay here and enjoy this beautiful day. We may not have another. Weather changes abruptly during this season.”

  He rolled his shoulders then, by pressing his elbows backward till they almost touched at his spine, then crossing his arms in front. Several times he did this, as his men were wont to do on occasion, to remove the kinks that came with cramming so many bodies into such a small space.

  The man was godly handsome, Alinor had to admit. Even now, wearing a salt-stained leather tunic over black braies, with a wide leather belt tucking in his waist, his body was the embodiment of manhood. His blondish brown hair was tied back into a queue, but its silken texture was still apparent. Women must make much ado over him.

  Unaware, or uncaring, of her scrutiny, he stopped rolling his shoulders and leaned down to rub his upper thigh. Eadyth had told Alinor of Tykir’s grave injury at the Battle of Brunanburh several years ago, where he’d almost lost his limb.

  “Does your leg hurt?” she asked.

  His head jerked up. “Which one has the running tongue? Bolthor or Rurik?”

  “Eadyth.”

  He shook his head with disgust. “Yea, my old wound rears up on occasion.”

  “I have no sympathy for you. A man your age has no business riding across several countries in pursuit of a nonexistent witch.”

  “A man my age?” he sputtered indignantly.

  “Yea, do not pretend to be a youthling. You are just like all the other men approaching their middle years, trying to be younger than you are. Cavorting and fornicating till your heart, or other body parts, give out.”

  “Ca-cavorting?” He was doubled over with laughter at her words. “I am thirty-five years old. I am not yet in my dotage, I assure you, my lady.”

  “Be that as it may, I could prepare a potion for you that would help. Applied directly, it soothes on contact.”

  “Lady, your last potion put me on intimate terms with the garderobe. Thank you, but I will decline your offer.” Taking a deep breath, he scanned his ship and those following in an arrow formation behind them. The pride on his face was unmistakable.

  “You love this life, don’t you?”

  He turned to her with wariness. “Yea, I do. There is no better sight this side of Valhalla than a dragonship with her sail hauled up and the wind filling it. ‘Cloaks of the wind,’ we call our sails. A good longboat, a strong breeze and cloaks of the wind…surely these are gifts from the gods.”

  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, back-breaking 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 did not move her brothers one whit, and crying gave her no real satisfaction. She’d resolved then to be stronger than they were, sharper of wit, more devious. And her strength of determination had served her well. Until now.

  The situation in which she found herself was ludicrous. That anyone would seriously think her a witch defied logic. If only Tykir had spoken with her servants and the villagers at Graycote. She was not the first woman to be abducted…for ransom or rape, or spoi
ls of some raid, even to be sold into slavery. But to capture her for sorcery was so far beyond belief that Alinor had not taken the situation seriously enough while still in her home territory…while there was still time to alter her circumstance.

  How will I ever escape now?

  What will happen to me in that heathen land?

  Will I ever see my beloved sheep and Graycote again?

  More tears slipped down her cheeks, unchecked now.

  What am I going to do?

  She said a silent prayer then, though Alinor was not much prone to zealous religious practices. She rather favored doing good work every day as a form of prayer. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Please, God, help me in this desperate situation, she prayed silently, sniffling back a sob.

  Just then, on the other side of the ship, Tykir laughed at something one of his shipmates said to him.

  Alinor’s eyes went wide with surprise.

  Could it be…is it a sign?

  Has God sent Tykir to save me from my brother’s evil machinations?

  Could this trip to the Norse lands be a celestial vehicle for God’s plan to rescue me?

  Then the most outlandish question of all assailed Alinor, and she groaned with dismay.

  Could Tykir be my guardian angel?

  “The witch weeps,” one of his men said warily, as if Tykir had not already noticed. And the burly sailor’s words were repeated down the row of oarlocks, and back up the other side, like a whisper on the wind. “The witch weeps, the witch weeps, the witch weeps…”

  Apparently tears on a witch must be rare, or have some significance. He would have to ask Bolthor or Rurik. They were the sorcery experts. This witch business was all new to Tykir.

  Then a new refrain began. “What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it mean? What…”

  His men looked to him for answers.

  “Weeping is naught but a witch’s trick,” he decided.

  His men nodded hesitantly, bowing to his greater wisdom. He was certain—well, fairly certain—that the witch hoped to snare them with her ploy for pity.

  Did Alinor take him for a fool, that he would be swayed by such blatant feminine wiles? Hah! He had been turning up the hems of female robes since he was twelve years old. There was not a fluttering of the eyelash, sway of the hip, bounce of the buttock, exposure of a breast, exaggerated sigh, or silly sob he had not witnessed in his many encounters with the weaker, though more devious, sex. Women were so transparent. They had not the subtlety of men.

  Tykir stalked back to the area where a canopy had been set up for Alinor. Looming over her, hands on hips, he demanded, “Stop it!” Is that subtle enough for you, my lady?

  “Stop what?”

  “Crying.” What do you think I mean? Dancing?

  “I’m not crying,” she said, peering up at him through watery green pools, shaded by thick fringes of reddish-gold, glistening with wetness. Remarkable, really, how beautiful her eyes were in a face mottled with those ugly freckles.

  “Ert 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 true 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…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?”