Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  “I have no jewelry. Why do you ask these questions?”

  “All women of station have jewels, whether they be gifts from a parent, brothers or husband…in your case, husbands.”

  “Tykir, this subject is becoming tiresome. My parents died of the bloody flux in the year of the great cattle disease when I was but eight years old. My brothers have never given me aught but trouble, and that commenced even afore my parents left this world. As to my three husbands…nay, there were no gifts. They considered themselves gift enough.” Finally, when her emotions had calmed down, she concluded, “To tell you the truth, I would rather have a sheep than a bauble.”

  Tykir threw his head back and laughed…which was fine with her. He’d been studying her closely, seeing overmuch, especially the way her eyes kept returning to the special neck ring.

  Alinor was spared further words on the uncomfortable topic just then as a feminine voice called out, “Tykir!”

  “Rachelle!” Tykir rushed behind the tables, dragging Alinor with him toward the jewelry maker, who had been working to the side of the building. With a whoop of delight, he lifted the woman into his embrace with his free arm so her feet dangled above the ground, and he hugged her tightly. It was an indication of Tykir’s great strength that he could do so one-armed, whilst still restraining Alinor at his other side. The woman’s unbound raven black hair swirled forward, covering both her face and Tykir’s like a frothy nimbus.

  At first, Alinor thought the woman was sublimely beautiful, petite and fine-boned, with perfectly formed, delicate facial features…until she tossed her hair back and turned her face in profile. Then Alinor realized that the tip of the woman’s nose had been cut off…not enough to be grotesque…just enough to make some hideous point. It was the sign of the harlot, imposed betimes by barbaric communities in the sanctimonious name of morality, often under the direction of clerics.

  Oh, Alinor held little regard for women of no virtue, but she abhorred the practice, which punished the women but not the men who availed themselves of a harlot’s services.

  “Alinor, I would have you meet my business partner, Rachelle the Jewelry Maker.” Tykir had lowered the woman to the ground, but still had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, tucking her close to his side.

  Rachelle looked at Alinor with interest, especially at the rope that bound her wrist, then up to Tykir in question.

  “This is Alinor the Witch…my captive.”

  Alinor gave the brute a scowl of disgust and told Rachelle, “My name is Lady Alinor of Graycote.”

  Rachelle was startled at first by Alinor’s defiant words. Then she laughed gaily and extended a hand in welcome. “Come, you must crave a bath after your journey. I will fire up the stones in the bathhouse. Meanwhile, I am most anxious to hear how you came to be Tykir’s…captive. And a witch, of course.”

  Tykir undid her ties, seeming to take way too much time touching her wrist and palm and fingers, even her forearm, in the process of untying the tight knots. Everywhere he touched seemed to grow warm and tingly. Then, seemingly unaware of his effect on her, he turned to help the boy by serving some additional customers who had come up since the big Viking had departed. Rachelle took her arm, about to lead her into the doorway of the longhouse, when Alinor stopped short.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. She really shouldn’t have.

  Standing in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his eyes, was a small boy of about four years. Apparently, he had just risen from his nap.

  “Mother,” he whined, reaching his outstretched arms up to Rachelle.

  “Oooh, my sweet little Thibaud. Did you just awaken, heartling?” She lifted the child easily so his face was tucked into her neck and his skinny legs wrapped around her waist.

  The boy had long blond hair and honey-brown eyes.

  A mirror-image of Tykir.

  Alinor swung around to glare at Tykir, who was weighing a customer’s silver on a brass scale in exchange for some purchase. He must have sensed her stare because he turned. At first, he tilted his head in question; then his eyes took in the scene with Rachelle, Thibaud clinging to his mother, and Alinor’s flaming face. As understanding dawned, a slow grin tugged at his lips and spread into a wide smile. No shame or apologetic demeanor.

  The man was a troll.

  Chapter Seven

  “Thibaud is not Tykir’s child,” Rachelle informed her all of a sudden.

  Alinor hadn’t realized that her thoughts were so obvious. She closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. Rachelle had been so nice to her these past three hours, and how did she thank her? By making judgments.

  Since their arrival, Alinor had bathed, laundered her dirty clothing, which hung wetly from pegs near the central hearth, and was now helping Rachelle prepare the evening meal, with the assistance of Maida, a servant from Dublin.

  Although it was barely late afternoon, dusk already enveloped the skies. Having only a few shuttered windows, the long house would have been dark and gloomy save for the dancing shadows from the raging cookfire. The warmth of the flames turned the house cozy and secure against the blustery winds. Winter was, indeed, on its way. In this warm atmosphere, Thibaud sat at the trestle table playing happily with a set of carved wooden animals from the eastern lands, which Tykir had brought for him. The fanciful creatures had their own gaily painted, compartmented chest.

  Tykir had bathed hours ago, then gone out to arrange the restocking of his ships with supplies to last him and his men over the winter months. Karl, the young boy who had been serving customers on their arrival, was outside with the guard, Ottar the Strong, closing up the trading stall for the day. Ottar had been advised not to allow Alinor outside the longhouse. If she disobeyed, Tykir gave Ottar permission to bind her to a support beam.

  Tykir had said he would be back in time for the evening meal but was unsure whether Rurik and Bolthor would return with him. Just in case, Rachelle said she would prepare extra food. Maida was chopping leeks and carrots and turnips to add to the cauldron bubbling over the fire, which Alinor was stirring with a long-handled copper ladle. Already, the smell of simmering chunks of venison filled the air, and Alinor’s stomach rumbled with hunger.

  “Did you hear what I said, Alinor? Thibaud is not Tykir’s child.” Rachelle was in the process of taking some wooden trenchers and spoons off a shelf near the hearth, about to set the table.

  “Yea, I heard.” Alinor had found herself looking involuntarily at the child and noting over and over the remarkable resemblance to his father. For some reason, she didn’t want to examine the exhilaration she felt now over Rachelle’s words, disclaiming Tykir’s paternity. “I never thought…I mean, it’s none of my affair.”

  “Yea, you thought,” Rachelle said with a chuckle. “Everyone does. And, furthermore, I suspect it is very much your affair.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  Rachelle laughed softly. “Just do not let him charm you into some ecstasy, without the benefit of the marriage vows…assuming you are not already wed…. Ah, I can see by the indignation on your face that you are not.”

  “Charm? Tykir has the charm of a bullfrog, as far as I’m concerned. And you must be jesting with me about any ecstasy to be gained from a man’s attention.”

  “Nay, I am not jesting.” Rachelle cocked her head in puzzlement. “Do you not find Tykir exceedingly handsome?”

  Alinor was about to say nay but chose the route of honesty instead. “Well, not exceedingly handsome. He is not charming, though. Leastways, not to me. He tries to prick me into a temper at every turn.”

  “Yea, he is a charmer, for a certainty.” Rachelle nodded her head, as if Alinor had agreed with her. “Beware when he stops the teasing and turns the tables suddenly to give you compliments or sweet caresses or soft words.” Rachelle stopped in the midst of her short walk between the storage shelf and table, and her eyes went dreamy with some remembrance. Was she calling to mind Tykir, or Thibaud’s father?

  “I am n
ot so porridge-brained as to be taken in by the slick words of a man like Tykir Thorksson.”

  Rachelle grinned, unconvinced. “Do not be offended by my words of surrendering to the woman-lust, Alinor. I am a perfect example of how not to handle the pretty words of a man in heat.”

  “Oh, oh…you have said so many things I do not know where to begin discrediting them. Woman-lust? Hah! There is no such thing. I should know. I have been wedded and widowed three times in the past ten years. When it comes to lust, men have the sole rights. With their overblown egos, most of them consider women honored just to get a poke from their sorry danglers.”

  “Danglers?” Rachelle choked out.

  “Yea, those appendages that dangle from men in a most ludicrous manner,” Alinor explained, and continued with her tirade. “I’ve yet to meet the woman who brags that she needs five spouses to satisfy her bed needs, as that Viking lord did outside earlier.”

  Rachelle laughed. “Ah, you have much to learn, my lady. Much. Methinks you are in for a sorry awakening if the right man comes along. Pray God it is not Tykir, because there is no future there, I fear.”

  “I have no need of Tykir or any other man,” Alinor asserted stormily. “Why are women so weak that they feel the necessity for a man in their lives to give them strength?”

  Rachelle’s eyes went wide before she set the trenchers on the table. “Mayhap you are right,” she admitted shakily, putting the fingertips of one hand to her disfigured nose, then glancing over to her son, who was still playing with his wooden animals. All laughter was gone now. “I stand as physical testimony to where woman-lust can lead a weak woman.”

  The sad expression on Rachelle’s face shamed Alinor.

  Putting the ladle aside, Alinor went to Rachelle and laid a hand on her forearm. “Forgive me if I gave insult. It is not my place to judge anyone. In truth, I have been speaking my mind, unbridled, from an early age, living as I did with the two biggest lackwits in all Britain. It mattered not how many times they whipped me for my impertinence. I always thought I knew best.” She shrugged, with a wry grin. “I still do.”

  Rachelle smiled weakly. “I am deserving of judgment, though. You see, I was married at the time. Thibaud is the result of an adulterous affair.”

  Alinor tried to contain her surprise. For herself, she could never understand a woman willingly parting her legs for bedsport, but she knew there were women of little virtue who did such to attain some goal, whether it be coin or status or marriage. Rachelle seemed to fit none of those categories.

  “My husband, Arnaud, was a cruel man, subject to unreasonable bouts of temper at the least provocation. Even though he was a merchant in Frankland with much property, he made me continue to work at my jewelry craft, even after we were wed. He was so tightfisted with his coin that his household nigh starved to death for lack of food.”

  That didn’t sound so different from her brothers. Or other men of higher station who treated their women as mere chattel.

  “I was so lonely. Oh, I know that smacks of a poor excuse for breaking the Lord’s commandment, but Toste the Tall was a Northman of such merry temperament that he melted my foolish young heart with a single smile.”

  That sounded way too close a description of another Viking with a roguish disposition. “And where did you get the opportunity to meet this Viking? Did he come to your keep in Frankland or your husband’s trading stall?”

  Rachelle shook her head. “Arnaud had taken me to Rouen for the christening ceremony of the new Duke of Normandy’s first son, assuming there would be numerous business opportunities there. As you know, the Northmen have been in control of Normandy for many years now, starting with Hrolf, the first duke. Toste was a mercenary in the employ of the visiting King Haakon from Norway.”

  “Tykir’s uncle, Haakon the Good?”

  Rachelle nodded.

  “Was it a momentary…uh, lapse with this Viking? Or something more?”

  “Something more…leastways, on my part. I could not have committed adultery lest I loved the man…or thought I did.”

  “And Toste?”

  Rachelle rolled her shoulders with reservation. “I know not. He professed to have deep feelings for me, but that may have been the bedlust speaking. All I know is that I was happier with him those few days than ever I have been before or after.”

  “Did your husband find the two of you together?”

  “Nay, but he suspicioned that something was amiss. Mayhap it was a long look that passed betwixt us in the great hall. Or mayhap some talk amongst the servants. In any case, one day he announced without warning that we were leaving for home, despite riches to be gained whilst trading with all the dignitaries.”

  “And you never had a chance to speak with Toste again?”

  Rachelle shook her head sadly.

  “Does he know that he has a son?”

  “I am not certain. Nay, I think not.” She exhaled wearily. “Perchance I delude myself. He may know and not care. He never searched me out. Yea, deep inside, I suspect his professions of love were mere words.”

  She put a gentle hand to Rachelle’s maimed nose. “And this?”

  “Ah, this,” Rachelle said with a mournful sigh, touching the same spot that Alinor had. “At first, Arnaud was jubilant over my pregnancy. He treated me almost lovingly, and I was overcome with such a soul-deep remorse that I had betrayed him so. Mayhap Arnaud’s ill-treatment all those years was my fault. If I had given him a child. If I had been a better wife—”

  “Rachelle, stop…stop this instant. Do not try to excuse your husband’s brutality by taking on the burden of guilt.”

  “To make a long story not quite so long,” she continued, “the proof of paternity was evident the moment Thibaud came crying from the womb. His blond hair and blue eyes were giveaways, considering that Arnaud and I share the same black hair and dark eyes.”

  “Would he not forgive your…indiscretion?”

  “Forgive? ’Twas Arnaud who dragged me by the hair from the birthing sheets, down the manor steps, to the chapel, where he pronounced my crime afore the priest and all our churls. The villagers were invited to toss the first stones, and in the end ’twas Arnaud himself who sliced the harlot mark on my nose.”

  “Oh, Rachelle,” Alinor lamented, taking the weeping woman into her arms.

  Rachelle soon calmed down and concluded her story. “After several weeks of care in the hut of a forest midwife, who took pity on me, I made my way with Thibaud to Rouen. But, of course, by then all the festivities had ended, and the guests long departed. It was there that I met Tykir, who took pity on me and brought me to Hedeby. He claimed to be in dire need of a jewelry maker to sell his products here, but I suspect I was such a pitiful sight he could not help himself.”

  Alinor gave her a disbelieving look. She did not want to contemplate what this said about Tykir. He was a troll. She had to remember that. Where was his concern for her plight?

  “So, now you are in reduced straits here, stranded in a Norse trading town?”

  Rachelle laughed gaily at that. “Nay, I am a woman who has survived a horrible marriage and vicious punishment. Now I am self-sufficient. Tykir allows me a portion of his profits, and they are ample. I am a wealthy woman, dependent on no man. And, best of all, I have my most beloved son.”

  Alinor thought about that for a moment. “I must confess, I envy you.”

  “Me?” Rachelle backed away slightly, as if Alinor had become unbalanced.

  “Yea, I do. I really do, Rachelle. All my life I have yearned just to be left in peace. I raise the best sheep in all Northumbria. Truly, I do. My weavers produce the finest wool under my direction…soft as silk. I could easily support myself…I do now, without my brothers’ knowledge. But a woman has no power in my country, or any other. Whatever wealth I gain belongs to my brothers, or my husband when I am wed. Whatever improvements I make to my estates benefit them, not me. They can sell it all right under me. In fact, they can sell me, as well. And they
do…over and over.”

  It was Rachelle’s turn to hug Alinor.

  “You will think me barmy when I tell you of the fantasy I have harbored of late,” Alinor said. “I have been wondering if perchance God sent Tykir to rescue me from my brothers.”

  Instead of laughing, Rachelle gave Alinor’s idea serious thought. Tapping her pressed lips with a forefinger, she pondered her words. “But Tykir says he will deliver you to King Anlaf and be done with you.”

  “Does that fit the character of a man who would rescue a stranger and her child?”

  “Do not put too much credence in that seeming generosity. I am a trained craftswoman, and he was in need of just such a worker at the time. Also, he had a passing acquaintance with Toste, and felt somewhat responsible for the orphaning of a Norse child…even one not of his blood.”

  “Well, actually, he might not be all that softhearted as I would like,” Alinor conceded, and related the story of Tykir’s refusal to intervene with the slave girl earlier that day.

  Rachelle made a clucking noise of dismay, but all she said was, “It is a hard life for women.”

  With spirits dampened, Alinor reflected on her fate. “Dost thou really believe Tykir will abandon me to possible death in Anlaf’s court? All for the sake of a horse and a slave girl?”

  “A horse and a slave girl?” Rachelle frowned with confusion.

  Alinor explained the reasons Tykir had undertaken this quest to capture a witch for King Anlaf.

  “Ah, you do not know the real reason Tykir captured you?”

  “The real reason?” Alinor shook her head dumbly.

  “Anlaf is holding as friendly hostage the healer, Adam of Arabia. Adam is the adopted son of his half-sister Rain and his brother-by-marriage, Selik…a man who fought side by side with Thork Haraldsson in the battle many years past with Ivar the Terrible that eventually led to his death. The family connections are complicated, but the heart-bonds are not.”

  Alinor put a hand to her forehead in puzzlement. “So, Tykir had no choice?”