Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  “There is your witch,” Tykir announced, his voice dripping with exasperation. “Lady Alinor of Graycote.”

  Throughout the hall, like a ripple in a fast-moving stream, the word passed. “A witch. A witch. A witch. A witch…”

  Alinor cast pleading eyes on Tykir then, her only hope in this sea of Vikings.

  He remained stern-faced and unmoved.

  Please God, she prayed.

  Just then, the flames of a vast wall-hearth behind the dais roared brighter as some knotholes sizzled. The radiant light cast an aura behind Tykir’s head…almost like a…well, a halo.

  It was a sign.

  Chapter Nine

  There is your witch.

  Tykir’s callous words echoed in his own brain, like a hammer of guilt. He had not intended to blurt out Alinor’s identity for all to hear…leastways, not in such a premature manner. He knew better than most that timing was critical in all matters, whether it be battle, cajoling a woman into the bed furs or arguing before a thick-headed king. But he’d been caught off guard on learning from Adam that all his troubles of the past two months had been for naught. Cured! Anlaf had been cured, and never bothered to inform him.

  And Alinor…look at her. Standing near the foot of the steps leading up to the dais, she resembled a child, enveloped as she was in his huge sable cloak, which pooled in the rushes at her feet. Even from here, atop the dais, he could see that her hands trembled, though her stubborn chin was held high. God’s blood! The foolish woman still harbored the notion that he was some sort of guardian angel, personally sent by her one-god to protect her. Why else would she stand, stricken, staring at him with wide, tear-brimmed eyes at his seeming betrayal?

  Betrayal? Hah! She is not my charge any longer. I have delivered her to King Anlaf. I have done my duty.

  Why then do I feel as low as a snake’s belly?

  Nay, I feel no guilt. Nay, nay, nay! I will not be sucked into that mire of responsibility. Keep a distance…that has been my philosophy since I was a mere child of eight years, and a wise course it has been. Never stay in one place too long, and never, ever, let the people-bond become too important…whether it be with family, friends, soldiers and seamen or women.

  I do not care. That is the key. Caring overmuch about anyone or anything is a dangerous tightrope for any man to walk. Too much and his most vulnerable soft areas are exposed. Too little and his soul ices over and dies from lack of warmth.

  He did care about Eirik, of course. And Eadyth. And their children. Well, ’twas true, there was Selik and Rain and their children, too, including Adam. And he held just a tiny bit of affection for Gyda and his uncle, King Haakon, and Adam’s younger sister, Adele. But that was all. Nay, he must include Bolthor and Rurik, to some extent.

  Good Lord! When did I start caring about so many people? It has to stop. ’Twas time to draw the line with this woman. I will not care for her. At all.

  There, it was decided. He felt better now.

  That did not mean he was hard-hearted. On the contrary, he would ensure the witch’s safety afore he left…or leastways the opportunity to get fair trial. Not that he was obligated to do such, but it was the noble thing to do.

  Noble? Since when have I become noble?

  Nay, I am spending too much time worrying over the wench. ’Tis a sign of weakness. Mayhap ’tis best just to leave. Anlaf will treat her impartially.

  Impartially? How impartial can any man be when his most precious part has been curved by a curse? Yea, Anlaf must blame the witch for his manly woes these many months…even if he is cured now. Will he not feel the need for punishment? And what form will that retribution take? A flogging? Thralldom? Torture? Rape? Burning at the stake? Beheading?

  Aarrgh! I am not going to think about this anymore.

  I do not care.

  Truly, I do not care.

  Hell, where’s the mead?

  All this he thought in the seconds following his blunt announcement.

  “You brought a witch here?” asked Adam incredulously. Still standing at his side on the dais, Adam looped an arm around his shoulder in comradely fashion and chuckled. “Good Lord, Rurik! What is that blue mark on your face? Is it a beauty mark? You always were too vain. You should take humility lessons from me.”

  Rurik said something rude about male body parts.

  Adam grinned and called his attention back to Tykir and the subject at hand. “Do you and Rurik have a particular taste for witches as bedmates?”

  “She’s not my bedmate,” Tykir snarled.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” Adam said.

  Tykir narrowed his eyes at Adam, who still held his shoulder in a brotherly embrace, patting it in exaggerated sympathy. “Too bad? Why is that? Has the desert sun burned out your eyesight? Obviously, you have not looked closely at the wench.”

  “Are those freckles I see?” Adam slitted his eyes, as if to see better. “I knew a sultan once who claimed every freckle on a woman’s body was an erotic spot.”

  “What?” Tykir fixed his gaze on Alinor, whose head was tilted in puzzlement at their scrutiny. By rough estimate, he figured the woman must have about a thousand of those marks on her body, if he could recall her naked body properly. Hah! That image was imprinted on his lustful brain for all time.

  But, as to Adam’s correlation betwixt freckles and sex, could it be possible? He turned to question Adam further and was met with a wide, white-toothed grin. Realizing he’d been taken in by the rogue’s foolery, he shoved Adam’s arm off his shoulder. The lackwit bent over at the waist, laughing his fool head off.

  “What the hell are you wearing anyway?” Tykir grumbled, flicking the fingertips of one hand at the loose white, hooded robe Adam wore, with all the flair of a royal courtier.

  “What? You do not like my caftan?”

  “Like has naught to do with it. It appears to me you have borrowed some bed linens.”

  “Methinks you are jealous, Tykir. Tell me true, do you not think I resemble a desert prince? Can you not picture me riding the sand dunes atop my camel?” He waggled his eyebrows at Tykir.

  Tykir jabbed him with an elbow to behave. “I certainly hope you are wearing braies beneath. ’Twould be unseemly otherwise.”

  “Hah! When have I aimed to be seemly?”

  The two men grinned at each other.

  “Actually, there’s a certain freedom in letting your nether parts breathe.”

  Tykir had to laugh aloud at the rascal then. “If you do too much breathing in this part of the country, you will end up with frost on your arse.”

  A feminine scream rent the air then. At first, Tykir thought it was Alinor, but she stood silent, staring at him as if he were St. Michael the Archangel, about to slay her dragons.

  “Why does the witch gaze at you as if you are the raisins in her porridge?” Adam asked.

  “She thinks I’m her guardian angel,” Tykir replied dryly.

  “You?” Adam hooted and doubled over again, resuming laughter.

  Another loud scream ripped through the din of the great hall.

  This time, Tykir jerked around to see Signe, her fingers clawing at her own hair. “A witch! A witch! And she is covered with the Devil’s Spittle…and hair like Satan’s fire,” she wailed. “’Tis a bad omen to have a witch attend one’s wedding. Do not let her look upon me, Father, lest I have a clove-footed babe nine months hence.” With one last scream, she fell into a faint in her new husband’s arms.

  “Oh, for the love of Mary!” Alinor muttered with disgust at Signe’s spectacle.

  King Anlaf could not be concerned about his daughter, however. “Guards, take the witch away. Make haste afore she renews the curse on my manroot.”

  Tykir drew his sword instinctively, not about to let Anlaf’s guards mishandle the wench…rather, witch…till she had a chance to defend herself. Not that he’d heard a single word from her mouth these many sennights that would weigh in her favor.

  Fortunately, Anlaf’s personal guard w
as nowhere to be seen, having the good sense, or the non-sense, to leave the range of Alinor’s witchly powers. None of them wanted a crooked staff. With a cry of distress, Anlaf pulled his battle shield off the wall and held it in front of his midsection. Many men throughout the hall did likewise.

  “Oh, for the love of Mary!” Alinor reiterated.

  “Mary? Who is this Mary the witch keeps calling upon?” Anlaf inquired. “Is it perchance the high-witch?”

  “King Anlaf! For shame!” the priest who’d been sitting with Adam exclaimed. Tykir had met him before. Father Caedmon was his name. “Did you not take your baptismal vows seriously when I christened you last year? Mary is the mother of God.”

  “Oh, that Mary.” Anlaf’s face turned red under his blond beard. Leastways, what could be seen of his face behind his shield, which he still held in front of his body.

  “Enough of this prattle!” Tykir roared, waving his sword in the air. “Assure me of Lady’s Alinor’s safe passage home, and I will be on my way to Dragonstead.”

  “Sheath your sword, Tykir,” Anlaf ordered, his eyes peering above his massive shield. “Is the witch worth losing your life?”

  “What makes you think I will be the one spilling wound dew?” he said icily.

  “That is why the butter would not come this morn,” one slovenly maid servant called out from the doorway leading to the scullery. “I knew there was a bad aura in the air. ’Twas a sign of the witch’s approach.” As she talked, she was scratching her head, which was no doubt lice-ridden. In Tykir’s opinion, the butter probably had not come because the lazy wench had not churned hard enough.

  “Beware of her familiar,” one man cautioned. “Where is it?” He and others at his table were pivoting their heads this way and that, trying to discern the familiar.

  “Her familiars are back in Britain,” Bolthor informed them. “They are sheep.”

  “Do you say she has more than one familiar, and that they are sheep?” asked a powerfully built woman sitting at the high table. ’Twas Anlaf’s older sister, Gudny. “She must be a very powerful witch.”

  “A spell she has put on my dog, Beast,” Rurik noted, despite Tykir’s warning that he hold his tongue. “Methinks she may have made Beast one of her familiars, too.”

  Gudny seemed impressed, and was assessing Alinor through narrowed, speculative eyes. Everyone knew that Gudny, who was as tall as a man and as strong as a horse, had been searching for a love potion these many years in hopes of luring her wayward husband Alfrigg back to the bed furs. ’Twas said she had an insatiable appetite for swiving—though Tykir could hardly credit that, more like an insatiable appetite for eating—and Alfrigg had chosen instead to live amongst the monks on a leper island.

  Throughout the great hall, a murmur of fear and outrage was passing in waves, emanating from the spot where Alinor still stood with Bolthor and Rurik. People who had been sitting closest stood and moved away, putting hands or arms over their faces so the witch could not give them the evil eye…and over their private parts, as well.

  “Is she the witch who put the mark on your face?” one Norse maiden asked Rurik in an awestruck voice. Tykir couldn’t tell if the awe was for Rurik’s winsome face or the power of the witch.

  “Nay,” Rurik answered, his interest caught by the maiden’s fair face and even fairer bosom. “’Twas another witch.”

  “Another witch!” Anlaf roared. “Didst thou dare to bring two witches to my daughter’s wedding feast? Oh, holy Thor! Do we perchance have a coven in our midst?”

  A number of the wedding guests could be seen ducking under the trestle tables at that alarming prospect.

  Alinor had the nerve to snicker.

  “Nay, I did not bring two witches,” Tykir said wearily. In truth, he wasn’t sure he’d even brought one. But that was not the issue. Nor one for him to decide. “Anlaf, you had a…problem,” Tykir began to explain in a deliberately patient voice, though he was losing his patience by the minute. “You sent a messenger asking for my help, and I agreed…to gain the release of Adam.”

  “But I was never a hostage,” Adam interrupted. “I came to Trondelag several months past, planning to go home to Britain for a brief visit. Come spring, I will be returning to the Arab lands, where the study of medicine is more advanced than in any other part of the world. In the meantime, I decided to stay in Anlaf’s court for a few months in order to study with his healer, the good priest, Caedmon.” Adam’s eyes shifted involuntarily as he spoke to the far side of the hall, where Tykir saw Father Caedmon nod his head in agreement. But wait. Tykir thought he heard the slight tinkling of bells at that table. Instantly, he connected that sound with the dark-haired maid shifting restlessly there, next to the priest.

  Tykir stifled a laugh. So, Adam was delayed by the slave girl of the infamous bells, not coercion by King Anlaf, and not his scholarly endeavors, either.

  It was not surprising to see a Roman priest in a Viking assembly. Many Norsemen practiced both Christian and Norse religions, and the bishops willingly sent priest healers into their heathen midst in hopes of gaining souls at the same time they salved wounds and splinted broken bones.

  Adam, on the other hand, ever did latch onto any person who could teach him something new in the healing arts. And women ever did latch onto the fair Adam, who claimed to have learned things, other than medicine, from the Arabs.

  Tykir clicked his teeth with disgust at Adam. “You are lucky your father and Eirik did not come with their troops to storm Anlaf’s castle for your return.”

  Adam’s face went pale. “I did not think,” he murmured.

  That was an understatement.

  Tykir turned back to Anlaf. “Whether Adam stayed here of his own accord is not important. You led me to believe he was a ‘friendly hostage’ and that you would release him if I delivered the witch. Well, I have fulfilled my part of the bargain.”

  Anlaf thought a moment, then smiled widely. “You are free to go, Adam,” the king said magnanimously. “See, Tykir. Now we are even.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “Nr enden er god er allting godt,” the king said, urging peace. “All’s well that ends well.”

  Tykir balked. “I see no satisfactory end here.”

  “How so?”

  “You know not for certain that the lady is a witch, Anlaf. If she is not, ’twas unfair of you to have brought her here.”

  “Well, take her back then.”

  Tykir gritted his jaw. He really did not want to fight with Anlaf. He was tired. He was angry. He was itching to knock out a tooth or two. “I am not going back to Britain till next autumn,” he said, pacing his words slowly. “You demanded. I delivered. End of story.”

  “Story? Story?” Bolthor jumped into the conversation. Tykir hadn’t realized that he and Rurik had drawn swords as well and just waited for his word to defend him, if attacked. “Dost want a saga about this? How about ‘Tykir the Great and the Uncrooking of the King’s Crook’?”

  “Once crooked was the king’s wick

  After a witch caught him playing

  With fire in a nunnery.

  Now the candle dost burn again.

  But for how long?

  If the witch remains,

  Will Trondelag become

  The land of the crooked tapers?”

  Tykir and Anlaf both made growling sounds at the same time.

  “You played me for the fool, Anlaf. No man does that without consequence, not even a king.”

  “I did not,” Anlaf protested. “I did have a crooked cock. I have witnesses to that, and the dire pain I suffered, not to mention the lack of bedsport for three whole months. But now it is hale and hearty. Dost thou want to look at it again?”

  “Nay! I do not want to look at your hairy manroot.”

  “Hairy? Didst see hairs there? Oh, this is too much!” He turned to glare at Alinor. “Didst put a hair curse on me now, witch?”

  Tykir had to smile at that idiocy.

  A
linor was shaking her head from side to side, murmuring, “Vikings! Dimwits, one and all!”

  “At least mine is not hairy,” Tykir informed her with a grin.

  “How do you know? Have you checked lately? Mayhap I put a hair curse on you, too.”

  “Sarcasm ill-suits you, my lady.” Bile rose in his throat, even though he knew she was just teasing. Leastways, he hoped she was. He barely stifled the impulse to rush to the privy and check for certain.

  Adam was laughing so hard that tears rolled down his face.

  “I’m in a generous mood today, Tykir. I might have played a small part in this misunderstanding, that I concede. I’ll gift you Fierce One and Samirah, after all, for your trouble,” Anlaf conceded. “A horse and a wench. What more could you want?”

  “I’ll tell you what else I want. I want an apology. I want recompense for my trouble. I want to leave this castle today. I want you to provide safe conduct for the Lady Alinor back to her home in Northumbria.”

  “You want much for a mere misunderstanding,” Anlaf sputtered. “None of my ships leave for Britain for another three or four months. I cannot harbor a witch in my castle all that time. My troops would rebel. My wives and concubines would avoid my bed furs. Who knows what calamities would befall my household. You take her.”

  “Me? Oh, nay, do not try that trick with me. She stays with you till you return her to her homeland.”

  The abject horror on Anlaf’s face was almost comical when it was considered that the king had faced down legions of fierce soldiers in battle with less fear than he exhibited now. Apparently the loss of one’s manpart was more fear-inspiring than the loss of one’s life. Anlaf’s protests echoed throughout the great hall, where others insisted that the witch could not stay.

  “Stone the witch,” one man suggested.

  “Burn her at the stake,” another urged.