Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04]

by The Bewitched Viking

  He crooked a finger at her.

  She sat up stiffly. The arrogance of the man, demanding I come to him. I will show him. Alinor crooked her finger back at him, thinking to prompt some adverse reaction.

  Instead, Tykir smiled and stood immediately, making his way toward her. How could she hate a man who could be so demanding one instant and so willing to bend the next? Apparently he didn’t care which one did the coming, him or her.

  When he stepped close to her, he took her by the upper arms and pulled her to her feet. She felt the heat of his body and the even greater heat of his need of her. ’Twas a heady, heady aphrodisiac, being wanted so much by such a virile man. Mayhap for now that was enough.

  “I missed you, sweetling,” he murmured.

  Sweetling? “I missed you, too, troll,” she conceded.

  He smiled widely, a wonderfully open display of gratitude for her simple concession…a smile that caused her toes to curl and her heart to expand with joy.

  Yea, ’tis enough for now.

  Then he pinched her buttock playfully as they made their way to the stairway and whispered in her ear, “Have I told you of a bed game I just remembered? ’Tis called ‘The Flaming Lance.’”

  She stumbled, then righted herself, causing her bells to jingle. She flashed the grinning oaf a glare.

  On the other hand…

  It was the best yule season Dragonstead had ever witnessed, and they owed it all to Alinor.

  With great satisfaction, Tykir looked about his great hall festooned with holly and evergreen branches—decorations more akin to Saxon homes than Viking. But his people seemed to like them. In truth, his estate had been well run for years, even in his absence, but Alinor had gone one step further and turned his castle into a home.

  A dangerous, dangerous turn of events. One he could not dwell on. Best to turn his mind to the merriment around him.

  Vikings welcomed any excuse for feasting. And it was a rare good feast Alinor had put on to celebrate the coming of the Christian God-child. There were Saxon and Norse foods alike, and some he could put no nationality to. Plum pudding and Yorkshire pudding, which was really not a pudding at all, but a bread baked in roast meat drippings. He’d insisted with an exaggerated horror that no chicken be served, though they did have many boiled eggs sprinkled with rare eastern spices. Some were even sliced into a jellied aspic rendered from reindeer hooves. No doubt Alinor would make everyone as sick of chicken eggs as she had of chicken broth. Then, too, there was an abundance of the pork sausages and soft cheeses favored by the Vikings…a necessary fare at any feast. But not a speck of gammelost was in sight, he noted with a smile. His Alinor would not permit that.

  Tykir stopped his mind-meanderings on that unsettling thought. When did I start thinking of Alinor as mine?

  As much joy as there was in his heart these days, there was also turmoil. He felt as if he were caught in a whirlpool and could not escape his swirling emotions. The only remedy was to wait out the storm and see what happened once the waters settled.

  Not that he was planning to drop anchor with any woman. Not even Alinor. Besides, she’d probably heave the anchor onto her shoulder and stomp off into her own destiny in Northumbria.

  It was just an interlude they were sharing. A pleasant one. But that was all it was, or could ever be.

  He knew Eirik and Eadyth failed to understand his resistance to love and marriage, even to a mistress of any long-standing. But the soul-deep hurts he’d sustained as a child and the defenses he’d erected as a result were part of his very nature now.

  Imbedded in his brain were unsavory images of himself: as a needy, pathetic boy searching every passerby’s face for his long-gone mother; as a youthling standing at one roadway or dock after another waving farewell to his Jomsviking father, and later standing at his bedside when he died far too young from battle wounds; as a tearful eight-year-old shattered by his brother Eirik going off a-fostering to King Athelstan’s court; not to mention the disappearance of his stepmother Ruby; then, finally, the loss of his grandparents, Dar and Aud, at Ravenshire.

  Oh, he knew there were many who had suffered as much or more. His own brother Eirik, for one, who’d had a finger chopped off as a boy by Ivar the Terrible, the same villain who had killed their father. But Eirik was half-Saxon, a different bird all together. Plus, he’d been a few years older than Tykir and certainly more mature when all these events had taken place.

  Being a scrappy young Viking through and through, Tykir had learned to survive his hurts by building an invisible wall around himself. A man—or boy—couldn’t be hurt if he didn’t care.

  Except…

  Tykir glanced to his side and watched Alinor, whose rapt attention was caught by the saga Bolthor was telling. He’d already advised the giant skald, on threat of a detongueing, that there were to be no “Tykir the Great” sagas or poems at this feast. So, Bolthor was now relating for those assembled the tale of Tykir’s paternal grandsire, Harald Fairhair.

  Alinor looked at him and smiled. “Your grandsire was quite a man. All those wives and mistresses. And, blessed heaven, twenty-two sons and a comparable number of daughters.”

  “Your sarcasm ill-suits you, wench,” he growled.

  She laughed gaily, something she did far too rarely.

  “You share his blood, Viking. Do you share his nature?”

  “Nay. As you well know, I have not even one wife and only one mistress at the moment.” He immediately regretted his hasty words when he saw the quick flash of pain on her open face. He knew she did not like her designation as mere mistress. Would she be any more pleased to be called wife of a heathen Viking?

  Aaarrgh! Where did that traitorous thought come from?

  “Some say King Harald was inspired to greatness by the taunts of Gyda, daughter of the king of Hordaland,” Bolthor was relating. “Gyda was an ambitious wench, and she declined to wed with Harald till he ruled all Norway. So, Harald made a solemn vow: He would not comb or cut his hair till he had won all Norway and the fair Gyda. Ten years it took Harald to achieve his goals. Thereafter, the man known as Harald lúfa, or mop-hair, became known as Harald hárfagri, or fairhair. And a finer set of tresses were never seen in all the Norse lands. Further, some say that a great swiving took place that day in the chamber of Gyda, once she yielded to Harald’s great feats. This is the saga of Harald Fairhair.”

  “Did you ever meet your grandsire?” Alinor asked, reaching to take a drink of wine from Tykir’s cup. The wine was from the private stock he’d traded for in Rhineland last year and was reserved for special occasions. Tonight felt special.

  He liked the way she put her lips to his cup on the very spot where he had been drinking. It was probably a coincidence, but he preferred to think otherwise.

  “Did you?”

  “What?”

  “Meet your grandfather?”

  “Yea, I did. He came to King Sigtrygg’s Norse castle in Jorvik when my father lay dying.”

  She tilted her head, waiting for him to disclose more.

  “He was a majestic old man, massive in size, not shriveled and bent over like some graybeards. His long hair had gone completely white by then, but was luxurious just the same, and held in place by a gold circlet around his forehead. He was wearing a black velvet cloak embroidered with gold thread and studded with precious jewels. Odd that I should recall those details.” Sighing deeply, he added, “I saw him a few times before he died about ten years ago. He was a hard master, to his underlings as well as his family. I cannot say he ever loved any of us. Though, I must admit, the old man deeded me Dragonstead on his death, much to my surprise. It was one of his lesser garths, ’tis true. Still…”

  “Mayhap he was like many men, unable to show his affection.”

  “Mayhap.” He turned to address Alinor directly. “These are not pleasant memories you prod in me, Alinor. Why so curious?”

  “I just want to know more about you.”

  He felt a tightness in his throa
t at her words. She was starting to care, just as he was. Best he put a stop to that nonsense right away.

  “The only thing you need to know of me is betwixt my legs,” he said crudely.

  She jerked her head back as if he’d slapped her.

  Guilt tugged at his conscience, but he shoved it aside. At least she was not looking at him with caring now.

  He could not hold himself apart from her for long, though. When she attempted to get up off the bench beside him and stomp away, he put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “What think you of the marriage plans that abound at Dragonstead? Bodhil the Ripe and Jostein the Smith?” The couple had announced earlier that evening that they would be wed afore spring.

  Her stiff demeanor relaxed. “Well, ’tis about time Jostein declared his intentions. He almost lost Bodhil, you know.”

  “Yea, and Rapp of the Big Wind is none too happy about it, I understand. Overcome with melancholy, he is. See him over there in the corner even now, alone, working on a mead-head.”

  “He is alone because he smells,” Alinor noted wryly.

  Tykir laughed. “That, too. Tell me, Alinor, did you have aught to do with the marriage plans?”

  Her cheeks bloomed with an attractive blush. “I merely told Bodhil that she did not need to settle. She should be strong, and—why are you smirking?”

  “Not smirking. Smiling,” he corrected, chucking her under the chin. “You are so vehement in your feelings. And perchance ’tis time for you to be strong with your brothers, too.”

  “There’s naught wrong with a woman seeking what she wants.”

  “And what do you want, Alinor?”

  “Certainly not you, troll.”

  He tweaked her hair in punishment. “Not even if I have a special gift for you?”

  “I’ve been presented with that gift a hundred times.”

  “Not that gift,” he chided her with a tapping forefinger against her pursed lips.

  “And I want nothing more in the vein of feathers, oils, ropes or dancing costumes. My reputation is ruined as it is by those scandalous presents. I wouldn’t be surprised if news of them has already reached King Edred’s court in Wessex.”

  He smiled at her. “Not those kinds of gifts, either.”

  Later that night, Alinor lay beneath him, sated, after the most tender loving he’d ever given a woman. The tenderness of his bedsport with her came not from caring, he told himself. It was just that the mood had struck him for a more gentle wooing.

  He thought he heard laughter in his head. Probably the mischievous Loki poking mirth at his delusions.

  It was then that he presented her with his Christ-gift. “You said one time that you had never been given a present. Here, then.” He put his hand under the pillow where he had hidden the flat, blue velvet case, then shoved it into her hands.

  “Tykir, I have no need of gifts. And certainly not a pity gift. Besides, I have no gift for you.” She tried to return the box to him, unopened.

  He insisted that she take it in hand. “There is naught of pity in this gift. Vikings love to give gifts. Accept it for what it is, and no more. A man’s pleasure.”

  She nodded and began to undo the latch. She was sitting in his bed now, propped against the backboard, a bed fur pulled up to her waist, leaving her breasts bare to his pleasure. He loved her breasts—small, raspberry-tipped, swollen from his recent attentions.

  “Oh, Tykir!” she whispered when she saw the box’s contents. It was the amber neck ring he’d shown her at Hedeby. “I can’t accept this.” Her green eyes welled with tears, and her voice sounded choked with emotion.

  “Yea, you can and will.” His voice was equally choked.

  Brushing a tear aside with the back of one hand, she reminded him, “You told me that the Arab trader who bartered it with you said it was intended for a bride on her wedding night, as a charm ensuring marriage-luck. Since you do not intend to wed, you said you would give it to one of Eirik’s daughters on her wedding day.”

  He shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

  “About marriage?” she asked, wide-eyed with surprise.

  “Nay!” he retorted way too quickly and loudly.

  But she just smiled at his impassioned response.

  “Do not look for hidden meanings in this gift, Alinor. I wanted to give you something special, but not—”

  She pressed her fingertips to his mouth, halting further words. “It is special.”

  She let him put the neck ring on her then. Its thick gold band fit snugly around her slim neck, just above the collarbone. From it were suspended many tear-shaped amber stones, starting with a large one in the center and decreasingly smaller ones on either side, going back, till they were the size of tiny human tears. She resembled a magnificent Viking princess, garbed thus. A goddess. The yellowish stones set off her breasts and the creaminess of her skin. They made her eyes sparkle green fire.

  “Thank you, Tykir,” she whispered. “It is a gift I will always cherish. Always.”

  She thanked him then by being the aggressor. And she reversed the tables on him in other ways, too, by giving him the most tender loving of his life. In the process, something precious happened between them.

  Mayhap the amber neck ring did indeed have magical powers.

  Or mayhap the magic was in them.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Three months later

  Springtime arrived way too soon, and they were leaving Dragonstead.

  Oh, it was not a true spring. There was still snow on the ground in the mountains, and the air was chill. But the ice had broken in the fjords, which allowed the longships to move out for their trading and a-Viking ventures.

  Jubilation filled the air as the bearlike Vikings, many with huge beards and fur cloaks, came out of winter hibernation, eager for new adventures. Blood thickened by the cold season and lack of exercise suddenly thinned and roared to life. These virile men were not made for inactivity or bucolic work, and exciting exploits awaited them in the Westlands, beyond Norway.

  Not everyone was jubilant, however.

  Finally, Alinor was going home. But where was home now? She’d become so fond of Dragonstead and its people…and one infuriating Viking, in particular. She was so confused. This was not her home, and yet it felt like home.

  She’d always thought that her only dream was to live independently on her own estate in Northumbria. No marriages. No greedy brothers. Just a peaceful, solitary life.

  What a foolish maid she had been!

  “Why the tears, my lady?” Tykir inquired softly. All the trading supplies and foodstuffs had already been loaded. He’d come up to her side where she stood on the dock waiting to board the longship. She noticed that he barely limped, having pampered his leg all winter long with hot bricks, massages and rest.

  “I’m not weeping,” she said, swiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her gunna.

  He raised his brows in contradiction. “I would think you’d be happy to leave this ‘prison’ and return to your homeland.” There was an odd vulnerability on his face as he spoke.

  “I am happy,” she lied. “These are tears of happiness.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. She saw that immediately when his expression went flat. What did he expect of her? He hadn’t asked her to stay. And, frankly, she didn’t know what she would have done if he had.

  “Well, then, there must be a keepful of happy people here at Dragonstead. I have not seen so much weeping amongst the womenfolk since the widows came to claim the bodies after the Battle of Brunanburh. ’Twould seem you have touched a few hearts here, Alinor.”

  She nodded her head at his kind words, unable to speak over the lump in her throat.

  “You must be stronger with your brothers when you return to Graycote,” he advised her then. “Do not let them dictate your life, as they have in the past.”

  “Yea. I have taken a vow to withstand their assaults on my private life in future. What think you,” she asked, fl
ashing a mischievous smile his way, “of my threatening to curl their manparts if they try to force another husband on me?”

  “That should handle them good and well,” he said on a laugh. Then, suddenly serious, he declared, “I will miss you, Alinor.” He put up a halting hand when she opened her mouth to speak. “I do not utter those words lightly, sweetling. Know this: I have never said them to another woman in all my life.”

  “Oh, Tykir,” she murmured.

  Then, on a lighter note, he teased, “But I will not miss your chicken soup.”

  “Nor I your gammelost.”

  He smiled gently down at her. “Mayhap we will meet again someday.”

  “Mayhap.”

  He didn’t believe that any more than she did. Once Tykir’s longships reached the juncture of fjords and sea near Anlaf’s court two days hence, they would all be going their separate ways—Tykir and Bolthor to the Baltic lands for amber harvesting; Adam to the land of the Arabs, where he would continue his healing studies; Rurik off to Scotland in search of a dye-wielding witch, and Alinor back to Graycote and her sheep.

  “One thing is for sure,” he said, handing her up onto the landing board that spanned the distance from dock to ship, “I will never forget you, Alinor the Witch.”

  “And I will never forget you, Tykir the Troll.”

  In the background, aboard ship, she heard Beast barking madly, Rurik cursing about one thing or another, Adam flirting with a hesir’s wife, who was going with him to Birka, and Bolthor reciting a new poem:

  “Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  Some Vikings are smart.

  Some Vikings are dumb.

  Some Vikings see with their eyes.

  Some Vikings see with their hearts.

  Some Vikings are so bewitched,