The Bewitched Viking

by The Bewitched Viking(lit)

  "They have gone on a hunting trip, to add to the supply of fresh meat for the winter."

  "Why did you not go?"

  "I have more important things to do here at Dragon-stead."

  There was blessed silence for a moment as she pondered that news, and he proceeded through the kitchen and into the roofed outdoor passageway leading to the bathhouse. Girta and Bodhil and the other kitchen maids, who had been chattering as they worked to prepare the day's meals, looked up, their conversations suspended. Then they burst into a giggling fit.

  "I'm going to kill you for this humiliation," Alinor swore.

  "I'm shivering in my braies," he said, dropping her to her feet in the steam chamber, where he already had a strong fire going and the rocks heated to red-hotness.

  She glanced about her, then stabbed him with a glare. "How long did you say your men would be gone?"

  "Two days," he said. And he did not even try to hide his smile.

  "I love combing your hair," Tykir said as she sat on a stool before his bedchamber fire. He sat on a chair behind her, running an ivory comb through the thick strands of her wet waist-length hair.

  Alinor rolled her eyes up into her head at his words, which he intended to be seductive. Hah! She was unseducable.

  " 'Tis a sensual experience, do you not agree?" he continued in a husky voice, unaware of her eyes rolling.

  Sensual? Huh? "Oh, certainly," she said. Then, "Do you comb women's hair often?"

  He laughed... a low, masculine rumble, which was not entirely unattractive. "Nay, this is a first for me."

  "How fortunate for me," she remarked drolly. Next he will want to pare my toenails, and deem it ecstasy.

  "You could say I'm a virgin of sorts," he chortled.

  "Of sorts being the key words, I presume."

  He rapped her on the shoulder with the comb. "Sarcasm ill becomes you, my lady." Then he placed one hand on top of her head and with the other hand continued to run the comb ever so slowly down the length of her hair. "Does the hair combing arouse you as much as it does me, witchling?"

  This time she did not roll her eyes. Her eyes nigh popped out of her head.

  The Viking had gone mad. And he would find a way to blame her for this latest calamity once he came to his senses. Start harping on the witchcraft nonsense again. But she refused to take responsibility for his present bizarre actions.

  Mayhap it was a long life of some pain that had been eating away at his brain. Mayhap it was an excess of lust in his bloodstream. Mayhap it was the fever that had pushed him over the dividing line from sanity to insanity. Mayhap it was just too much damn gammelost.

  Hair combing! The man had requested that she comb her hair afore the fire in his bedchamber... naked. Now, if that was not mad, she did not know what was.

  She had refused, of course.

  To which he had offered a compromise. He would comb her hair for her and she could wear the linen chemise, which was near transparent from the wetness of her recent bath.

  Bathing and hair combing as the first installment of a punishment plan? Yea, the man was demented.

  Being no fool, she'd acquiesced. After a lifetime of trying to argue with her dunderhead brothers, she knew how to pick her battles and when it was the wiser choice to yield.

  Not that she intended to surrender to the brute's lascivious demands, unquestionably the next step in his punishment plan. Had he not mentioned his outrageous plan to make her his love slave? Blessed St. Beatrice! She was not even certain she knew what being a love slave entailed.

  Well, that was not her immediate concern. Nay, she bided her time till the right moment. Then she would make a dash for the door and a hiding place she'd discovered these past few days at Dragonstead. She figured this madness that had overcome Tykir would pass, as surely as his fever had. Then she would be able to negotiate a more just "punishment," more in the line of reparations. Some logical arguments... a little groveling... a few coins... mayhap an ell or two of her prized woolen fabrics thrown in for good measure... and everyone would be happy.

  She inhaled deeply for patience, screening out the droning sound of Tykir's chatter—something half-witted about punishment sometimes being sweet—and the surprisingly pleasant rhythm of the comb passing through her drying hair. Concentrate, Alinor. You must come up with a plan for escape... how to get out of this bedchamber without the big oaf lumbering after you.

  Her eyes latched onto a high-backed chair on the other side of the hearth—the one Tykir had purchased in Hedeby—that matched the one on which he sat. It was a beautiful work of craftsmanship, with carved Nordic designs and a series of interlacing oval holes along the top.

  Alinor smiled with sudden inspiration.

  "Tykir?" she inquired in the giggly sweet voice she had heard the housemaids use with Rurik and Adam.

  "Hmmm?"

  "Would you mind"—giggle, giggle, giggle... Lord, I feel like I'm going to upheave my stomach's contents— "uh, would you mind if I combed your hair now?"

  He stilled. "I already combed my hair."

  She forced herself to giggle again behind a palm pressed coyly over her mouth. "Well, I was thinking that mayhap I could braid your hair because... " Her words trailed off in what she hoped appeared to be shyness.

  Alinor did not know how females did this pretend dimwittedness with men all the time. But she did understand why.

  "Because?" Tykir prodded.

  "Just in case you get particularly enthusiastic in the mating... well, you know, it would help if your hair did not get in the way."

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Tykir exhaled.

  Alinor hoped that his use of a Christian expletive was a sign of disorientation indicating that he liked what she'd suggested.

  A short time later, Alinor threw the comb to the floor and ran for the doorway. "Do not be upset over being bested, Tykir. 'Tis for the best. Really."

  "Aaarrgh!" Tykir roared like a trapped bear as he stood, intending to come after her, but found that his hair had somehow been braided to the back of his new chair.

  She scurried down the second-floor corridor toward the small treasure room, for which Alinor had found a second key several days past while exploring the keep. The last thing she heard before unlocking the door and hiding herself away was Tykir's ominous message, as he clunked across his bedchamber, the chair obviously being dragged behind him.

  "Alinor, you will not have cause to worry over your freckles ever again," he shouted, "because I intend to skin you alive."

  Five hours had passed, and still Tykir had not found Alinor.

  "Mayhap the lady really is a witch. Else how could she have disappeared from the castle unseen?" Girta commented with her usual garrulousness as she placed a trencher of cold pork sausage, elk pie and manchet bread before him on the table, along with a large cup of mead.

  "She is not a witch," he said, surprised at his own firm conviction. "Just a foolhardy woman with a witchly disposition."

  Girta frowned at that seeming illogic.

  "There is a difference," he contended, but declined to explain.

  "Bodhil says she saw a cloud of smoke pass over the midden this morn and it resembled a black cat. Some might say 'twas the witch's familiar come to rescue her. Best you consider the possibility of a curse having been placed on Dragonstead. Have you checked your manpart recently?"

  He choked on his mead. "For what?"

  "Curves."

  "Alinor is not a witch," he repeated.

  "But where could she have gone? You have had a dozen and more of us searching every corner of the castle, to no avail. Even Rapp. And you know I do not like him wandering about in my clean keep. He leaves a malodorous trail behind him, that he does. Methinks he does it apurpose, to avoid work. That's why I sent him out to scour the lakeside in hopes the lady was taking her usual walk. Even Beast would not go along with Rapp, such a stink does he make." On and on Girta went till Tykir thought her gossipy ways would turn his ears numb. Finally, she conclu
ded her rambling with a question. "Wilt thou kill the witch when you catch her?"

  "What makes you think I will catch her?"

  "Oh, there is no doubt about that. Are you not Tykir the Great, as Bolthor always says?"

  "Yea, I am feeling extremely great now," Tykir said dryly. "But as to your question, yea, I will kill her once I catch her, but there will be a massive amount of torture beforehand."

  "As there should be. As there should be," Girta commented. "Not that I do not like the Lady Alinor. A fine lady she is. But we cannot have the master of Dragonstead bested by a mere woman, can we? What would the skalds say of that? What will Bolthor say in his next saga?"

  "Don't you dare tell Bolthor about this," he sputtered.

  After Girta left him, Tykir picked at his food and let his gaze wander the great hall. He was alone. No doubt the few soldiers left behind from the hunt were hiding from his unpleasant self. For a certainty, the female servants would not come near him, except for the hearty Girta. He did not blame them, with all the roaring and shouting he'd done this half a wasted day, searching for the elusive wench.

  It was just so infuriating. Like a puzzle that must be solved—but a piece was missing. What item had he overlooked in his search for the Lady Alinor?

  The witch had to be somewhere inside the keep. There had been no time for her to escape the castle walls. And even if there had been the time, she would have been seen. Furthermore, dressed as she was in a thin chemise, she would not have ventured into the freezing outdoors.

  So, where could she be hiding?

  He raised his eyes to the stairway leading to the second floor, where he could see the open corridor circling the great hall. All bedchambers and storage rooms on the second floor opened onto the two-story great hall. But they had checked and rechecked every nook and cranny of the keep that was not already secured tightly under lock and key.

  Tykir shifted in his seat, about to tip his chair back against the wall when his attention was caught by the jingle of keys on the ring at his waist. He looked down at the large metal keys, then up again to the second floor.

  And then he smiled.

  Something awakened Alinor from her light slumber.

  Peeking out from under the precious furs in the treasure room where she'd hidden, she could see nothing in the pitch blackness of the windowless chamber. All she could make out was the outline of walrus tusks, bolts of cloth, pottery jars of wine, intricately carved wooden boxes that she knew from her earlier exploration contained jewelry, gems, gold and silver coins, and ornately embossed swords and sets of chain mail. And, of course, many bags and miniature caskets of Tykir's chosen product of trade—amber.

  She squinted into the darkness. How many hours had passed? Was it afternoon or evening? All she knew was that she'd finally fallen asleep after becoming bored with just lying in hiding. Now her stomach was churning with hunger, not having eaten since the night before. You'd think with all that wine, the trader troll would have plundered some foreign soil for rare foods, too, like almonds or sugared dates. Even a boiled camel's hoof would hold some appeal at this point.

  Maybe that was what had awakened her... the sound of her hungry stomach. No, it was another sound. A key was turning in the door lock.

  Uh-oh!

  She'd had hours and hours to second guess her hasty decision to run from the Viking. Now, it appeared that she would find out if she'd been wise or foolhardy. She'd also had plenty of time to hone her arguments against Tykir's punishment plan. For some reason every one of them escaped her now.

  This was absurd. She should step forward before he detected her... take the offensive... brazen out her actions.

  Instead, Alinor scrambled back under the furs and held her breath. She would be brave later.

  She sensed a faint light.

  "Alinor, I know you're here," he said. "Come forth. Now!"

  Alinor didn't need to see Tykir to know he was stiff with outrage. No doubt he was clenching his fists. Gritting his teeth. Playing mental games of "Pick the Torture."

  Ha, ha, ha, she thought then. How fanciful of me! Despite being a vicious Viking when it comes to war or defending himself, Tykir wouldn't do great physical harm to a woman. Leastways, I don't think he would. Just that love slave business, which is almost more frightening than a good birching. The latter I am familiar with and can withstand. The former... well, what exactly does a love slave do?

  "You are making me angry, Alinor. Very, very angry. That is not a wise course."

  She could hear him kicking aside chests and rummaging amongst bolts of fabric. A clanging noise probably indicated swords falling against each other. "Force me to waste more time searching for your scrawny hide. Go ahead. I relish the prospect of additional sins to add to your already staggering list of transgressions." His voice dripped ice.

  Enough of this cowering! Alinor flipped aside one sable and two fox furs and stood clumsily. "Were you looking for me?" she asked with forced cheerfulness.

  His only answer was a growl. His teeth were indeed gritted, as she'd suspected. She could see them, and his clenched fists, by the light of the smoking torch he held overhead. He reached down to pick up a broadsword in his path, then motioned with it for her to step out of the room in front of him.

  She lifted her head proudly and squared her chin before proceeding to obey. Could he tell she was quivering inside like a bowl of calves-foot jelly? That her knees felt like butter?

  As soon as she passed by him, she felt a hard whack across her bottom. Shocked, she glanced back over her shoulder, and realized that the brute had struck her with the broad side of his sword blade. And he was looking very pleased with himself, though the smile that creased his face was cold and mirthless, never reaching his eyes.

  "You brute," she said, rubbing her buttocks as she hobbled out of the room. "So, that is your plan, then? To beat me?" Well, she could live with that. She'd been beaten by her brothers innumerable times in the past. 'Twas humiliating and painful but soon over.

  "Nay, there will be no beatings. Leastways, not unless you rile me even further... which is a distinct possibility." He tossed aside the broadsword with which he'd smacked her. It landed with a thud on a pile of Persian carpets.

  "What then?" She insisted on knowing her fate, even as he reached out an arm to drag her from the room.

  "First off, I intend to swive you till your tongue curls and your eyeballs bulge. Then, mayhap, I will suckle raspberries till I get a rash. You will then lick my rash to ease the itch. By that time there should be several itchy spots, if you get my meaning."

  Alinor didn't.

  "Then I might swive you another ten or so times."

  "Oh!" she said on a whooshy exhalation, reeking with disappointment. "Rape it is to be, then."

  "Nay, it will not be rape."

  A charged silence followed, during which Alinor was permitted to register the meaning of his words.

  Rape? Tykir thought. The lackbrained woman thinks I intend to rape her as punishment. Even in his greatest fury in the past—and he was nigh approaching that level now— Tykir would never have raped a woman. What pleasure would there be in that? The shame afterward would have far outweighed the merits of any momentary physical release. Nay, he would not rape her, but he was so angry he feared that he might go berserk and accidentally kill her in his rage. He had to calm down. Think. Calm down.

  He put the torch back in a wall bracket. Taking her by the elbow in a pincer-grip, he guided her forward and slammed the door behind them, then pushed her along the corridor toward his bedchamber. Did she deliberately take baby steps to his giant ones? Or was his stride that much different from hers?

  From the open side of the passageway, with its waist-high stone banister, he could see at least two dozen soldiers and servants staring up at them from the great hall, wide-eyed and silent. Already the gossips would be churning out juicy tidbits about his being defeated by a mere wench. For a certainty, no matter how much he threatened, Bolthor wou
ld be sure to write sagas about a mad Viking bested by a witch with chair-and-hair-braiding skills. People far and wide would hear of this incident, even as far as Northumbria. His brother Eirik would never let him forget. Selik and Rain would be telling children's versions of the event to the orphans in their care. Adam would carry the saga to the Arab lands. He had to redeem himself in his people's eyes or he would be the object of so much jesting he would be unable to hold up his head.

  The wench had forced him into this untenable situation. It was all her fault.

  Instead of guiding her now, he moved ahead impatiently, dragging her along till they reached his bedchamber. Kicking the door open with one booted foot, he shoved her inside, then locked the door behind him, pocketing the key.

  She stood in the middle of the room, staring at him through wide green eyes glinting with resistance. Holy Thor! Even when the ravens are circling overhead, the witch will not admit that she has lost the battle. Her hair, mussed by her stay amongst the furs in the storage room, stood out like a wild red bush. If such a bush exists, I would like to plant one in the herb garden to remind me of how she looks right now. Skin, which was paler than usual, provided a white backdrop to her freckles. Have the freckles increased, or are they just more apparent with the blood drained from her flesh?

  In truth, she was a mess.

  In truth, she held much too much appeal for him.

  She was afraid. But even so, the stubborn streak she rarely attempted to rein in was apparent in her jutting chin and pike-stiff body... a body that was a shadowy, tantalizing temptation to him through the thin linen shift, despite his anger.

  "You must understand, Tykir—" she began.

  "Do... not... talk," he said through gritted teeth, and picked her up by the waist, tossing her high in the air and onto his stout-timbered bed. She landed on her back, legs and arms splayed comically, as the mattress straw crackled beneath her. Well, not quite comically, he corrected himself. It was hard to smile when even more of her body was revealed with the chemise hitched up to her thighs, exposing exceptionally long and shapely legs, and with one shoulder of the undergarment draped down over her arm practically to her breast.