by Sandra Hill
"I worry about you, Tykir. I have not always been there when you needed me. I would make up for past mistakes."
"Do not concern yourself over me, brother," he said, rising up stark naked before the servant girl, who still lingered. Without saying a word, he lifted the vixen into his arms and carried her, screeching with delight, into the bathhouse, where cleanliness was not his main intent... leastways, not right away. Just before the door closed after him, Eirik remarked,
"We haven't finished our talk. What will you do with the witch?"
Tykir gave a two-word answer, coarse and explicit. But he didn't mean it. Really.
"Tykir is really not a bad sort at all," Eadyth insisted as she poured a pail of clean water over Alinor's soap-lathered hair. The unruly strands hung down to her waist when unbound.
Eadyth had insisted that Alinor call her by her given name several hours past, when they'd left the company of the men back at the palace, excepting Bolthor, who stood guard downstairs. Tykir, his brother and the other men had spoken of a visit to the bathhouse at the palace, where they would steam off the dirt and grime of "battle." And regale each other with overblown tales of conquest in the little skirmish they'd just ended.
"In fact, Tykir is one of the most charming men I've ever met. And that includes my husband, Eirik, who can be most... ah, persuasive, when he wants to be." Eadyth flashed Alinor a secretive smile, as if Alinor would understand perfectly. Hah! No man had ever exerted himself to be charming to Alinor. Certainly not her three aged husbands, who'd believed they were doing her a favor by marrying her.
As to that other assertion... Alinor snorted her opinion of Tykir being proclaimed the most charming man in Eadyth's acquaintance. Eadyth must live in a nunnery. "He is a troll," Alinor contended as she parted the wet swaths of her hair to peer up at the woman with disbelief.
Undaunted, Eadyth countered, "Well, of course. All men are trolls betimes."
Alinor couldn't be concerned about Tykir or the Vikings or even her captivity right now. She was taking too much pleasure in her first bath in over a week. Sitting in a copper tub, she sighed at the joy of mere soap and water. They were in the second-floor bedchamber of Gyda, an elderly Viking widow who was a longtime friend of the Thorksson family. As Alinor bathed, Gyda sat in a straight-backed chair, working a hand loom and listening intently to Eadyth's palace gossip.
"I can scarce believe that Eric Bloodaxe is king once again," Gyda commented, her fingers weaving the various colored threads into an intricate Norse pattern. "He is like a pesky fly that keeps coming back, no matter how often swatted away. I have no love of the Saxons, of course," she said, casting an apologetic glance at Alinor, "but he has been a thorn in the side of King Edred off and on for years now. I wish he would either leave or manage to stay in power here in Northumbria."
"King Eric is uncle to my husband and Tykir, but a more ruthless man I have never met," Eadyth explained to Alinor, who was lathering up her hair again.
"Even when they were babes, their father, Thork, could not acknowledge them for fear Eric would come after them," Gyda added. "That is why they lived with me and my Olaf for many years of their youth, apart from their beloved father, who went off Jomsviking to protect them. Orphans, they were, for all purposes, even with living kin."
Alinor paused her hair washing. "I don't understand. How could the father's abandonment protect the sons?"
"Ah! You do not know how Eric Bloodaxe got his name then," Eadyth declared and glanced toward Gyda. Both women shook their heads in disgust. "King Harald Fairhair, one of the most powerful rulers in Norway, was the father of dozens of sons and daughters alike by his numerous wives and mistresses. He practiced the more danico. Eric was ruthless from an early age in his pursuit of his father's crown. 'Tis a fact that many of his brothers died under his blade to feed that ambition. Thus the name Eric Bloodaxe."
"And Tykir and Eirik's father—Thork, methinks you called him—how did he fit into the picture?" Alinor asked.
"Thork never had any interest in a kingship, and he was illegitimate, besides. But though Eric's blood was legitimate, he was hated by the Norse people for his cruelty," Eadyth said. "There was the unfounded fear on Eric's part that while Thork disdained a crown, his sons might not."
"And so Thork pretended at first that he had no sons, abandoning the babes to the care of others. They were forbidden to call him father, and never did he give them a warm word or gesture of affection. Then later, when word got out that they were indeed his sons, he was forced to pretend an indifference." Gyda clicked her tongue as her eyes clouded over with unpleasant memories. "And his overprotection was warranted. There was a time... I remember it well... when an evil Viking villain, Ivar the Terrible, chopped off Eirik's little finger and sent it to Ravenshire in a parchment, all to lure Thork to his death. Which was the final result, in the end. Death. Both Thork's and my husband's, Olaf."
Eadyth reached over and patted Gyda's quaking shoulders.
"And how about their mothers?" Alinor was attempting to break the grimness that had overtaken their conversation.
"Thea, a Saxon thrall, was Eirik's mother. She died in the birthing," Gyda answered. "But Tykir... well, his mother Asbol was a Viking princess who abandoned the boy when he was still in swaddling clothes. Thork offered to marry her, 'tis said, but she sought a nobler marriage, and never once wanted to see her child over the years."
All of the women exchanged appalled looks at that unnatural behavior for a mother.
"They were such lonely children," Gyda continued, "raised here in Jorvik by me and Olaf, then at Ravenshire by Dar and And, their grandparents, till their death, but I think Tykir suffered most, being the youngest. I remember how the little boy would ask every woman he encountered, 'Are you my mother?' 'Twas heartwrenching, I tell you. He was left alone when he was only eight and Eirik ten when Eirik went off to foster in King Athelstan's Saxon court. Eirik was only half-Viking, you recall, but Tykir was pure Viking to the core. I remember how he would proclaim, even when he was too small to lift a mighty sword, that someday he would be a Jomsviking, too... just so he could stand beside his father. Then, his father died later that year, when he was eight, and Eirik was off a-fostering. And finally, his stepmother, Ruby, disappeared in a mysterious fashion."
"Gyda!" Eadyth exclaimed with sudden inspiration. "Dost think that is why Tykir has refused to settle in one place all these years? Why he never wed?"
"I am certain of it," Gyda said with an emphatic nod. "The boy was rejected or abandoned by everyone he ever loved. So he protects himself from hurt by never caring deeply for anyone. Even his own brother, whom he visits only on rare occasions."
"Oh, this is too much. You two are trying to turn my anger away from that troll by playing on my sympathies. The boy has seen thirty and five winters, and if he fails to care for anyone but himself, 'tis because he is a troll."
Gyda and Eadyth smiled at the vehemence of her response.
"Do you think... ?" Eadyth arched a brow at Gyda.
The old woman chortled gleefully. "Mayhap. Mayhap."
And they both gazed at Alinor in the oddest way.
"Here," Eadyth said then, handing Alinor a small soap-stone container filled with a rose-scented cream. "Your hair is just like mine—"
Alinor surveyed Eadyth's silken tresses and laughed. The woman must be blind.
"—curly and unmanageable. I have developed a wonderful concoction for the hair that tames even the wildest tresses."
Alinor was skeptical, though the cream did smell wonderful. She usually didn't indulge in such vanities, but mayhap just this once. As she worked the delicious substance into her long strands, Eadyth addressed Alinor once again. "Is it true that you are a witch?"
"Do I look like a witch?" Alinor scoffed, then immediately regretted her words as the eyes of both women traveled over her freckle-ridden body. She was aware of that old wives' tale about freckles being the devil's spittle, and apparently so were they.
" 'Tis a well-known fact that a witch cannot be discerned by outward aspects. Take Eric Bloodaxe's wife, Gunnhild, for example," Eadyth said, as she rinsed the lotion out of Alinor's hair and motioned for her to stand so she could comb out the tangles in the wet strands. "Yea, Gunnhild, the sister of King Harald Gormsson of Denmark, studied witchcraft in her early days in Finnmark, and a more beautiful woman there never was. At least from outward appearances. 'Tis said Eric rescued her from a most bizarre witchly voyage into the White Sea and over the years has gained strength from her powers."
"There are good witches and bad witches, of course."
Gyda stopped her weaving for a moment and stared at Alinor, attempting to determine in which category she fell.
"I am not a witch," Alinor said, but neither of the women paid her any heed.
"You must talk with Gunnhild this eve when we sup at the palace," Eadyth said. "Mayhap you can share potions and such in the midst of the feast."
"Me? Me?" Alinor stammered. "Why would I be asked to participate in some Viking feast?"
"Because you are Tykir's captive," Eadyth declared, as if that was a normal thing to be. "And you must remain under guard at all times. Tykir insists. Tykir wouldn't want Bolthor or Rurik or any of his men to miss this feast tonight by staying behind to guard you." Eadyth glanced at Alinor reprovingly, obviously deeming her a most selfish female to think otherwise.
"I am not a witch," she repeated again, then exhaled with exasperation. Really, it was like talking to a wall, trying to convince people of her innocence. "Do you even know what this is all about? Do you have any idea what they think I have done?"
Gyda shook her head slowly, and Eadyth said hesitantly, "Well, I know what Rurik said back at the palace, but I can hardly credit... tell us your version."
When Alinor explained, their mouths gaped with amazement.
"The king's manpart did what?" Eadyth choked out.
"Timed right, apparently," Alinor answered dryly.
"And you put a spell on him to make it do such?" Gyda grinned, rather impressed by that feat.
"There are a few men I wouldn't mind afflicting so."
Eadyth grinned mischievously. "Can you teach me the spell?"
"I am not a witch. I keep trying to tell you, it's what they accuse me of, but it's not true."
The women remained unconvinced.
"You know," Gyda said, tapping her pressed lips pensively with a forefinger, "it seems to me that I have heard of this malady afore on a man's private parts. Ofttimes 'tis caused by an injury that scars over and forces the staff to go crooked. The few cases I've heard of eventually corrected themselves."
"So all King Anlaf needs to cure himself is time?" Eadyth offered hopefully.
"Mayhap." Gyda tapped her chin pensively. "Lest the crooked manpart is caused by a witch's curse, of course." She looked pointedly at Alinor.
"I am not a witch. Why won't anyone believe me?" Alinor felt like weeping with frustration.
"What of the bowel spell you put on Tykir? Surely you cannot deny that." Eadyth folded her arms over her chest and nodded her head, as if she'd just won some point of argument.
"Well, nay, but—"
"Aha!" Eadyth and Gyda said as one.
"—but it was a mere herb that grows—"
"A poison?" Eadyth lashed out. "You gave Tykir a bane drink? That is as bad as a witchly potion, Alinor. I could kill you myself for that."
"It wasn't a deadly potion... oh, what's the use? No one believes me anyhow."
"Ea-dyth!" a loud male voice rang out from downstairs.
Eadyth cringed and Gyda gathered up her weaving items, preparing to leave the room.
"Oh, the brute! He knows I hate it when he yells for me like a cow in the field."
"Ea-dyth!" her husband shouted once again, his voice coming closer. "Where are you? I have something to show you."
Eadyth's face bloomed bright red. "I have seen it more than enough times, believe me," she informed Alinor with a wink. "Here," she said, handing her a towel. "Best you dry yourself afore my husband comes blundering in here."
Both Eadyth and Gyda left the room, giggling.
Through the closed door, she could swear she heard Eirik say, "Ea-dyth! I dropped honey on the front of my braies back at the castle. Can you think of any way I can remove it?"
Eadyth said something that Alinor could not overhear, but Eirik let loose with a low, masculine growl of pleasure at whatever it was.
And Alinor decided that Eadyth needed no lessons at all from a witch.
Tykir leaned against the doorjamb of Gyda's house and watched with amusement as his brother greeted his wife with a familiar pat on the behind and a deep, noisy kiss. Seven years they had been wed, and still they acted as lovestruck youthlings. Three children they'd had together—Thorkel, Ragnor and Freydis—and three others they'd brought into the marriage betwixt them... Eadyth's John, and Eirik's Larise and Emma. Ravenshire rang with the joyous sounds of children of all ages, and yet these two behaved as children themselves.
There was a Norse legend about a golden apple and how adventurers searched for this treasure a lifetime and more, across many lands, risking life and family. The moral of the tale was that often the precious fruit was growing in one's own orchard.
Eirik had found that golden apple.
Tykir was pleased for his brother, truly he was. There weren't many men fortunate enough to find a lifemate who was steadfast and loving. He never had.
"Have you left any mead for me back at the castle?" Bolthor asked as he passed by him through the doorway.
"Yea, I did. Not as good as Eadyth's home-brewed ale, but sufficient. There is Frisian wine, as well. And Rurik discovered a group of thralls bought by the king's steward from a Nubian slave trader. He said for the price of a gold coin, one of them has a surprise for you." Tykir jiggled his eyebrows meaningfully.
Bolthor laughed. "Good thing I have a gold coin." He hesitated, then added with a chuckle, "I will see you aboard ship at dawn when we set sail."
Eirik and Eadyth came next.
"We have decided to dine with the king, then come back here to sleep tonight," Eirik informed him. "Eadyth has no inclination to sleep under our uncle's roof. Nor do I."
Tykir nodded.
"Will you come with us?"
"You go on ahead. I wouldst get the witch first."
"Why not leave her here tonight?" Eadyth suggested.
He shook his head. "Nay, the witch does not leave my sight till we are asea. Even then, I cannot be sure she will not put a curse on my ship if I do not watch her closely."
Eadyth began to protest, but Eirik laid a warning hand on her arm. "Leave be, Eadyth. 'Tis Tykir's concern, not ours."
They left then, and Tykir waved aside Gyda's tsk-ing reprimand when he took the steps two at a time, attempting to locate Alinor. The night was wasting, and he had much mead to imbibe afore dawn.
"Alinor, where are you, witch?" he called out, at the same time he opened a bedchamber door. " " 'Tis time to... "
His words trailed off at the vision that greeted him. A woman was standing knee-deep in a hip bath. Her arms were raised overhead, pushing long strands of wet, rust-colored hair off her face. The sleek tresses hung in a silky swath down her back practically to her buttocks, which were round and smooth and most enticing. With a start, the woman turned quickly, arms still upraised, and regarded his shock with her own.
It mattered not that her creamy skin was covered with freckles from forehead to knees, and probably to toes under the murky water. Her body was spectacular. Small breasts, yea, but they were high and firm, with raspberry tips. A trim waist and narrow hips. Long, slim legs joined by a thatch of reddish-blond curls dewed with droplets of water. In all, a perfectly proportioned body that would put the finest goddess to shame. My very own witch goddess.
Bloody hell! When did I start thinking of her as mine? The witch blinked at him through green cat eyes, as if she was held in the same spell that immobilized h
im. Mere seconds had passed since he'd opened the door, but it seemed like a lifetime. Only then did he admit what he'd already come to suspect earlier. He was bewitched. And he didn't care.
Chapter Four
"Stop it," Alinor hissed at Tykir.
They were sitting on long benches in the vast great hall of the Norse palace, along with hundreds of other noble, and not so noble, personages. Everyone of high station in Northumbria, whether Norse or Saxon by birth, had come with their entourages to pay self-serving homage to the newly reinstated king, Eric Bloodaxe Haraldsson, and his wife, the witch-queen Gunnhild.
The royal couple was ensconced at the high table up on the dais with those of highest rank. Tykir, his friends and family, along with Alinor, his captive, sat just a short ways below, definitely a position of favor.
"Stop what?" the insufferable Viking knight inquired with exaggerated concern, as if he cared what was bothering her... which he did not, of course. The troll braced his shoulders back against the wall behind them, sipped at his goblet of mead and regarded her with lazy amusement.
Alinor felt as if she'd landed in a Viking version of hell. Especially since she was practically joined at the hip, and other places, to the man who had become her nemesis of late.
"Stop moving your hand about, for one thing." She glanced pointedly at their bound hands—his left tied at the wrist to her right. At the moment, the pair of appendages were sitting high on his thigh. Very high!
"Oh! I beg your pardon, my lady," he said solicitously. Then, with total lack of social grace, he raised his hand to scratch his belly. Which placed her hand just about square on...
"You crude clod!" She jerked her hand away from his... bulge. "You dumb dolt! You slimy swine! You... you... "
"How about loathsome lout?" Eadyth offered from across the table. "It always works well for me."
Her husband looped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. Presumably in punishment, but more like affection. Married couple though they be, the two could not seem to keep their hands off each other's persons. Alinor had never witnessed such spousal behavior. For a certainty, she'd never yearned to touch any of the slimy maggots she'd been handed in matrimony.