The Bewitched Viking

by Sandra Hill

  Holy Thor! Just that "hair" image caused his staff to lengthen a tiny bit more... as if any more was possible! He was rock hard and more than eager. Much more of this and he would have to go dip his staff in the water bucket, after first cracking the ice that formed on top. Now there was a thought to dampen a hard man's "enthusiasm."

  "Alinor... " he said tentatively.

  "Nay."

  "Nay? I didn't even ask the question yet."

  "The answer is still nay. Nay, nay, nay."

  He chuckled.

  "Smirk all you want, lord of Lech."

  "Lord of Lech?" he gasped out.

  "We are not going to resume those kissing games. You are not going to touch me. I am not going to touch you. I may have lost my senses there for a moment, but I have them back now. And this witch is not making love with yon troll."

  "Would yon troll be referring to me?" he said, choking with laughter.

  "If the name fits, Viking."

  "The witch and the troll. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

  "Aaarrgh!"

  "You wanted me," he pointed out. "Do not try to deny it."

  " 'Twas just curiosity."

  He thought about that for a moment. "Wouldst there be any chance you are curious about how my staff would feel in—"

  "Do not even think of suggesting such! I was curious, but now my curiosity has been satisfied. That is the end of it."

  "You are satisfied?" he inquired incredulously.

  "I'm not talking to you anymore. So do not bother flapping your tongue at me." She made much ado over the process of turning her back on him.

  She wants me, too, he decided with a grin. He was a man well versed in female ways. He sensed when they were attracted to him. And when a woman protested this much, 'twas a sure sign she was weakening. Yea, 'twas only a matter of time till Alinor crept closer to his tempting form. He'd best make ready.

  He arranged one arm under his head, striking a casual pose. With the other hand, he flipped the bed furs on his side down to his waist, exposing his shoulders and chest. Some women had told him, on more than one occasion, that he had an impressive upper body. Well, actually, many more of them had commented on his lower half, but he didn't want to shock Alinor with that much male virility too soon. Not that she hadn't seen it all already, but not from this close vantage point.

  He should be thinking about the consequences of what he was about to do, but he couldn't care right now. All reason was being directed by the organ between his thighs, not the organ between his ears. Which was not a bad thing, in his opinion. Still, he assured himself, making love with Alinor did not mean he was committed to her, or that he was responsible for her care beyond delivery to Anlaf. She would understand that before he dipped his sword in her sheath, that she would.

  Odin's breath! It's cold in here. With his body half exposed to the night air, Tykir was beginning to shiver... and not from the bedlust. And speaking of breath, I can see my own breath. There will surely be frost on the oars come morn.

  Then the most amazing thing happened. Well, amazing for Tykir, who prided himself on his allure to women. He heard a sound. A soft sound.

  Alinor was snoring.

  She had bloody well fallen asleep on him.

  "Alinor," he whispered.

  Nothing.

  Lightly, he touched her hair, which was the only thing showing above the furs.

  Nothing.

  He glared at her.

  Nothing.

  With a grumble of disgust, he pulled the bed furs back up to his chin and turned his back on her, as well.

  Mayhap she didn't want me quite as much as I thought.

  From the other side of the bed furs, Alinor stopped her fake snoring for a moment. And what she thought was, Whew!

  Eight days later, they finally entered the wide fjord leading to King Anlaf's royal palace in Trondelag. The blowing of a horn pierced the air, announcing the arrival of new ships.

  The crew was nigh frozen to the bone. All of them were bundled up in huge furs or heavy woolen cloaks, even when rowing. Their hands were cracked, and bloody at times, from the harsh elements and the harsher task of maneuvering the ship on winter seas with ice-crusted oars and ropes.

  Alinor had lain, practically the entire eight days, curled up under Tykir's sable cloak, shivering. She would have been bored to the point of insanity if she hadn't been so cold... and frightened, for her fate would soon be decided.

  In this last leg of their ship's journey, they had been hit with frigid weather—rain, snow, sleet and gusting winds— all of which the men managed to blame on Alinor's witchly curses. In truth, she had been doing a fair amount of "cursing," both inwardly and outwardly, but mostly in the form of complaints, not some impossible black magic. To make matters worse, the farther they traveled north into the region known as The Land of the Midnight Sun, the shorter days became. In just a few sennights, Tykir had told her, it would be dark all the day long, and this would last for several of the winter months. What a dismal prospect!

  Assuming she would be there that long. Rurik had taken to checking his manparts a dozen times a day because he contended that Alinor had been looking at him there with evil intent. She'd smiled at that idiocy, and waggled her fingers in a fey manner, which only made him madder.

  One of the seamen had complained that his loose bowels started the night the witch wished him "Good eventide" in passing. Alinor had told him it was probably the gammelost.

  Another had developed a fiercesome itch in the hair under his arms, on his chest, in his eyebrows and beard, but mostly between his legs, where he discovered crab lice with claw-like legs. Alinor must have caused the tiny creatures to suddenly inhabit his skin, the superstitious man had wailed. Never would he believe that the poxy wench he'd bedded back in Jorvik could be at fault. Soon the lice spread like wildfire—no doubt lured by all that Viking hair—but this, too, was blamed on Alinor.

  Two days out of Hedeby, some of the men had adopted the practice Tykir and Rurik and Bolthor had engaged in at Graycote. They were wearing their braies backwards as a charm against her potential spells. This was a particularly lackwitted exercise, not to mention laughable in appearance, in Alinor's opinion, and she told them so every opportunity she got. For the seaman with the loose bowels, this new fashion custom was more than demented.

  Naturally, they all kept checking her backside on the odd chance that her tail would emerge. And they wore wooden crosses, and splashed themselves with holy water repeatedly, which immediately froze into icicles on their beards and noses. Alinor suspected that Rurik had run out of his cache of holy water long ago, and was filling his vials with sea water, which he sold to his fellow shipmates.

  Bolthor had come up with so many sagas involving a witch and her evil doings that he constantly bemoaned the fact that his head was becoming fuzzy and the stories getting mixed up. Although he wasn't much nicer to her than any of the other men, Alinor was developing a fondness for the gruff giant.

  Worst of all in Alinor's ongoing travail was the Troll-Kisser.

  Despite Tykir's warning to desist, Rurik relished the retelling of how he'd come upon Tykir kissing her in the bed furs. Each time he retold the tale, the details got more exaggerated, to the point where now he claimed to have seen them both naked, down to the freckles on her buttocks and Tykir's mighty "prow," which had been just about to dip into her "waves." The very fact that Tykir would kiss a witch was proof that she'd put a love spell on their master, according to Rurik's ill-logic.

  Alinor didn't need any reminders of Tykir's kisses.

  They were firmly imbedded in her memory. Just the thought of them—and there were far too many thoughts— turned her hot and strangely restless. Never in her wildest imagination, even as a young girl with dreams still intact, did Alinor suspect a man's kiss could be so... well, exciting. And the last thing she needed in her life was more excitement, she told herself over and over again.

  To make matters even worse, T
ykir's leg was bothering him. With the cold dampness that pervaded the air, he could scarce put his full weight on the limb without wincing in pain. He'd taken to limping slightly and often rubbed the scarred thigh through his thick braies. She might have been able to help him, to prescribe some herbal plaster or exercise regimen or—oh, sweet heaven!—massage it herself. On second thought, she misdoubted she could bear exposure to his bare flesh... again... without some dire consequence. She trembled involuntarily at imagining what form that dire consequence might take... and whether it would affect her, or him, or both of them.

  She'd been avoiding Tykir as much as he avoided her since the unfortunate kissing incident. But there had been times when she glanced up suddenly to find Tykir watching her, and she knew he was remembering, too. Once he even licked his lips while studying her.

  She'd felt like leaping across the ship to slap the wretch.

  Or kiss him.

  "Well, have you decided how you will handle the situation?" Tykir asked, limping up beside her now.

  She stood at the rail, watching the men steer the long-ships into berths along the banks of the wide river fronting the palace grounds. Hundreds of other longboats, along with smaller vessels and the larger knarrs used for transporting massive cargoes, were anchored midriver or turned upside down along the shore, beached for the winter.

  "What situation?"

  "The curse. How will you remove the curse from Anlaf's manroot?" Idly, he reached a hand out and flicked a big snowflake off her eyelashes. Then, to both of their amazements, he put the same forefinger to his mouth and licked.

  Alinor felt that lick like an erotic arrow to the pit of her stomach. Luckily, she was able to stifle a groan.

  He blinked those big brown, disgustingly thick lashes of his at her, equally affected, she would wager. Or else he played a game with her... a game for which she was sorely ill-equipped and woefully mismatched. Forget about her being a witch. This man had beguiled her, good and proper, with a few measly kisses.

  Well, not measly.

  Concentrate, Alinor. Forget the kisses. Forget his nude body. Start remembering that he's your enemy.

  "You're imagining me naked," Tykir teased with a little playful tap to her chin.

  "Me? Me?" she sputtered.

  "Do not worry, though. I like it."

  "You are the expert on naked looks, not me," she asserted.

  He just grinned, and gave her a quick once-over assessment that clearly did not involve any clothing.

  "To answer your question—"

  "Which question?" He was fingering the edges of her hair and sniffing. The man did have a fondness for the rose-scented hair cream Eadyth had given her.

  She slapped his hand away. "The question of how to handle 'the situation.' "

  "Oh, that question."

  "I have decided to do nothing."

  "What?" Tykir looked magnificent in a rust-colored wool cloak lined with red fox fur, despite a sennight's worth of whiskers shadowing his face. None of them had been able to bathe or change their salt-crusted clothing these past eight days, but Tykir had managed to braid the one side of his damp hair and don the thunderbolt earring and amber pendant in preparation for being received in the king's court.

  Alinor, on the other hand, suspected that she looked like a dirty-faced, speckled hen, even in the luxurious sable mantle of Tykir's that she still wore.

  "I will do nothing," she repeated. "I am not a witch. 'Tis no fault of mine that Anlaf suffers... an affliction. 'Tis no fault of mine that I have been subjected to kidnapping and tortures, and forced to endure indignities befitting a mere thrall. 'Tis no—"

  "Tortures?" Tykir's right brow raised. "Name one."

  "Kissing. Having two hundred men staring at my posterior all the time. Eating gammelost."

  He grinned at her, and, Blessed Lord, he was nigh irresistible when he grinned. "Torture by kissing?" he scoffed.

  "Yea," she insisted, raising her chin defiantly in the face of his laughter. "Therefore, it is your fault that I am here. So I leave it to you to solve the problem."

  "Me? Me?" He thought a moment, then narrowed his eyes at her. "We are back to the guardian angel theory, aren't we?"

  She shrugged. "It makes no less sense that you have a set of hidden wings than me having a hidden tail."

  "I refuse to be your guardian angel," he said, then realized how ridiculous that sounded. "I mean, I refuse to be responsible for your well-being after today. I will present you to King Anlaf. I will make him promise to treat you with the respect due your high station. I will ask him to return you to your home once you have straightened his staff. But I will not be your protector after today."

  "Aaarrgh! Have you heard one word I've said the past few sennights? I... can't... straighten... a... a... a... cock. There! I've said the word. Are you happy now?"

  He smiled.

  Yea, he was happy.

  The troll!

  "Never fear, witchling. You will think of something."

  The man had a moat between his ears.

  "If all else fails, you could try kissing Anlaf. Believe me, you have a talent in that arena. Yea, that might be the perfect solution. Kisses to cure a curse. I know your kisses straightened me out."

  She gave him a look of utter disbelief at his callousness and swung her arm in a wide circle before clouting him in his grinning mouth.

  He barely winced at her blow. But he did concede, "Then again, mayhap not."

  Anlaf's castle stood on a high motte, or earth mound, overlooking the joining of two rivers. At the base of the flat-topped hillock was the usual water-filled moat. There were hutlike homes and small longhouses down by the piers, but most of the people lived within the royal ramparts and the vast surrounding stockade. It appeared as if it could accommodate hundreds, even as many as a thousand inhabitants.

  "Are there always so many people here?" Alinor asked Tykir.

  "Nay, it must be a feast of one sort or another."

  " 'Tis the marriage celebration for Anlaf's oldest daughter, no doubt," Bolthor said in passing, with a huge wooden chest on his shoulder. "Yea, methinks I heard that Signe was to wed this season." He grinned at Tykir. "She finally gave up on you."

  Tykir grumbled something in the Norse language... probably a foul expletive.

  But then she considered Bolthor's news. Wonderful. I get to have my head lopped off during a wedding feast.

  Stop it, Alinor. Naught will happen. You are under the protection of a fierce warrior... an important merchant prince.

  A troll.

  Oh, God!

  Having already passed through the gatehouse, Tykir led her with a hand under her elbow. With the onset of the cold weather, his leg wound had started to bother him, and Alinor could see that he fought against limping, or letting anyone see him limp. Prideful man! Most of his men had gone on ahead, or scattered in various directions. For many of them, this was home for the winter. Others would be traveling on to Tykir's homestead, or to their own homes in this immense northern wilderness. The huge double doors were opened by a guard who in turn signaled to another guard who blew a horn announcing their arrival.

  The earth and timber castle was enormous, like a palatial fort. It had no clear architectural style, having been added to indiscriminately over the years. But the doors and lintels and various crenallations, even those of stone, were highly carved in the Norse style. Everywhere, there were fierce-looking sentries of tremendous size, carrying swords and shields and battle-axes.

  They entered the vast great hall, which at present surely seated more than five hundred men and women, though the latter were in much shorter supply. A dozen enormous free-standing, raised hearths were arranged down the long center of the rectangular room. Mostly, they were intended for warmth during the interminable winter months, since cooking was done in a separate kitchen wing, but with all the body heat being generated by the eating and drinking crowd on this festive occasion, the fiery blazes were hardly needed. On either side
of the hearths were arranged three very long rows of trestle tables, starting at the dais, where the high table stood, and leading to the far end of the room, where the lesser guests were seated.

  "Come," Tykir said, taking her hand in his and leading her along the right wall toward the dais. Rurik and Bolthor followed behind them, having tied Beast to a post outside. Many friends and acquaintances nodded and greeted the three men along the way, giving Alinor only a passing glance of curiosity. She had the hood of Tykir's cloak pulled up over her head, so there was naught about her appearance to spark any interest.

  "Tykir! When did you get back? Did you bring that case of Frisian wine I ordered?"

  "Come tell us the news of that weasel, Edred! Is he still nipping at Eric Bloodaxe's heels?"

  "How was the amber harvest this year? My third wife has a yearning for one of your baubles."

  "Come share a cup with us when you have finished with your king's business, Tykir. We would hear again about the time a sultan's harem was opened to the Varangian Guard."

  "Bolthor, is that you? Have you any new sagas to regale us with? I still chuckle betimes over that 'Tykir the Great and the Spitting Contest' tale that you related last year at Gudrik the Glutton's funeral feast."

  "Stay here," Tykir told her when they finally reached the head of the first table. He didn't even frown at the reminder of one of Bolthor's sagas, which invariably poked fun at him. The solemnity on his usually open face scared Alinor. Why wasn't he jesting and teasing her in his usual manner? Why wasn't he smiling at all his laughing countrymen who greeted him? Why did he act as if her head was already on the chopping block?

  Rurik stepped to the side, about to speak to a group of half-drunk Norsemen dressed in the rich cloth of Norse nobility.

  "Keep your teeth shut for a change," Tykir warned Rurik, who was no doubt about to spread his stories about Alinor the Witch.