Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (11 page)

“Well, that is no longer the issue.”

She tilted her head in bafflement.

“Now that I have seen you naked, and once Anlaf sees you naked, I know that the king would take you on as his sixth wife.”

He could see by her fisted hands that she barely restrained herself from clobbering him…or trying to. “Even if I am a witch?” she asked in an overly sweet voice.

“Even if you have a tail.”

“Well, I still say you won’t abandon me. I’m your responsibility now,” she persisted.

He used a very coarse word in connection with responsibility.

She raised her chin and glared down her nose at him. “I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight. Among other things, I intend to beseech the Blessed Lord to cleanse your foul tongue.”

“Hah! When you tell your beads this eve, best you pray
that this image of you, naked, leaves my head. Otherwise you will have a lot more than my foul tongue to worry over.”

“And that would be?”

A warrior, such as himself, knew when to charge and when to retreat. A trader, such as himself, knew when to bargain and when to accept defeat. The wench, who apparently had the skills of a rock, did not have the sense to stop when she was ahead.

He raised up on his knees with a palm braced on either side of her hips on the storage box. Leaning closer, he pressed his manhood against the joining of her thighs. Layers of clothing separated them, but his message was clear. His lips were almost touching hers. He felt her breath against his gritted teeth as she inhaled and exhaled with some strong emotion. Their eyes held the entire time, his in challenge, hers in irksome defiance. He stayed in that position for only a moment before rising to his feet. It was enough time…for both of them.

He proceeded to leave her then, and the lady called out in a foolish attempt to have the last word, “Well, speak up, you oaf. What do I have to worry about
with you?”

His final words—rude and provocative and, yea, just a little bit enticing—lingered on the sea breeze long afterwards:

“You do not want to know, my lady. Truly, you do not want to know.”

Several days later they approached the land of the Danes and its famous market town at the base of the Jutland peninsula. Hedeby, which the Vikings referred to in their Northern tongue as
æt Hæ
um,
was located at the junction of several major trade routes, by sea and land.

Despite being more than a thousand miles from home
and in the heart of Viking territory, Alinor had more than one reason to feel a vast relief…and not just because she would finally be stepping on land again.

It was only noon, but already, three times that day, they had encountered vicious-looking pirates. Seamen often put their long shields on the mast-top with the point turned downward to indicate that they came as friends. Not these sea wolves! With their scarred faces and burning eyes, these scavengers of Zealand put a bone-deep fear in Alinor, as Tykir and his Vikings had not thus far. Bolthor had explained that these particular sea outlaws, led by a man called Hord the Rat, maintained a den somewhere between Zealand and Funen…a place of terror to one and all. They had gained much success of late in terrorizing the southwest coast of Norway, the Øresund Passage and the Baltic.

The pirate leader had bidden his sailors heave to and grapple the nearest of Tykir’s ships. Fortunately, they had given up their attempts quickly on getting a closer view. The mere presence of the fierce fighting forces on Tykir’s ships had convinced the pirates to keep their distance thereafter and let them pass by unmolested. Alinor wondered if her prayers in regard to her fate in King Anlaf’s court hadn’t helped in this regard as well. Or perchance it had been the sight of Tykir and his tall, imposing Northmen, their muscles well honed by battle, donning chain or leather shirts and pulling out sharp swords and battle-axes.

One thing was certain: With each passing pirate sail, Alinor’s respect for Tykir as a leader had risen a notch. She didn’t have much respect for him as a man, since he’d captured her and disrupted her life on a whim and still declined responsibility for her fate. But as a ship’s captain and a chieftain of fighting men, she’d never met better.

There had been times when Tykir’s longships rode close
to shore, and on some of these promontories and river mouths she’d sometimes seen bearded heads on pikes, indicating that the peoples of that particular land did not welcome seamen from the north. Even when they’d been Northmen themselves. Fortunately, Tykir seemed to know how to choose his battles, and when to ride away from a fruitless fight…though Alinor suspected that he enjoyed a good fight like any other man. ’Twas the nature of the beast.

Now Alinor was leaning against the ship’s rail near the prow, with Bolthor at her side. He was the only one of Tykir’s men who would speak with her. Though even Bolthor, giant as he was, made sure that his wooden crucifix was visible and that he was doused with Rurik’s holy water. As a further precaution, he kept making the Christian sign of the cross on his chest when, in the midst of conversing with her, he recalled that it was a witch with whom he made discourse.

Yestereve, Tykir had doled out small sacks of coins in payment to his men, though he’d cautioned them that a wise seaman never counted his wealth till he was home. Some of Tykir’s sailors would be disembarking in Hedeby, staying with two of the longships that would be beached there over the winter. Amongst those men, some would take ship on other vessels leading to their homelands, to return next spring for the amber harvest in the Baltic. The other five ships would travel to Trondelag in a day or two, first to King Anlaf’s court, then onward to Tykir’s home.

Tykir was busy with the ships’ last-minute business, and he had ordered Bolthor to stand guard over her, which was ridiculous. How did they expect she would escape here? Jump overboard and swim in the frigid waters? Fly away on one of the blustery late autumn breezes? And to what safe haven? A shark’s teeth? The pirates’ den?

Now the seven ships were making their way across the smooth lake at the head of the river Schlei. It was a beautiful day with clear skies and only a faint breeze, the kind of day when autumn is shiveringly over but winter’s icy blanket not yet covering the land. The lake resembled a blue-tinted mirror, broken only by the wake of the longships as they rowed smoothly across its calm surface.

“It’s spectacular,” Alinor said, staring at the unbelievable sight before them. Hedeby.

A huge timber rampart and a lengthy moat surrounded the trading center in a rough semicircle. To the east it was bounded by the waters of Haddeby Noor, with its notably shallow and therefore protective entrance from the Schlei. There were three wide gateways or tunnels—paved with stones—one south and one north for the transit of men, horses and wagons, and one on the west, where a thin stream ran between its piled and strengthened sides down to the fjord.

“Have you never traveled much with your brothers?” Bolthor asked, no doubt amused at her gaping at every new vista like an awestruck child.

She gave the giant a sideways glance of disbelief. “My brothers took me nowhere…lest it be some estate or royal gathering where they might barter my body for yet another marriage bed. Never outside Britain.”

Bolthor shrugged, as if it was the lot of women. Not worth discussing. Alinor thought about filling the oaf’s head with a thought or two about what it was like to be a young woman…an
uncomely
young woman with freckles and unmanageable red hair. Could he imagine the humiliation of being rejected, over and over these past ten years and more, since the age of fourteen, as a mate by all the eligible men below the age of fifty of suitable line-age and wealth? No, she guessed that this thick-headed
fool—like men of all nations—would fail to see the unfairness of a system that placed women lower than thralls and fine-bred animals. He would consider it a woman’s lot, and that was that.

“I’ve been to Jorvik many a time, of course,” she said, instead. “I have an agent there who sells my raw wool and fine fabrics for a good price in the trading stalls of Coppergate. I go into the market town at least twice a year. ’Tis best for a person to keep a hand in her own business.”

Bolthor smiled down at her. “You sound like Lady Eadyth. She is ever protective of her honey and mead interests, as well. In truth, Tykir carries many of her products with us this trip to see if he can get a better price for her in the north lands than she does in her native England. Mayhap the jarl will do the same for you when…if…”

His words trailed off, and Alinor knew he stammered because he was unsure whether she would be returned to her home and her sheep. It was disconcerting to know that Bolthor shared her reservations about her fate.

I am not going to think doomful thoughts. I will return. I will trust that God placed me in the Viking’s hands for a reason.
It was hard keeping the niggling doubts at bay, however.

“Tell me about Hedeby,” Alinor urged.

Bolthor nodded. “There are more than twenty-four hectares enclosed between the ramparts and the sea. See that long, narrow strip of flat land on the open side of the ramparts, facing the water? It is here that some ships and small boats are beached. And here, too, are slips for shipbuilding and repairing.”

“It’s not as big as Jorvik. Still, it looks intriguing.”

“Yea, ’tis. You can find anything of value in Hedeby, whether it be human flesh or fine gold adornments. Next to Jorvik, Tykir sells most of his amber here. In fact, he
maintains a house and market stall here year round, watched over by a most trusted craftswoman, Rachelle of Frankland.”

“A woman? Tykir trusts his business interests to a woman?”

“Yea? And why not?”

Alinor shook her head. Tykir ever did throw roadblocks in her condemning assessment of him. “And do you come here often?”

“Nay, twice a year at most these past five years or so. Tykir was not always a merchant, you know. He has much word-fame as a soldier and leader of fighting men. Kings of many countries still seek his services. Alas, his injury at Brunanburh harmed him more than is visible to the eye. And in the winter months, or in seasons of heavy rain, the leg wound pains him sorely, to the point where he becomes almost lame.” His head jerked up. With a startled expression on his face, he remarked, “You have a knack for making a man run at the mouth, without caution or discretion. Is it a witch thing?”

Alinor laughed. “Nay, ’tis a woman thing.” She jiggled her eyebrows at him, and the big man laughed back at her. Turning more serious, she said, “It was at Brunanburh that you lost your eye, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “Holy Thor! Never have I been engaged in a battle like that one. It marked the end of Viking domination in Britain, for one thing, and amongst those who fed the vultures that day were five kings and seven earls from Ireland, not to mention the son of the king of the Scots. I was left for dead, but Tykir came back for me. To his own peril. ’Twas then a bloody Saxon struck his sword into the jarl’s thigh, clear to the bone. Still, he carried me off the battlefield. The surgeons wanted to remove
his leg, but fortunately his sister Rain, a healer of much note, was able to save the limb for him.”

“Tykir’s sister is a healer?” Alinor was astounded. What else did she not know about the dolt? “So how did Tykir get involved in the amber trade?”

“Well, the master was fascinated years ago when he witnessed amber harvesting whilst visiting the Baltic lands. At first, he just engaged in the trading end. Now, he has his own workers there to harvest for him.”

“And is there a woman who handles this, too?”

Bolthor laughed. “Nay, ’tis Arnor No-Teeth who heads that enterprise.”

Tykir walked up then. “Are you regaling Alinor with another of your wondrous sagas?”

Alinor could see that he was in a rare good mood. No doubt he was as relieved as she to finally set foot on soil. And be one step closer to the end of his mission. “Yea, he was,” she answered cheerily, “and I was helping him get the words right.”

Bolthor’s lips turned up with amusement at her lie.

Tykir made a face of mock horror.

“’Tis called ‘Tykir the Troll Angel.’”

More than two hours later, the seven ships were anchored a short distance from shore, the products to be offered in the trading town had been unloaded, and all the men, except one guard per ship, had disembarked and gone off to enjoy a night of drinking and wenching before going to their winter abodes.

Tykir approached Alinor with a loop of rope in his hand.

“Nay,” she protested, backing away from him.

“Yea,” he insisted, stern-faced and unyielding. “Do not gainsay me now. I have much to do afore nightfall, and no patience have I for your balking.”

“But there’s no need for you to tie my hands…nor my neck. I have nowhere to run here.”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t try.” He moved in closer and waved the end of the rope in her face. “I give you two choices, my lady. I tie you to the masthead till
the morn, when I return to the ship. Or I tie your hand to mine.”

“Or you could just let me walk freely at your side.”

He wagged a forefinger in her face. I give you to the count of five.
Einn, tveir, rr, fjrir, fimm—”

“Oh, give me the bloody rope.” She grabbed the rope from his hands and tried to tie her own wrist.

With a smirk, he took the rope back from her and proceeded to bind their hands tightly together at the wrist. There was no way she would be able to undo the knots without attracting his attention, unless he was drunk, or asleep, or dead.

“I suppose you are so thirsty you could drink a tun of ale,” she commented casually a short time later as the oaf dragged her after him down the rocky shore, toward the edges of the town.

“At least a tun,” he called back to her, “except I have to meet with Rachelle, and there is much produce I need to stock up on for the winter months.”

Hmmm. It appears drink is out of the question.

“Well, you will have to sleep sometime,” she offered brightly.

He gave her a sideways glance of suspicion as she did a little skip and caught up to his side.

“Where will I sleep tonight, by the by? Back on the ship?”

He shook his head. “In my home here, behind the market stall. ’Tis cramped quarters they will be, and you will have to share my bed furs.”

Alinor’s head came up with alertness. “You jest.”

“I’m not letting you out of sight, my lady witch…not even in the dark.” He grinned, aware of her shock. “I am loath to ask, but do you snore? I cannot abide a snoring bed partner.”

Alinor’s upper lip curled back and a most unfeminine growl emerged from deep in her throat. If he hadn’t held her at bay with his outstretched free hand, she would have lunged for him. “Do not think for one minute that you are poking me in the dark with that…that thing.”

“What thing?” Tykir asked, dancing back when she swung an arm to slap his laughing face.

“That limp wick you and all other men carry around betwixt your legs. That’s what.”

“Limp? Wick?” he hooted. “Oh, milady, you have obviously never seen a Viking…wick.”

“You…are…a…troll,” she seethed at him, then stomped ahead of him, jerking him along behind her by their bound hands. The most alarming thought occurred to her then. She’d already exhausted the first two possibilities for escape: him being drunk or asleep. That left only dead. She wondered briefly if she would have the stomach for that. But then who would be her guardian angel?

She glanced over her shoulder at the brute, who deliberately hung behind, forcing her to tug on him. Then she glanced again, and wished she could sink into the ground with mortification.

The troll was staring at her bottom. And smiling.

Even wearing Tykir’s heavy fur cloak, Alinor shivered. The air had turned blustery and the winter harsh. Suddenly gray skies portended snow or, at the very least, an early frost.

She and Tykir were walking toward the town of Hedeby, the fingers of their bound hands laced together like lovers. It was not really a loverlike body contact, however. First of all, Tykir had forced it on her. Secondly, Tykir was gazing ahead, stone-faced and tight-lipped. He was “sore bedeviled,” or so he said, at Alinor’s constant ham
mering away at his less-than-admirable virtues:

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“Why do you walk so fast? Dost think me a giant like you?”

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“Where did you get that silly earring? And why do you braid your hair on one side only? To show off the ornament or your winsome face? Ugh! You are so vain, you…you prideful fop.”

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“I am hungry…but not for
gammelost.
I’d give anything for roast woodcock and a loaf of fresh-baked manchet bread and a…why are you smirking? Do not dare suggest what I think you are about to, you…you lecherous troll. I didn’t mean
anything.
”

“Stop picturing me naked.”

“Best we find a garderobe…
soon!”

“Hver fjandinn!”
Tykir cursed finally. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He halted abruptly and turned on her. Taking a deep breath, he conceded with ill grace, “I must yield to your sharp tongue. A truce, my lady?”

Actually, it
was
rather tiresome to nag away at someone who wouldn’t respond to every little jibe. She nodded hesitantly.

“I will consent to stop ogling your…uh, tail”—he grinned at that last word—“if you will stop pecking away at me like a demented wood-pecking bird. Peck, peck, peck! ’Tis enough to drive a sane man mad.”

“And what an appropriate choice of birds! Especially since your brain is naught but a block of wood.”

He chuckled, obviously enjoying their banter.

“A truce,” Alinor agreed then.

Which was a mistake.

On the one hand, there was what he said next…in a
low, rumbly drawl. “Ah, sweetling, I knew you and I could get on together if we tried.”

Sweetling?

On the other hand, there was what he did. Even as he spoke, Tykir swooped down to seal their bargain with a kiss. It was just a light brush of his lips across hers, but, oh, they were so warm and firm and persuasive. With just that fleeting touch, Alinor felt such a fierce yearning…for things she could not even imagine, or had never considered within her grasp.

Tykir jerked back, as if she’d passed poison from her lips to his. But, intuitively, she knew. He was experiencing the same frightening emotion that she was.

Who knew?
Alinor thought.
Who knew?

She did her best to hide her traitorous reaction from Tykir, and he did his best to blanket his demeanor of incredulity. Their hands were still joined, though, and where his palm pressed against hers, skin to skin, she felt an odd connection.

Mayhap he truly was sent to her, by her God or his gods. ’Twas an outlandish idea, of course. But it stayed in Alinor’s head and nestled in her heart, giving her momentary hope.

Fortunately, her unwanted thoughts were interrupted by the loud barking of a dog. Beast came galloping toward them, yipping and yelping happily, much to the consternation of Rurik, who was being dragged along by his pet, clutching a length of rope. Rurik was grumbling mightily in the Norse language—foul words, no doubt.

Beast flew through the air with an ambitious leap, from three arm-lengths away, and stood on his hind legs, putting his paws on Alinor’s shoulders. He almost knocked over both her and Tykir, who was laughing uproariously. Then he licked her enthusiastically in greeting.

“Oh, aren’t you the friendliest dog in the world?” she cooed. “Must be you have Saxon blood in your veins. For a certainty, there is no sign of the ill-tempered Viking in you. Nay, there is not. And, praise the Lord, ’tis a comfort to know that at least one male amongst you plunderers has good taste.”

“Come back here, Beast,” Rurik demanded. “
Now!
I mean it. Make haste, or you will be sorry.”

Still propped against Alinor’s body, his tail wagging and his tongue lolling with ecstasy at her ruffling of his head fur, Beast looked back over his shoulder at Rurik with an expression that could only be translated as, “Go away, Viking. I’ll come when I’m bloody well ready.”

“See…see…” Rurik sputtered to Tykir. “The witch put a spell on my dog. Five years I have had Beast at my side. My closest companion he has been…excepting you, of course,” he added hastily. “But now the witch has taken him from me with a spell. Lop off her head, Tykir. ’Tis the only remedy.”

Rurik stood glaring at her with misplaced outrage. A dozen magnificent animals must have given their lives for the various furs that adorned his body in layered mantles, and his head was topped by a high black bearskin hat. Gold and silver jewelry bedecked his neck and chest and arms and fingers. Truly, the man was bone-meltingly handsome, even with the woad face mark, in a vicious, overbearing sort of way. With a snort of scorn at her scrutiny, he placed a hand on each hip and tapped a booted foot impatiently, as if he seriously expected Tykir to comply with his order to behead her.

He wouldn’t, of course.

Would he?

“Rurik, I swear, you are the world’s greatest dunderhead. Didst your mother drop you on your head as a
babe?” Sometimes Alinor questioned whether she might have been dropped, as well, especially when her witless tongue raced hither and yon.

Rurik clawed his hands and stretched them out toward her neck. The low, ferocious growl that emerged from his throat would have done Beast proud.

Tykir took Beast by the scruff of the neck and set him aside. Then he quickly shoved Alinor behind him and warned, “Have caution, wench. Push a man too far and even the greatest warrior will be unable to protect your head.” He raised his free arm to impede Rurik’s approach.

“But the man is deranged,” she protested, Still forced to stand behind Tykir, she peered around his right shoulder as she spoke. Meanwhile, the dog thought they were playing a game and ran circles around both her and Tykir. “Beast comes to me, Rurik,” she explained, “because he can smell the scent of Beauty on my clothing.”

With a hiss of exasperation, Tykir put a palm on her face and rudely pressed her back again so she was hidden totally by his body. Beast thought that was a wonderful trick, apparently, because he jumped up and tried to put his paws on her face, too. Between trying to peer around Tykir to reason with Rurik and trying to calm the dog, Alinor had trouble standing upright.

“That makes sense, Rurik,” Tykir said, his one arm still upraised to halt his progress. At the same time, he squeezed her hand tightly with his other hand in a silent message that she was not to interfere anymore.

Alinor peeked under Tykir’s uplifted arm and saw Rurik’s face soften somewhat, but he continued to insist mulishly, “I still say she is a witch. She stole my dog. ’Tis a crime for which she must pay. The wergild for stealing a man’s horse is the thief’s life. I demand the same for the loss of my dog.”

“You can hardly equate a dog with a horse, Rurik,” Tykir argued. “Be reasonable.” A mischievous chuckle escaped his lips as some thought occurred to him. “Mayhap Alinor could wag her tail for you in recompense for the loss of your dog’s devotion.”

“Ah ha!” Rurik exclaimed. “So, you have seen her famous tail, after all, Tykir.”

“Well, not precisely,” Tykir admitted. He was clearly enjoying his ridiculous jest.

“God’s teeth! I didn’t steal your dog, Rurik,” Alinor asserted. “Beast merely shifted his affections.”

“Affections?” The sound of mirth was in Tykir’s voice.

“Affections?” Rurik shouted, not a hint of mirth in his voice. “I will give you affection. I swear, woman, I could cleave you to your clacking teeth with a single blow and feel not a lick of remorse. With a swing of my sword, Death Stalker, you will get affection.”

“Yea, affection, Rurik. You should learn to be more affectionate. Mayhap then your dog would love you again. Furthermore, if you had shown a bit more affection to the Scottish witch, you might not be wearing her mark for life. And personally, I do not think that woad design is half so unattractive as the scowl you wear all the time.”

“I am going to kill her, Tykir. I am sorry if that offends you, but I cannot help myself.” He was already releasing his sword from its scabbard.

“Nay, Rurik, leave off. The witch will be with us only a short time longer. Then Beast will gladly come back to you. Go now, find yourself a wench. You know ’tis the best way to cool a hot temper. That and a tun of mead.”

After Tykir soothed Rurik with more cajolery, he proceeded to leave, reluctantly. At the last moment, though, he shot daggers of icy promise at Alinor from his blue
eyes. Beast stayed behind, unrepentant at his lack of loyalty.

Soon Alinor and Tykir and Beast were walking purposefully toward his home and place of trade in Hedeby. The wood-paved streets cut in an orderly fashion at right angles or parallel to a channeled stream, which ran through the center of Hedeby, west to east. Some of the buildings on these streets were small, less than three-by-three ells, while others were as much as six-by-fifteen ells. The neat dwellings were stave-built with vertical or horizontal planking, or frame-built with wattle-and-daub panels. All of them had reed-thatched roofs and uniformly low doorways. In general, the buildings were placed so that the gable end faced the street, and the attendant outhouses stood behind them. The structures were fenced-off neatly from their neighbors and had their own gates and pathways.

Large numbers of men and women passed by, but Tykir assured Alinor that this was a much-diminished number. Winter approached, and many traders had already left for their homelands. Even so, Alinor could see that a large contingent of people lived here year-round, as evidenced by the young children scampering about at some of the residences. Visible in the backyards were small vegetable patches, bare now of their autumn harvests.

Hedeby was a center for craftsmen who had quarters of their own, much like the Coppergate sector of Jorvik. In front of some of the structures, both homes and businesses, rude stalls had been erected—wood tables with cloth canopies overhead. Here were offered for sale the foods of many lands. Hares, pigeons, chickens, joints of venison, mutton, pork and wild boar, and every fish conceivable. There were also sticky sweets from the east, breads of many different grains, pots of honey, exotic dried fruits
from the warmer climates, jugs of the much-prized Norse mead and potent wine from Frisia. There was even
gammelost
and
lutefisk
, which Tykir pointed out with a laugh.