Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (18 page)

Tykir balked. “I see no satisfactory end here.”

“How so?”

“You know not for certain that the lady is a witch, Anlaf. If she is not, ’twas unfair of you to have brought her here.”

“Well, take her back then.”

Tykir gritted his jaw. He really did not want to fight with Anlaf. He was tired. He was angry. He was itching to knock out a tooth or two. “I am not going back to Britain till next autumn,” he said, pacing his words slowly. “You demanded. I delivered. End of story.”

“Story? Story?” Bolthor jumped into the conversation. Tykir hadn’t realized that he and Rurik had drawn swords
as well and just waited for his word to defend him, if attacked. “Dost want a saga about this? How about ‘Tykir the Great and the Uncrooking of the King’s Crook’?”

Tykir and Anlaf both made growling sounds at the same time.

“You played me for the fool, Anlaf. No man does that without consequence, not even a king.”

“I did not,” Anlaf protested. “I
did
have a crooked cock. I have witnesses to that, and the dire pain I suffered, not to mention the lack of bedsport for three whole months. But now it is hale and hearty. Dost thou want to look at it again?”

“Nay! I do not want to look at your hairy manroot.”

“Hairy? Didst see hairs there? Oh, this is too much!” He turned to glare at Alinor. “Didst put a hair curse on me now, witch?”

Tykir had to smile at that idiocy.

Alinor was shaking her head from side to side, murmuring, “Vikings! Dimwits, one and all!”

“At least mine is not hairy,” Tykir informed her with a grin.

“How do you know? Have you checked lately? Mayhap I put a hair curse on you, too.”

“Sarcasm ill-suits you, my lady.” Bile rose in his
throat, even though he knew she was just teasing. Leastways, he hoped she was. He barely stifled the impulse to rush to the privy and check for certain.

Adam was laughing so hard that tears rolled down his face.

“I’m in a generous mood today, Tykir. I might have played a small part in this misunderstanding, that I concede. I’ll gift you Fierce One and Samirah, after all, for your trouble,” Anlaf conceded. “A horse and a wench. What more could you want?”

“I’ll tell you what else I want. I want an apology. I want recompense for my trouble. I want to leave this castle today. I want you to provide safe conduct for the Lady Alinor back to her home in Northumbria.”

“You want much for a mere misunderstanding,” Anlaf sputtered. “None of my ships leave for Britain for another three or four months. I cannot harbor a witch in my castle all that time. My troops would rebel. My wives and concubines would avoid my bed furs. Who knows what calamities would befall my household. You take her.”

“Me? Oh, nay, do not try that trick with me. She stays with you till you return her to her homeland.”

The abject horror on Anlaf’s face was almost comical when it was considered that the king had faced down legions of fierce soldiers in battle with less fear than he exhibited now. Apparently the loss of one’s manpart was more fear-inspiring than the loss of one’s life. Anlaf’s protests echoed throughout the great hall, where others insisted that the witch could not stay.

“Stone the witch,” one man suggested.

“Burn her at the stake,” another urged.

“Let us torture her secrets out of her first,” Gudny exhorted.

“Does she dance naked in the forest? Mayhap we could
watch her dance naked first,” one young soldier proposed. “’Twould be good entertainment for a wedding feast.”

Others nodded enthusiastically.

“Or trial by water. That would be worth watching,” another person offered.

More vigorous nodding.

“Trial by water? What’s that?” he heard Alinor inquire of Bolthor.

“They hold you under water for ten minutes or so. If you survive, you must be a witch. If you drown, then your good name is clear.”

Alinor thought for a second. “And that is Viking justice?”

“We learned it from the Saxons,” Bolthor told her.

Meanwhile, the Norse revelers were continuing to throw out suggestions to the king regarding the witch’s fate.

“Has anyone checked for a tail yet?” one man cautioned.

The murmuring throughout the hall was ominous, to him as well as Alinor, whose face had gone bone white under her horrible freckles. He saw that Rurik’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist in a vicelike grip.

He stomped down the dais steps, stormed over to Alinor’s side, smacked Rurik’s hand aside with a hissing sound of rage at the blue finger marks already marring the delicate skin and dragged her forward with him, an arm protectively draped around her shoulder. Though they stood at the bottom of the short stairway, everyone at the high table rose from their seats and took two steps backward. The bride, who had regained consciousness, was whimpering. The bridegroom was comforting her with a sweeping hand across her back that kept returning to the rump region. Tykir didn’t think he was searching for a tail.

“Enough!” Anlaf dropped his shield to the floor and shouted in a roaring voice, which carried across the great hall like thunder, causing waves of silence to follow in its wake. When all was quiet, Anlaf announced, “I have come up with a solution. Tomorrow we will hold a Thing to decide the witch’s fate.”

The Thing was about to start by midmorning the next day.

If Alinor had expected a disorganized governing body run by an unruly bunch of primitive Vikings, green-faced from overdrinking the night before, she was woefully mistaken. The Norsemen apparently held their laws in great respect, for they were groomed and dressed accordingly. Many of them had bathed and donned clean clothing, shaved or trimmed mustaches and beards and combed or braided their long hair. They must have risen at dawn to prepare for this event. Either that or they’d stayed up all night, though none the worse for wear, except for a few bloodshot eyes and breath odor that could wipe out a troop of soldiers with one mighty exhalation.

There were spaces for twenty-one men to sit in a half-circle at the head of the room, facing toward the empty dais…three each, including the chieftains, from the seven “tribes” or geographical regions in attendance at the gathering. Tykir, Rurik and Bolthor would sit there, as well, once the Thing began. The rest of the free men were seated on benches behind their chosen representatives. King Anlaf, dressed in his full royal regalia topped by a narrow golden circlet banding his forehead, was to act as the Thing-Leader. He sat in an armed chair in the center of the half-circle.

There were few women present in the assembly itself, though they could be seen in the background, moving
about their chores, or eavesdropping on what must be mostly a male event.

She and Tykir were sitting on a bench off to the side, along with other parties who had disputes to be settled by the Thing. Bolthor, Rurik and Adam sat on either side of them on the bench.

Primitive wooden crosses abounded on the chests of many. Alinor suspected that Rurik was doing a prosperous business in crucifixes and holy water. She wished him a bad case of splinters.

An ancient, gray-bearded man rose from the assembly and was making his way slowly toward the front, his progress impeded by those who stopped him along the way in warm greeting. He wore a full-length coat of marten skins. His neatly combed white hair hung about his shoulders like a silken mantle. In his right hand, he carried a long, wooden staff intricately carved with runic symbols. It resembled a bishop’s crozier.

“Who is that?” Alinor whispered to Tykir.

He just stared ahead, stone-faced. This was the first she’d seen him since last night, having been taken forcibly to a storage room, where she’d been locked in alone till this morning. It was clear that Tykir blamed her for the whole predicament.

Was it her fault she found herself in the middle of Viking lands? Was it her fault they’d declined to allow Tykir to dump her there whilst he went on his merry way? Was it her fault a storm was brewing outside, turning the skies black and it not yet noon? Was it her fault a threat loomed of their being snowbound at Anlaf’s court for the winter?

Adam leaned forward from his seat on the other side of Tykir and informed her, “That’s Styrr the Wise, the Lawspeaker. The Norse people have many law codes, but they are seldom written down. It’s the responsibility of the
lawspeakers to commit those laws to memory and recite them before the Thing begins.”

Tykir gave Adam a piercing glare, labeling him traitor for speaking to Alinor when he would not.

Adam ignored Tykir and graced Alinor with a roguish smile that had probably melted more than one maiden’s heart. “I am Adam of Godwinshire, by the by. We’ve not been properly introduced.”

Tykir made a snorting sound of disgust.

She smiled back at Adam, more to annoy Tykir than to respond to the younger man’s seductive grin. “I am Lady Alinor of Graycote…victim of this oaf’s ridiculous mission,” she said, rolling her eyes toward Tykir. “He wants to blame me for this turn of events, but deep down he knows he is at fault.”

“It must be
real
deep,” Tykir mumbled.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Nothing. I am not speaking to you.”

“Don’t you think that’s a trifle immature?”

“Adam, will you be coming with me to Dragonstead for the winter…assuming we get out of here afore the fjords freeze?” Tykir inquired, speaking over her. “Or will you stay with Father Caedmon at Anlaf’s court?”

“I know not for certain. It depends on whether it comes to combat here at the Thing. If we have to fight our way out of this mess…” he shrugged, “…then there will be no choice.”

“Combat?” she protested. “I thought this was a law court.”

Before anyone could answer—not that anyone was rushing to attend to her concerns—Rurik leaned forward from the other side of Adam and addressed Tykir. “Methinks you should let me take the wench outside and lop off her head. That would solve everyone’s problem. What
say you? Shall I unsheath my trusty sword?”

Alinor told Rurik what he could do with his trusty sword; it was that selfsame vulgar expression she’d used on rare occasions afore. All four men, including Bolthor, on her other side, gaped at her as if she’d sprung three heads.

Hell’s teeth! Had they never heard a coarse word from a lady’s tongue afore?

Apparently not.

“That is not the first time she has used that expression with us. Is that not so, Tykir?” Rurik curled his upper lip with distaste. “It must be a trait of Saxon women to speak with the roughness of men. Mayhap ’tis just Saxon women who live with sheep. Ones little inclined toward meekness.”

Alinor said nothing, but she waggled her fingers in the direction of Rurik’s manparts and muttered some nonsensical words. “Mimje hwan ziba-ziba.”

Rurik stood at once and sputtered, “See…did you all see her put a curse on me?” With a gasp, he rushed from the hall.

“Where is he going?” an amazed Adam asked.

“To the privy to check for curves,” Bolthor replied with a dry humor she hadn’t known he had. “He does it at least thrice a day.” He seemed to catch himself then. “Begging your pardon, my lady, for my crudeness.”

Then Bolthor launched into one of his sagas. “Hear one and all, this is the saga of Rurik the Beautiful:

Tykir and Adam’s slack jaws clicked shut with a resounding snap. Truly, Bolthor was not the world’s best skald.

“What were the words of that curse you put on Rurik’s manpart?” Adam wanted to know, turning his attention back to her.

“God spare me from blue-faced lackwits,” Alinor answered.

It took only a moment for Adam to realize that Alinor was not serious. He threw his head back and laughed heartily, uncaring of the Vikings who turned to stare at him. “I like you, Lady Alinor. Mayhap we could…ah, talk later, if things work out with the Thing.”

“Talk? Hah!” Tykir observed. “She’s too old for you, Adam. Why don’t you go jingle some bells or something.”

“Too old? Tsk-tsk, Tykir. Where are your manners? A chivalrous man does not comment on a woman’s age. You must forgive Tykir’s testiness, m’lady. He is not himself today.”

“Really? He is always testy, as far as I can tell.”

“Uh, just to satisfy my curiosity, how old
are
you, Lady Alinor?” Adam posed the question with studied casualness.

Now where did that come from? Oh, I see. The rascal probably thinks I’m a centuries’ old witch.
“Twenty-five.”

“Hah! That is only five years’ difference. Besides, I have always liked older women.” Adam jiggled his eyebrows at Alinor.

She couldn’t help but smile at the outrageous rogue.

“She nags incessantly,” Tykir said of a sudden, star
tling them all. “And her voice! Blessed Freyja! Betimes it is so shrill it makes your ears ache. In truth, I would wager she nags even in the midst of bedsport.”

Alinor gave him a sharp jab with her elbow, which did not even budge the immovable lout. “What makes you think I would participate in the bedsport with him, or any other man?”

“What? Did you think Adam was interested in
conversing
with you? About sheep? Or the black arts?” He pondered a moment. “Or freckle cures?”

Freckle cures? Ooooh, that was a low blow. There are black arts I would like to employ with this wretch.

“I like to talk with women,” Adam countered defensively. “Sometimes.”

Tykir and Bolthor exhaled with a communal, “Hah!”

“And disasters follow her everywhere,” Tykir divulged. “Whether it be her witchly arts or just coincidence, I cannot say for certain, but it gets tiresome after a while, I can attest.” Bolthor nodded in agreement.