Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (5 page)

Startled, Tykir glanced first at Bolthor, who was gazing at him with concern as he bent over at the waist, clutching his midsection, then at the Lady Alinor, who had the effrontery to grin. He thought he heard her murmur, “’Twould seem I had a choice after all.” Without another word, he made a mad rush for the garderobe.

There were two things Tykir heard Bolthor say behind him as he laid one palm over his stomach and another over his mouth, praying he would make the privy before he embarrassed himself: “Lady Alinor, if you have put a
curse on my master Tykir, I will light the torch beneath your stake myself. And it will be a slow-burning fire.” Then, “Methinks a good title would be, ‘Tykir the Great and the Raging Bowel.’”

Two days later, Tykir sat atop his horse in the inner bailey, about to leave Graycote, finally. He was weak-kneed as an untried boy after his first swiving, and he’d lost so much weight he resembled a starvling, but he was alive, praise be to the gods, and there had been times in these past two days when he questioned whether he’d survive the violent heaving and purging.

“I still say you should have let me kill the scurvy witch when first we realized she had laid a curse on your entrails,” Bolthor complained. “Mayhap the spell would have been removed earlier.”

All of the castle folk—three dozen of them, from the high castellan to the lowly kitchen carls—were barricaded in the stable under Bolthor’s stern-faced guard. When Tykir and his comrades reached a village later today, or mayhap even tomorrow, they would make sure someone was sent back to unlock them. There was plenty of water to share with the horses, and it would do none of them harm to go a day without food.

Bolthor left his post and mounted his horse upon seeing Rurik emerging from the manor’s great hall. He led the much-subdued Lady Alinor by a rope tied round her neck, though her eyes sparked green fire of outrage at her mistreatment by her three captors, including himself. Hah! He would like to speak with her about
real
mistreatment.

Welt marks stood prominent on her right cheek from Rurik’s slap yestermorn when she finally confessed her perfidy, though she’d claimed ’twas a mere herb, not a deadly curse. Furthermore, she’d avowed that the herbal
potion was intended to delay his departure from Graycote, not cause his departure from this world. If she’d wanted to kill him, she would have given the tainted drink to Rurik and Bolthor, as well, she contended. Tykir could have accepted that explanation if she hadn’t then refused to explain what purpose could be served by a delay.

That’s when Rurik had wielded his open palm on her. It had taken both Tykir and Bolthor to hold Rurik back from more permanent injury. No doubt Rurik would have liked to mark the witch’s face permanently, just as his had been.

That side of her face was swollen and bluish-yellow with healing—a stark foil against her pale skin highlighted with the ungodly freckles. She was fortunate Rurik hadn’t loosened all her teeth with the force of his blow. Rurik’s hatred of witches had intensified threefold since their arrival at Graycote.

Tykir stared at her dispassionately. Violence was a common happenstance in a Viking’s life, especially in battle, but it was rarely directed at women. He could feel no sympathy for this woman, though, since he had suffered so much worse at her hands.

He supposed they should be fearful in her presence after what she had done to him and Anlaf. But the three of them now wore makeshift wooden crosses hanging from leather thongs on their chests. It was Bolthor’s idea. A sure method for warding off evil spirits, including a witch’s magic, or so he asserted. Plus, they had put their braies on backwards to confuse the witch—another of Bolthor’s bright ideas—something that was inconvenient when visiting the garderobe for a mere piss. Finally, Rurik had brought forth a small vial of holy water he’d been given by a monk in Dublin. Periodically, these past two days, Rurik sprinkled each of them with the blessed liquid. He
intended to replenish his supply at the minster in Jorvik.

When Rurik had doused the witch with a generous splash of the holy water, they’d all backed away, fully expecting her skin to sizzle and burn. But nothing had happened, except she resembled a sodden rooster.

Tykir wasn’t so sure about all these maneuvers, especially when Lady Alinor snickered the first time he explained their purpose, including the backwards braies.

“Are you an idiot?” she’d asked.

“Nay!” he’d snapped.
Mayhap,
he’d thought.

Two days had gone by without another witchly spell; perchance they were safe for now. And it was past time to leave this bloody Saxon land and return to Trondelag, where witches and trolls and magical events were the stuff of legends. He could scarce wait till this whole witchly mission was over and done. If it weren’t for Adam, he would have abandoned the ill-fated assignment sennights ago.

Because the Lady Alinor’s hands were bound in front of her, Rurik put his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her up to her saddle, none too gently. She wore loose underbraies so she could sit astride, something she had protested vehemently, but he’d insisted upon for the sake of speed. The lady’s snarl was her only reaction to being touched by a man who clearly repulsed her. With good reason.

In a rare moment of consciousness these past two days, Tykir had discovered that Rurik was piling tree limbs and kindling in the courtyard…enough wood to feed a huge bonfire. In the midst of this was a wooden stake to which Rurik intended to place the witch the moment Tykir died and went off to Valhalla.

Luckily, Tykir had not died. Lucky for the witch, as well.

But the witch’s pyre still stood as a reminder in the courtyard for all to see. And the grim-faced Alinor was all too aware of its continuing existence.

In the process of arranging the woman on the shifting mare, Rurik jerked her restrained hands forward so she would be able to grasp the front of the saddle. Bolthor had already taken her reins in hand and would lead her horse.

“You brute!” the foolish woman commented to Rurik.

“You daughter of Satan!” Rurik countered

“If I had real powers, I would have struck you dead long ago.”

“Desist!” Tykir roared. “’Twill be two or three sennights, at the least, on land and sea, till we get to Anlaf’s court. Let me establish here and now that I refuse to listen to you two bickering endlessly the entire time.”

“But he—” she started to say.

“But she—” Rurik started to say.

“But nothing!” Tykir growled, rubbing his forehead. It was an ill omen of things to come if he had a headache even before they began their journey. He fixed Lady Alinor with his gaze now. “You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

“Hah! ’Tis a fine time to be asking.”

The expression on his face must have alerted her that she was treading a fine line. “Yea, I can ride, though I’ve never done it with my hands tied.”

He shrugged. “Either ride thus or on my lap.”

She looked as if he’d suggested her riding him, instead of his horse.

“I can ride my own horse,” she said in a strangled voice.

“Fine. Let us be off then.”

“Come, Beast,” Rurik called out cheerily to his wolfhound, who stood at Tykir’s side.

The dog lifted its head haughtily and refused to obey his master’s command—something he never used to do. The animal had switched his allegiance to Alinor ever since Rurik had taken her sheep and her mangy sheepdog, Beauty, to a far pasture. Thereafter, Beast had been alternately despondent and mad with frustration, howling till the wee hours of the morning. ’Twould seem Beast was smitten with Beauty. Their constant chasing of each other about the keep these past two days, with a dozen dumb sheep following after, had driven all the servants nigh mad.

“So be it then, traitor.” Rurik nudged his knees against his stallion’s sides to prompt him into motion. At the same time, he reached over and slapped Alinor’s mare on the rump.

The mare bolted.

And Lady Alinor slipped ignominiously to the ground, smack onto her bottom. Since she appeared merely chagrined, not injured, Tykir assumed her tail had buffered the fall.

All three men burst out laughing.

“I thought you said you could ride,” Tykir gasped out.

“You could have given me fair warning, you…you…”

Bolthor was laughing so hard that his one eye was watering, and Rurik smirked with delight.

“Curse you all, you heathen louts,” she shouted, scrambling clumsily to her feet. “I hope…I hope…”

Just then a flock of winter geese came flying overhead, honking loudly…and splattered the three men. Lady Alinor had the good sense, or the mental forewarning, to duck under her mare’s belly. Thus, she was the only one unanointed by the vile “rain.” Tears of laughter were
streaming down her face when she emerged from her hiding place.

Tykir exchanged a meaningful look with his two comrades as they all attempted to brush off the goose droppings with scraps of cloth. And then they exclaimed as one:

“She really is a witch.”

Five days later

“Tykir! Ty-kir Thork-sson! What in the name of heaven are you up to now?”

Tykir put his face in his hands at the familiar female voice addressing him from the steps of the royal palace in Jorvik. “Eadyth,” he murmured under his breath. “Just what I do not need!”

Standing near the entrance to the king’s garth, where his uncle, Eric Bloodaxe, the Norse king, resided, was Tykir’s sister-by-marriage, Eadyth. All of Britain was under Saxon rule, except for this incessant splinter, Northumbria, which was once more in the hands of the Vikings. And if Eadyth, a Saxon lady, was in Jorvik, the Viking seat of Northumbria, then that could only mean that her husband, his half-Viking brother Eirik, lord of Ravenshire, was close by.

With Eirik and Eadyth as witnesses, he would never, ever live down this misadventure. Never.

“What are you doing with all those sheep?” Eadyth started in on him. “You hate sheep. You always claimed your grandmother’s sheep smelled to high Valhalla. Are you trading in sheep now, instead of amber?”

He groaned.

“Who is that?” Alinor asked. The witch was astride the mare next to him.

“My sister-by-marriage, Lady Eadyth,” he informed her. “She is married to my brother Eirik, lord of Ravenshire.”

“You are kin to a Saxon lord?” Alinor’s eyebrows lifted with astonishment. “You have blood links to Norse kings and Saxon lords. What next? A Byzantine emperor?”

He would have said something witsome and biting back to her, but he never got the chance. Eadyth, fists on hips, was railing at him again. “Why are the hands tied on the woman sitting on that horse? Why does she have a rope dangling from her neck? And why is she glaring at you so? Are those fingermarks on her cheek? Did you strike a woman, Tykir? Did you? For shame!”

Lady Alinor did look awful. She’d long since lost her wimple and headrail. Luckily, they were not blue, or he would have had to go chasing back after them, in case it was the Virgin’s Veil. Her hair stood out like a curly-leafed fire bush. Though autumn was in full bloom, her pale complexion was sunburned…not a pretty picture with the freckles standing out even more. Her clothing was dirty and disheveled since she’d refused to allow him or Rurik or Bolthor to watch—uh, guard—her whilst she changed.

He heard Rurik and Bolthor chuckle behind him.

“Why are you three dolts wearing your braies backwards? Is it some kind of lackbrain jest? And crosses…since when have you turned the religious zealot, Tykir?”

Rurik snickered, but not for long.

“Rurik, what happened to your face? Did you fall in a vat of woad dye? Do you attempt to stand out in a crowd? Ah, vanity ever was your weakness, and you no doubt think that silly mark is attractive. Well, it’s not.”

Now it was Rurik’s turn to groan.

“And Bolthor, how nice to see you again. Have you come up with any new sagas?”

“For a certainty, my lady.” Bolthor beamed like a bloody moon. “My master, Tykir the Great, has been so busy I can scarce keep track of all his exploits.”

“I can just imagine,” Eadyth said, eyeing Tykir with dry humor as she silently mouthed, “Tykir the
Great?”

After five days of riding up one fell and over another, in the company of the most shrewish witch from hell, followed by a smitten sheepdog and a half-dozen sheep who refused to stay in their pens despite being returned to Graycote
three
times, Tykir had thought he’d experienced the worst days of his life. He soon found out that the worst was about to come.

Just then, an arrow whizzed by his head, barely missing his right ear, and embedded itself in a passing cart. Amazed, he turned to see a group of armed horsemen approaching. Just entering the high-arched gates that separated the Norse palace from the Coppergate merchant sector of Jorvik, the attackers were still some distance away—at least ten ells—way too far for even an expert archer to aim his bow.

Startled passersby strolling the stalls of the tradesmen, as well as personages about to enter the palace grounds, gaped with alarm at the peril entering their midst. Many
ran for cover or ducked under the canopies of their trading booths.

“Helvtis!”
he swore upon seeing that the two noblemen in front had bushy red hair and green eyes. “Damn!”

He and Rurik and Bolthor exchanged looks of incredulity, even as they instinctively went into battle readiness. Reaching for weapons and shields, they prepared to fight off whatever foe threatened them. But what man in his right mind would risk starting a fight in the midst of the business center of the city, or so near the palace and its fighting forces?

One of the red-haired miscreants yelled, “Halt, you whoreson of the North!” He was waving a sword in the air so wildly that Tykir feared he might chop off his own head.

The other red-haired miscreant seemed to have trouble staying upright on his horse and was holding on to the reins with both hands. From the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, Tykir assumed he was the ill-trained archer who’d attempted to shoot him. The lackwit managed to inform Alinor in a shrill shout, “Never fear, sister dear, we have come to rescue you from the devil’s spawn.”

Devil’s spawn? Is he referring to me?

“Eadyth,” Tykir ordered, “get into the palace, out of danger’s way.” She was staring at the impending action, open-mouthed, as if it was a jester’s play. “Make haste now!” he roared, and she nigh jumped out of her skin.

Bolthor had already released his halberd, affectionately named “Head Splitter,” from its specially designed leather strap at the side of his horse. Grinning with anticipation, Bolthor hefted the long-handled battle-ax in one hand. On more occasions than Tykir could count, he’d seen Bolthor save the day in a fierce fight by severing an
enemy from crown to cock with just one swift blow from “Head Splitter.”

Rurik pulled a leather helmet with a metal noseguard over his head, lay his favorite sword, “Death Stalker,” across his lap, and grinned. He probably relished the prospect of spilt blood, since they’d not exercised their battle skills for a long time.

As the attackers approached, Tykir noticed another nobleman trailing behind—a short, balding man of at least sixty who was as wide as he was tall. His poor horse looked sway-backed with the excess weight. “No heathen barbarian steals what is mine,” he asserted. He, too, was waving a sword in a dangerous fashion.

“Halt, if you value your lives,” Tykir warned the group, standing up in his stirrups, sword and shield raised high. The whole time, he surveyed the hird: twelve soldiers, in addition to the three noblemen. He and Rurik and Bolthor could handle the lot themselves with ease.

Suddenly, in the midst of his assessment, Tykir understood why Lady Alinor had attempted to delay their departure from Graycote. She’d been hoping for her brothers’ arrival. And could that human lard barrel bringing up the rear guard be her latest betrothed? Had she poisoned him so that they would have time to come to her rescue?

His eyes met hers in accusation.

She shrugged.

“And these would be the Lords Egbert and Hebert, I presume?”

“Indeed,” she said, with less enthusiasm than should be expected from a woman who’d been saved from a fate worse than death—Vikings.

“And the lord of Lard?”

Her eyes twinkled with merriment at that misname, the
first show of genuine pleasure he’d witnessed since their first meeting. She was almost pretty when she smiled…if one could overlook the freckles…which he could not, of course.

“Cedric,” she answered.

“I certainly hope you intend to be on top on your wedding night, lest you be crushed to death.”

She made a most unbecoming snarling sound.

Another arrow flew by, far over his head, shot by one of her brothers, the one with the unsteady saddle seat.

He placed his battle shield in front of his face nonchalantly, fixing a questioning glare alternately at the distant archer and then at Lady Alinor.

“Egbert,” she answered his silent query.

“Is he trying to warn me off?” Tykir asked.

“Nay. He’s just inept.”

He and Rurik and Bolthor dismounted quickly and drew their swords, prepared to fight off the attackers, who now galloped into the courtyard of the castle. Hebert almost flew headfirst out of the saddle when his horse came to an abrupt halt.

Lady Alinor sat atop her horse like a bloody queen, oblivious to the impending danger. In truth, these misguided knights would not harm her, not deliberately. But they might accidentally kill the very person they wanted to rescue. With a muttered curse, Tykir pulled her from the saddle and shoved her behind him, where she fell to her knees. Meanwhile the sheep were bleating, the two dogs were barking, Eadyth was screaming into the palace doors, “Eirik, Eirik, come save your brother,” and the riderless horses were bumping into each other with fright as they tried to escape the melee.

Even worse, Viking soldiers poured from the guard house and passing Saxon soldiers rushed to their allies’
aid. There was a shaky truce betwixt the Saxon and Viking folks in Northumbria, though that might change after today, Tykir thought.

Tykir said a silent prayer then, to both the Christian and Norse gods. “Oh, Lord, and Mighty Odin, please spare me from the fury of bumbling idiots…and witches.”

Alinor could not believe the scene unfolding before her in the palace bailey, a short distance from the bustling town center.

Swords were clanking, fists were flying and all around were the sounds of fighting men—grunts, shouts, cries of pain. There were at least two dozen men on either side of the fray now, and more were jumping in by the moment.

The troll and his comrades in trolldom were proving themselves expert fighters. Tykir and Rurik employed swords, while Bolthor swung a monstrously lethal broadax. And all the men on both sides seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, as most men did. Well, mayhap not her brothers so much. While they relished a good manly fight, they never were much for the spilling of their own blood.

Alinor scrambled to her feet and out of the way, finding herself next to the lady wringing her hands with concern on the palace steps, the one married to Tykir’s brother. She was the most beautiful woman Alinor had ever seen. Being at least a half head taller than Alinor, she had wisps of silver-blond hair framing a perfectly shaped face under a white wimple and a pale green headrail that matched an exquisite, darker green gown embroidered with silver thread in a floral design. She was not young—she must have seen more than thirty years—and yet her skin was smooth as silk, the color of new cream, marred by no
imperfections, except for a single enticing mole above her lip. Not a freckle in sight.

Alinor didn’t care about such things. And yet she felt somewhat like a barnyard hen in the presence of a silver swan. It was not a pleasant feeling.

The fighting was tapering off. Three Saxons and one Viking lay on the ground, wounded, but not mortally so. Egbert, Hebert and Cedric, not surprisingly, were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they’d scurried off at first glimpse of Bolthor’s formidable size…or his battle-ax, raised high overhead, ready to crack the skull of any foe who crossed his path. Rurik was holding one protesting Saxon to the ground with a booted foot planted on his chest and a deadly sword pressed to his throat. Tykir wiped a sweaty brow with one forearm but ignored the blood streaming from his bruised nose as he continued to engage in the strike-and-withdraw exercise of swordplay with a Saxon unlucky enough not to have been struck down with a minor wound.

Alinor realized in that instant that she was missing an opportunity for escape. Slowly, one sideways step at a time, she sidled away from Lady Eadyth, whose attention was still fixed on an uncommonly handsome, dark-haired knight, presumably her husband, who was rounding up the wounded Saxon soldiers who were able to stand. It must be Tykir’s brother, Eirik.
Hell’s teeth, did good looks abound in the Thorksson family? Or amongst all Vikings?

If she could just make it through the gatehouse, she would be able to meld into the busy streets of the market town. Just a few more steps. The guards’ attention was diverted to the fight, leaving the entryway without surveillance.

She pivoted abruptly then and bolted toward the open gates.

“Aaarrrgh!” she choked out as the noose around her neck tightened and jerked her head back.

“Were you going somewhere, witchling?” a smooth masculine voice whispered against her ear. One arm wrapped around her waist from behind, drawing her flush against his hard body.

“’Twould seem I’m going to hell,” she said in a suffocated whisper.

“For a certainty,” he agreed, nuzzling her hair…just to annoy her. “Now, you have two punishments to anticipate, my lady. One for the poison spell. Another for calling your brothers down on us. Oh, wait…I misspoke. There are three punishments. The third will be for your attempted escape.” He licked her exposed ear as a final insult, and Alinor felt the outrage all the way to her toes. And, oddly, some places in between as well.

She struggled against his imprisoning arms. “You bloodthirsty brute! You enjoyed that fight, didn’t you?”

“Better to be the crow than the carrion.” He laughed and tugged on her neck rope.

Alinor had forgotten about the rope, which still dangled from her neck. She turned slowly within Tykir’s grasp. He tickled her nose with the frayed end of her rope, which he must have grabbed while she attempted to escape. If she’d been thinking properly, she could have loosened it with her tied hands and pulled it over her head while all the fighting was going on.

But nay, Alinor realized, escape would have been impossible, even then. Glancing behind Tykir, she saw that the six sheep, one ram and two dogs had been following after her, bleating and barking a traitorous chorus that couldn’t have been more clear to the Viking: “There she goes, there she goes, there she goes.”

Alinor sighed with dismay. She would have to come up
with a new plan, since she obviously couldn’t depend on Egbert or Hebert to rescue her. Plainly, they were no match for the superior fighting abilities of these Norsemen. Before she had a chance to think of a new plan, though, Tykir the Troll bent his legs slightly, grabbed her around the knees and flung her over his shoulder. Then he headed back toward the Norse palace, with the dogs and sheep protesting loudly and masculine laughter and shouts of encouragement surrounding them as they passed.