Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (9 page)

“Never fear, sweetling,” Tykir whispered in her ear. She could tell that he was barely stifling a laugh. “I will take you away from all this soon enough.”

That was what Alinor was afraid of.

Five days later…

“It wasn’t my fault,” Alinor contended. “I tell you, I’m not a witch.”

“You fed the seagulls. The seagulls died. The evidence speaks for itself.” Tykir exhaled loudly with exasperation. “Never have I seen birds fall from the sky like snowflakes afore. ’Twas…well, magical. You are a witch, and that is that.”

He turned his back on her and was about to stomp away. How the man managed to keep his balance aboard ship, Alinor couldn’t figure out. They’d been five days into their voyage, and she still didn’t have her sea legs. Nor her sea stomach, for that matter. No wonder she’d been unable to digest that horrid
gammelost
…old cheese…which the Vikings favored on their sea journeys, along with the even more unpalatable salted cod known as
lutefisk
. Hard bread
and an occasional apple were the mainstay of her diet these days.

“Wait a minute,” she called out, and stood, about to follow after Tykir. “I’m not done explaining—”

He pivoted abruptly and shoved her in the chest, forcing her to sit back down on the large wooden storage box under a tented area in the center of the ship. The look on his face was so mean and vicious that she recoiled. She could scarce remember the softer glances he’d been casting her way back at the Norse castle—not that she wanted such—because all the brute had been doing these past five days was glaring at her.

“Sit!” he ordered. “Did I not just tell you to sit? Did I not warn you about moving from this spot? Did I not say that my men are threatening mutiny if you pull one more witchly trick? Did I not say I would lop off your head and feed you to the sharks if you opened your mouth one more time?”

“Did I not? Did I not? Did I not?” Alinor murmured.

“Are you mimicking me?” he growled.

“No, I’m saying my prayers,” she snapped back.

“Prayers? Hah! ’Tis likely more of your incantations.”

“Oh, that’s unfair. I wasn’t performing some dark rites when we were in the midst of that storm yestereve. I was wailing with fear. I’ve never been on a ship afore. How was I to know that we weren’t going to sink to the bottom of the North Sea? How was I to know that bulge water was normal? How was I—”

“Bilge,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s bilge water, not bulge water.”

“Oh, for the love of Mary! Bilge, bulge, barge…it matters not to me. I was standing in water ankle-deep. I still have mold on my shoes.”

Tykir leaned down and pointed a forefinger at her. “You did a chant and the storm stopped.”

She pointed a forefinger back at him. “Chant? I was moaning, ‘Oh, oh, oh, please, God, oh, oh, oh, oh!’”

He made a harrumphing sound of disbelief. “My men are already sore mad at you. Because of you, we are six sennights late in returning to Norway. They have homes and families to attend to afore the ice comes and the fjords freeze over. One more delay could mean our being stuck in Anlaf’s court for the winter months. Worse yet, in Hedeby, where we must stop first to unload the last of my market goods.”

It was true. Autumn was on the wane and winter fast approaching. Even with the sun shining brightly overhead, the air was brisk and chilly to the bone. She was wrapped in one of Tykir’s thick wool cloaks, lined with fur, but the cold air still whipped through her. Some of the men rowed naked to the waist when the sun was high, but mostly they were garbed for the cold.

And it was true, as well, that the Norse sailors—big, brave warriors that they were—feared her greatly. All of them wore handmade wooden crosses on leather thongs around their necks, and they were seen to sprinkle themselves with holy water on occasion. Rurik must have purchased a barrel of it from the good monks at the abbey in Jorvik.

Worst of all, when the men weren’t sneaking peeks at her bottom—they still harbored this silly superstition about a witch’s tail—the men were scowling at her, forcing her to keep a distance. Part of that was due to mere coincidences that seemed to crop up over and over in her vicinity. “’Twas not my fault that the milk curdled in the vat the first night out. Or that the wine barrel had a loose stave causing the precious cargo to seep out overnight. Or
that Rurik’s dog Beast has been crying without end, ever since you sent Beauty and the sheep back to Graycote. Coincidences! That’s all!”

She knew he was still angry over her refusing his request to slaughter one of her sheep over the bow of his vessel as a pagan sacrifice to the sea people for weatherluck and good voyage. She’d informed him in no uncertain terms that all her sheep were valuable, but the curly-horned ram was nigh priceless, coming from Córdoba, a land that rarely allowed that species to leave its boundaries, except as royal gifts. How her third husband managed to obtain one of the rare beasts she had no idea, but it had almost been worth putting up with the marriage to gain her prized ram.

Tykir hadn’t even smiled when she’d jested with him, “Besides, sacrificing my sheep would not bring you luck. They are Christian sheep, you see.”

“You have an answer for everything, my lady. But the fact is, my men believe you are a witch.”

“Of course they do. They are encouraged by Rurik’s rancor and Bolthor’s skaldic imagination, not to mention your constant grumbling. And speaking of men, who knew there would be so many of them? ’Tis not proper that a lady should travel, unchaperoned, in the company of so many men.”

“Didst think that Rurik, Bolthor and I would row the ships ourselves?” he answered with undue sarcasm.

“Mayhap I should have known a great number of sailors would be required…to man
one
vessel. But how was I to know the number of ships you own?” The longship on which she traveled now,
Swift Dragon,
was one of a fleet of seven dragonships, each manned by more than sixty Viking warriors. The other ships were
Fierce Dragon, Bold Dragon, Brave Dragon, Savage Dragon,
Mad Dragon
and
Deadly Dragon,
all of them owned by Tykir. Apparently, it was necessary to travel in convoy to fight off pirate ships, which lurked off the coasts of the northern market towns.

“Didst think I was a pauper?”

“Nay. I know you for what you are. A troll.”

He bared his teeth in a gritted smile, and she knew she pushed him dangerously.

To her surprise, the number of ships and the treasure trove of market goods they carried bespoke great wealth on Tykir’s part. It was a good thing her brothers didn’t know about Tykir’s affluence. They’d probably try to make a marriage pact with him. But, nay, he was too young for their devious designs. They would want an old man, soon to die. Besides, Tykir would never agree to wed such as her.

Where are these horrible thoughts coming from?
“Tykir,” she began in a conciliatory tone, “I was standing at the prow of your ship, avoiding the sailors, as you told me to do. I was trying to eat the midday meal, as you told me to do. But I just could not stomach that revolting
gammelost.
So I fed crumbles of it to some passing seagulls. And before I knew it, there were dozens of the birds taking the bits of the smelly stuff right from my fingers.” She sniffed first one hand, then the other. “I still stink.”

“It is just old cheese.”

“
Old
cheese?” she scoffed. “That cheese could walk by itself.”

Despite his best efforts, a grin tugged at his lips. “Actually, there is a legend that says
gammelost
contributed to the victory of King Harald Fairhair, my grandfather, at the Battle of Hafrsfjord in 872,” he disclosed with a sheepish smile.

She arched a brow in question.

“The story goes that the king fed his warriors
gammelost
for the breaking of fast in the morn, prior to battle, thus transforming them into berserkers.”

“See, it wasn’t my fault. The seagulls just went berserk.”

“I…don’t…think…so,” he said with a short laugh. “In any case, stay here and enjoy this beautiful day. We may not have another. Weather changes abruptly during this season.”

He rolled his shoulders then, by pressing his elbows backward till they almost touched at his spine, then crossing his arms in front. Several times he did this, as his men were wont to do on occasion, to remove the kinks that came with cramming so many bodies into such a small space.

The man was godly handsome, Alinor had to admit. Even now, wearing a salt-stained leather tunic over black braies, with a wide leather belt tucking in his waist, his body was the embodiment of manhood. His blondish brown hair was tied back into a queue, but its silken texture was still apparent. Women must make much ado over him.

Unaware, or uncaring, of her scrutiny, he stopped rolling his shoulders and leaned down to rub his upper thigh. Eadyth had told Alinor of Tykir’s grave injury at the Battle of Brunanburh several years ago, where he’d almost lost his limb.

“Does your leg hurt?” she asked.

His head jerked up. “Which one has the running tongue? Bolthor or Rurik?”

“Eadyth.”

He shook his head with disgust. “Yea, my old wound rears up on occasion.”

“I have no sympathy for you. A man your age has no
business riding across several countries in pursuit of a nonexistent witch.”

“A man my age?” he sputtered indignantly.

“Yea, do not pretend to be a youthling. You are just like all the other men approaching their middle years, trying to be younger than you are. Cavorting and fornicating till your heart, or other body parts, give out.”

“Ca-cavorting?” He was doubled over with laughter at her words. “I am thirty-five years old. I am not yet in my dotage, I assure you, my lady.”

“Be that as it may, I could prepare a potion for you that would help. Applied directly, it soothes on contact.”

“Lady, your last potion put me on intimate terms with the garderobe. Thank you, but I will decline your offer.” Taking a deep breath, he scanned his ship and those following in an arrow formation behind them. The pride on his face was unmistakable.

“You love this life, don’t you?”

He turned to her with wariness. “Yea, I do. There is no better sight this side of Valhalla than a dragonship with her sail hauled up and the wind filling it. ‘Cloaks of the wind,’ we call our sails. A good longboat, a strong breeze and cloaks of the wind…surely these are gifts from the gods.”

As he walked off to assist the helmsman maneuvering the tiller on the steering oar, Alinor had to agree with him. These long, slim ships, with their carved prows and big, single square sails of red and black stripes, were works of art, as well as being functional…a credit to some of the finest craftsmen in the world. The oaken vessels were low in the center, rising gracefully like a swan’s neck at prow and stern, soaring high above the waves. They were light in weight—in fact, they could be lifted overhead by the men for portage on reaching stretches of dry riverbeds—
yet the ships sailed equally well in shallow waters or rough seas. Rich carvings in the form of intertwining dragon beasts etched the sides of Tykir’s ships where the black and yellow battle shields of the warriors hung majestically on the outer edge. Those colors, and red as well, were picked out on the carved dragon heads that embellished the prows, as if the fierce animals were leading a bold path through the dangerous seawaters.

The crew, tanned by the sun and burned by the wind, their clothing stained with salt, were brawny examples of prime manhood. The sailors had to have dexterity to step adroitly about the moving ship, where two men sat on personal seachests at each of the sixteen oar holes lined up on either side of the ship—one to row and the other to spell. At the same time, great strength was needed to raise the long mast and to row in a continuous, back-breaking rhythm.

One of the smaller Norsemen, a nimble-footed lad, was performing a feat he’d done on one other occasion…dancing over the ocean atop the shafts of the spears. It was a contest the bored seamen engaged in on occasion, betting to see who could perform the oar dance without falling into the salty depths.

Alinor had to smile. It
was
a beautiful day, just as Tykir had said. There weren’t many occasions on which Alinor had the free time to just sit back and admire God’s nature around her.

But what she did, instead, was start to weep. First one tear, then another escaped her brimming eyes. With a muffled sob, Alinor used the hem of Tykir’s cloak to wipe her cheek. But no sooner did she sop up one tear than another replaced it.

It was untenable. Alinor did not cry. Long ago, when she was no more than eight or so, she’d realized that tears
did not move her brothers one whit, and crying gave her no real satisfaction. She’d resolved then to be stronger than they were, sharper of wit, more devious. And her strength of determination had served her well. Until now.

The situation in which she found herself was ludicrous. That anyone would seriously think her a witch defied logic. If only Tykir had spoken with her servants and the villagers at Graycote. She was not the first woman to be abducted…for ransom or rape, or spoils of some raid, even to be sold into slavery. But to capture her for sorcery was so far beyond belief that Alinor had not taken the situation seriously enough while still in her home territory…while there was still time to alter her circumstance.

How will I ever escape now?

What will happen to me in that heathen land?

Will I ever see my beloved sheep and Graycote again?

More tears slipped down her cheeks, unchecked now.

What am I going to do?

She said a silent prayer then, though Alinor was not much prone to zealous religious practices. She rather favored doing good work every day as a form of prayer. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
Please, God, help me in this desperate situation,
she prayed silently, sniffling back a sob.

Just then, on the other side of the ship, Tykir laughed at something one of his shipmates said to him.

Alinor’s eyes went wide with surprise.

Could it be…is it a sign?

Has God sent Tykir to save me from my brother’s evil machinations?