The Viking's Captive

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  “And you would take that fruit from me?”

  “If you are serving in the bloody Varangian Guard, yea, I would.” He was as angry as she was now.

  She shook her head sadly at him. “Leave my presence now, Saxon, afore I run you through with my dagger.” And she meant it, too.

  He stared at her for a long moment, anger and sadness warring on his face. Then he turned and walked away.

  Tyra should have been happy to know that she had just escaped what might have been the biggest mistake of her life. Why, then, were tears streaming down her face?

  Strange bedfellows …

  Adam tossed and turned for many hours. ‘Twas not the way he had expected to spend his night.

  He lay restless in his comfortable alcove bed while Rashid snored away on the other side of the central hearth where a low fire burned. If Rashid had his way, the fire would be roaring. As it was, Rashid was buried under three bed furs … two of his and one of Adam’s.

  How could so many things go wrong with his life? How could so many things go wrong between him and Tyra? How could he have come to care so much in such a short time?

  He was not entirely to blame, either. Really, if Tyra thought things through, she would have to admit that there was no place for a babe in a soldiering life.

  And why were they even discussing a babe betwixt them anyhow? It would probably never happen. Especially since it appeared he would never have the opportunity to do the deed that might produce a babe. Why look for trouble when there was plenty to be found at hand?

  The most contradictory thing of all was the way Adam’s heart felt, as if a fist were clenching it. He couldn’t stop picturing the babe he and Tyra might produce. The child would be tall, of course, and blue-eyed. It could have black hair or blond. Either way, any person formed of the two of them was sure to be comely.

  I do not care. I do not care. I do not care. ‘Tis best that it ended afore it began.

  But what if…?

  Once Adam finally started to drift off to sleep, he felt someone slide under the bed furs beside him. At first he thought it might be Tyra … come to ask his forgiveness. Hah! It was Kristin, the little imp, staring at him through big blue eyes, with her thumb planted inside her rosebud lips.

  “Why are you here, Kristin?” he growled, or attempted to growl. ‘Twas hard to be gruff when he was adjusting the wee mite to fit into the cradle of his arms—just like Adela—and brushing loose strands of hair off her face.

  “I had a bad dream,” Kristin revealed. A big fat tear ran down her little face.

  “Shhh, ‘twas just a dream.”

  “Alrek went away agin. And you went, too. I wuz all alone, and I wuz scared. In my dream.” That was a mouthful of words for Kristin. Actually, what she described was not some horrible nightmare; it was reality. Alrek would go off a-Viking again. And Adam most definitely would be leaving before long.

  No sooner did the words leave her mouth than Kristin fell asleep. ‘Twas the way of children to go from chatter to slumber in the blink of an eye.

  When he awakened groggily at dawn, it was to find not just Kristin in the cradle of his arms, but Besji asleep at the foot of the bed, and Tunni on the floor at his side. Alrek was standing at the hearth, trying to stoke what was already a blazing bonfire.

  As he stumbled out of bed to prevent Alrek from setting himself afire, trying not to awaken the other children in the process, he made himself a promise.

  Today is the day I take back control of my life. Today is the day I make arrangements to leave Stoneheim.

  The blabber mouth blabbed …

  “Did you bring extra horseradish sauce for the venison steak?” The king licked his lips hungrily as he addressed Alrek, who was carrying a huge, cloth-covered tray into his bedchamber.

  “Yea, I did, but I had to hide out in the corridor ever so long afore Father Efrid left yer room to go say matins.” Alrek couldn’t see why the king didn’t just get up out of bed and eat in the hall like everyone else. But who was he to question the secrecy that his master required? After he set the tray on the mattress, Alrek went back to lock the door.

  “Did you have any trouble getting the food?” the king asked even as he dug into the morning repast and waved for Alrek to join him.

  “A little,” Alrek said, biting into a delicious honey oatcake. In truth, he was eating better than he ever had, since the king had taken him into his confidence. “In-grith wanted to know where I thought I was going with all these pilfered goods, and I told her it wuz fer Master Adam.”

  “Good thinking, boy. Did it satisfy her?”

  Alrek shrugged. “Seemed to. She added the honey cakes for him, special like.”

  “By thunder! I hope she’s not setting her cap for him, too.”

  “I don’t think so. To tell you true, all the ladies seem to be conspiring in some way … Ingrith, Breanne, Vana, Drifa, not to mention the Lady Alinor. Methinks they have some plot goin’ to match up the Master Adam with the Lady Tyra.”

  “Hah! Just like a brood of mush-brained females! Plots and secret doings. As if that would do them any good!”

  Alrek started to point out that plots and secret doings seemed to be what the king was engaged in, too, but he bit his tongue just in time. He was following Master Adam’s advice … to think afore he flapped his tongue. The healer had given him that bit of wisdom when Alrek had told him that he’d seen Rafn poking his … uh, poker … into Vana’s woman-fire one night.

  “So, tell me all the news,” the king said, having eaten his fill and pushed the tray aside. “And leave nothing out.” He reached for the stoppered pottery jug of ale and proceeded to take a long swallow.

  “Well, I can tell you one thing. ‘Tis a new word I heard Master Adam sayin’ to yer daughter Tyra. Mayhap it has some significance. Mayhap not.” He frowned. “Or was it my lady speakin’ ter Master Adam? I misremember now.”

  The king waved a hand as if it mattered not. “Get on with it, boy. What word is it that has you flummoxed?”

  “Finger-pleasurin’.”

  The king started to laugh and choke at the same time. As he laughed and choked and laughed and choked, Alrek feared he might be single-handedly responsible for killing the king. Bolthor might even write a saga about it: “The King Who Laughed Himself to Death.”

  Alrek was thinking it was past time for him to go a-Viking.

  Time to rise from the dead …

  “Finger-pleasuring?” Tykir exclaimed. “What the hell is that?”

  “I have no idea,” King Thorvald said. “I thought you would know … being a woman-lucky man, as you are famed to be.”

  “Thorvald! I have been wed for ten years now. Any woman-luck I have would be with Alinor.”

  The king shrugged. “And a shame that is, too … that you would disdain the more danico.”

  “ ‘Tis more like I value my life … and my manparts. Alinor would kill me if I took multiple wives … or make sure I am incapable of doing anything more than twiddling my … uh, thumb.” He poured the king and then himself another goblet of ale. “So, why do you want to know what finger-pleasuring is?”

  “I heard that Adam might be doing that to my daughter Tyra. Or mayhap she is doing it to him? Or mayhap they are just considering it.”

  Tykir narrowed his eyes at the king. “How did you hear this? I thought I was the only one who knew of your recovery.”

  “You are. You are. But a person hears much when people think he is dead to the world. They speak as if they are alone. You would be surprised at the news I garner just lying here.”

  Tykir wasn’t entirely satisfied with the king’s explanation, but he let it ride for now. “What do you want, Thorvald?”

  “I have got to get the girl married, and it appears that fingering is as far as they have gotten. A Viking man would not settle for fingering, I will tell you that. The Saxon blood in him must make him weak-sapped.”

  “Adam is not
weak-sapped,” Tykir contended. “Furthermore, the way I hear it, those two are not even speaking today, let alone fingering each other. The way I hear it, Adam threatened to take her baby away.”

  “What baby? Tyra has a baby, and no one bothered to tell me? Have I no loyal subjects who would tell me this?”

  “Nay, Tyra does not have a baby … yet. But if she has a baby … with Adam … he will take it away.”

  “He will not! I will lop off his head if he dares try. By the by, is it a boy child or a girl child? May the gods be merciful, ‘tis past time for a boy child to be born in my line.”

  “There is not going to be a child. They are not even speaking … did you not hear me say that?”

  “Can’t anyone do anything right?” Thorvald threw his hands in the air. “It looks like I will have to do it myself.”

  “Go ahead. Awaken from the dead, you old schemer, you. Scare your entire clan by walking into your hall during dinner tonight. Or pretend to be a ghost. I do not care. But get out of that damn bed. This chamber is starting to reek … of ale and horseradish. I’m thinking of going home to Dragonstead, where everyone is sane … well, everyone except Rapp of the Big Wind.”

  “Go if you must,” the king said grumpily, “but you might want to stay a bit longer. Perchance I will soon have something special to show you.”

  Tykir stopped at the door and turned back to the king, who was propped up in the bed, his hands folded behind his neck and his long legs crossed at the ankles. He had a crafty expression on his face.

  “And what might that be?”

  “My harem.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She wanted to give him children, but not hers…

  It was a bright sunny day at Stoneheim … the kind of uncommonly fair day known as Odin’s Summer. A day when the sun shone brightly, deceiving one into thinking there might be more clement weather ahead, when in reality there could be snow and a freeze afore morning. In truth, one of the shipwrights who suffered a soreness of the joints told Tyra that a storm was on the horizon, because his knees were aching in premonition.

  Tyra was taking advantage of the lull in weather by examining one of her longships, Wild Serpent, which was raised up on sawhorses. She had sent workmen soon after dawn to begin preparing it for a journey. Breanne was helping her, reluctantly, by setting her carpenters to sanding down the rough edges on the rails. Vana was checking the sails for any tears; she was not so reluctant. Oh, Vana would be sad to see Tyra go, but she would be more glad to finally wed Rafn.

  “Are you going somewhere, Tyra?”

  She glanced up to see Adam standing before her. He was wearing one of those Arab robes, which might have appeared silly on one of her Viking soldiers, but on him looked as if he’d been born to the Eastern culture.

  “I thought you were seeing patients.”

  “Are you going somewhere, Tyra?” he repeated.

  “You know I am. Go away, Adam. I have work to do if I am to leave by Friggsday.”

  “Friggsday? You are leaving on Friday? That’s only three days from now.”

  “That is right. Now go away.”

  “Are you not even going to wait to see how your father fares?”

  She shook her head and continued to run her hand over the hull, looking for cracks or leak holes. “Viking women may gain a divorce from their husbands by merely stating their desire afore witnesses. The same is true of a daughter or son separating from parents. Once I perform the ritual, I will be off.”

  “To Byzantium?”

  She nodded, then raised her chin haughtily. “Lesser woman though I may be in your opinion, I at least choose my own life path. And I embrace it wholeheartedly. You, on the other hand, keep running from your fate. I pity you, Saxon.”

  Now it was Adam who raised his chin haughtily.

  “There is one more thing that must be settled. Alrek wants to come with me, to travel to far lands. I would not deprive him of that adventure, except for one thing.”

  He arched his brows at her.

  “Only the gods can fathom why, but Alrek wants you to take Tunni and Kristin and Besji with you … to give them a home.”

  “Nay!” he nearly shouted, turned abruptly, and practically ran away.

  Some men are sharp, even with a hole in the head…

  “I want all of you here to bear witness for me.”

  Tyra stood at the side of her father’s bed as she made the pronouncement to Adam, Father Efrid, Rafn, Rashid, Tykir, Alinor, Bolthor, and her four sisters … all of whom she’d called to meet her here for the formal ritual. Today was the day she would renounce her bloodlines. Today was the day she would become a homeless wanderer. Today was the day she would finally take control of her life.

  The royal bedchamber was large, with a central hearth and a massive bedstead against one wall. The room was hot, due to the blazing fire, and smoky, though there was the usual smoke hole in the roof. It reeked oddly of venison and horseradish.

  “Do not act in haste,” Adam cautioned her.

  She cast him a fierce glower and gritted out, “Mind your own business, Saxon cur.” Then she began, “In the way of the Ancients whose laws we obey, I, Tyra Thorvaldsson, do hereby—”

  “To leave your homeland forever … oh, Tyra, are you sure about this?” Alinor interrupted anxiously.

  “Tyra knows what she is about. ‘Tis the only way,” Rafn said, taking the hand of Vana, whose hair was looking particularly white today in the gloomy bedchamber. He and Vana moved up next to Tyra, as if to show whose side they were on. But, really, there were no sides here. She was doing, finally, what must be done to ensure her sisters’ futures.

  Everyone’s eyes were growing misty … whether from emotion or the increased smokiness in the room, it was hard to tell. Alrek must have brought up green wood for the fire today.

  “With all due respect, m’lady warrior, the country rooster does not crow in town.” It was Rashid offering his opinion now.

  “Huh?” Tyra said. Was he classifying her as a country bumpkin, unable to live in a city like Byzantium? How many insults should one woman be subjected to before she started lopping off heads … or tongues?

  “Shut up, Rashid,” Adam said.

  “Shut up, Adam,” Tyra said.

  “Would everyone shut up! You’re making the hole in my head hurt.”

  Tyra looked right and left to see who had spoken. The other occupants of the room were doing the same. Then all eyes moved to the unmoving figure in the bed.

  “Father, was that you?” Tyra asked, taking one of his hands in hers … a hand which remained lifeless.

  Adam pushed her aside with a rude swing of his hips, almost knocking her over. She was about to protest, vehemently, but she restrained herself when she saw that Adam was reacting as a healer. He was listening to her father’s heart rate and lifting his eyelids. Under his breath, he murmured to Rashid, who had joined him and was helping to remove the head wrapping to examine the wound, “I have been suspicious for days now. Is it possible the king is not really unconscious?”

  Rashid shrugged and took the soiled wrappings from him, handing him some clean ones.

  “Looks deader’n a door hinge to me,” Bolthor mused.

  “Mayhap he is dead and ‘twas his ghost speaking,” Ingrith whispered in a voice of awe.

  “I was saving some of my best dried flowers for his funeral,” Drifa confessed.

  “You could always stick a bouquet in the hole in his head,” Rafn quipped.

  “Rafn!” Vana chided and pinched him in the ribs.

  Rafn just grinned at her.

  “I was thinking that if father lives, he could put a jewel in the hole,” Breanne said with a bite of sarcasm. “You know how much he likes to adorn his hair with beads and ornaments. He is ever so vain about his hair.”

  Suddenly Alinor punched Tykir in the arm. “You lout! You did that, didn’t you?”

  “Did what?” Tykir was rubbing his upper arm with great drama.
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  “Projected your voice to make it appear as if the king had spoken. Like you did that time with the sheep at Dragonstead. For shame! Making jest on such a serious occasion.” She punched him again.

  All of Tyra’s sisters were listening raptly to the interchange between Tykir and Alinor. No doubt they saw them as an example of longtime lovebirds.

  “For shame, Alinor! That you would make such false charges against me … your beloved husband. And you know why I pretended to be a ram speaking to you at Dragonstead. Dost recall the message?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  Alinor giggled in response. “Willst thou never grow up, Tykir?”

  “I hope not … and you should, too. Forever young, that is us.” He waggled his eyebrows some more. “I at least have some decorum. You never heard me mention finger-pleasuring.”

  Every person in the bedchamber let loose an interested exclamation of “Finger-pleasuring?” except Tykir, who was beaming brightly, and Adam and Tyra, who were turning red with embarrassment, and the king, who continued to lie motionless.

  “How could you, Adam? How could you? Did you have to tell everyone?” Tyra addressed Adam in a mortified whisper.

  “Me? I said naught.”

  Tyra, even without a hole in her head, was developing the world’s biggest headache. For a certainty, it felt as if her brain was leaking out.

  “What exactly is finger-pleasuring?” Vana wanted to know.

  Rafn whispered something in her ear.

  Vana squealed with incredulity before she clamped a hand over her mouth. Tyra could tell she was smiling behind the hand.

  Tyra groaned.

  Adam groaned. Then he immediately seemed to pull himself together as he straightened and went over to a chest where he proceeded to wash his hands from the water in a pottery bowl and dry them on a linen cloth. When he was done, he declared, “It would be best for my patient if all of you would leave his sick chamber.”

  “How is he?” Tyra asked quickly.

  He gave her a long look, as if to say it was about time she gave concern to her father.