The Bewitched Viking

  The Viking waved a hand in agreement to the additional purchases, and the boy's eyes nearly popped out at the casualness with which the Norseman spent his money.

  "Five wives!" she hissed then in a whisper to Tykir.

  He just grinned at her.

  "Oh, and one other thing. I must needs have a special gift for Lita, my newest concubine. Only sixteen she is, but ah... the things her nubile body can do!" The Viking made a smacking noise of appreciation with his mouth.

  Alinor would have liked to smack him, to be sure.

  The boy brought forth a delicate finger ring with a tiny amber stone.

  "Perfect," the Viking said.

  "It's worth more than the others," the boy advised.

  "Lita is worth more than the others."

  Alinor made a low, snarling noise.

  Tykir chuckled softly and squeezed her hand tightly. "Say naught, my witch," he warned, sensing her desire to lash the brute with a piece of her mind.

  "Trolls... you are a nation of trolls!" Alinor grumbled indignantly.

  "Come over here," he said with a laugh. "I will give you a quick education in amber."

  The boy glanced over to where they now stood at the far end of the tables, noticing them for the first time. His eyes went wide on recognizing Tykir. "Master Thorksson, I did not see you there," he apologized. He made as if to come to them.

  Tykir waved him back. "Finish your transaction, Karl."

  Alinor looked down at the table where Tykir had led her, which displayed unmounted pieces of amber.

  "We call amber "The Gold of the North,' but it comes in many colors. Most people think of amber as yellow, like this," he explained, pointing to a stone the size of a hen's egg, "but as you can see, it comes in many colors... yellow, orange, red, white, brown, green, blue and even black, which is actually dark shades of the other colors. Those cloudy stones are raw amber, untreated and unpolished. After being heated in oil, the bubbles and fissures will disappear and the amber turns transparent." He moved his hand over the table in a sweeping gesture to illustrate.

  "I never realized," she murmured, picking up the egg shaped piece of amber and closing her fist over it. Immediately, she raised surprised eyes to his. " Tis warm, as if it has a life of its own. In fact, it seems to pulse."

  Tykir smiled, and she could tell that he was pleased by her interest. "That is why so many cultures believe it has mystical, even medicinal, attributes. As to that, I cannot verify, but there is something otherworldly about the stone, methinks."

  She cocked her head in question at his fancifulness. This was a side to Tykir she had not seen before. "Were you always interested in amber trading?"

  He laughed. "Nay, I only dabbled in trade betwixt battles for one king or another. In those days, wines and furs held more appeal for trade. But then one day, about seven years past, I saw some horsemen in the Baltics harvesting a crop of amber from the sea waves. From then on," he said, shrugging with some embarrassment, "I have been fascinated by this gem."

  Amazing, she thought. Both Tykir and the stone.

  "Didst you know that amber is naught more than tree sap from millions of years ago?" he went on.

  "I had heard such."

  "Consider this: Many millions of years ago, when there were great stands of forests reaching almost to the sky, huge globs of resin seeped from the bark, catching in their path various seeds, leaves, feathers, insects, even whole animals. Over the years, the resin hardened, preserving the object. Like this butterfly here." He handed Alinor a chunk of rock, which shimmered with a rainbow of translucent yellows. Inside was a tiny butterfly... perfect in every detail.

  "Oh," she sighed, putting a hand to her mouth in awe. "Never have I seen such a wondrous object."

  "Yea," he agreed in a soft voice, staring down at the object with equal awe. "Once, I had a piece with a honey bee in it, but I gave it to Hrolf the Ganger, first Duke of Normandy." He took the pendant which hung round his neck on a gold chain in his hand and showed it to her. The reddish-gold amber had been cut and polished into a star shape, and inside was what appeared to be a drop of blood. "Look closely," he said. "What appears to be wound-dew is the petal of a flower... mayhap some ancient rose."

  Alinor peered close and saw that it was so. "How old do you think this stone is?" she asked, pointing once again to the remarkable amber-encased butterfly.

  He shrugged. "No one can say for sure. Mayhap back to the time when the world was created."

  "Before Adam and Eve?" she breathed.

  He smiled at the childlike wonder in her voice. "Or the time when the Norse gods and goddesses formed the beginning of our civilization."

  "Oh, my!" Alinor said then, her attention diverted to a piece of jewelry lying on a scrap of blue velvet. Alinor had never been one to covet expensive body adornments, but this neck ring was the most magnificent bit of vanity she had ever seen. Surely fit for a queen. The thick gold band would fit snugly around a woman's neck, above the collarbone. From it were suspended a dozen tear-shaped amber stones, starting with a large one in the center and decreasingly smaller ones on either side, down to the size of tiny human tears.

  "You like that, do you?" he said, with a laugh. " 'Tis the most precious item of jewelry I have, and it is not for sale. It was given to me by an Arab goldsmith, in return for a favor I rendered him. Ahab recommended that the neck ring be given to my bride on our wedding night, as a charm ensuring marriage-luck. Since I do not intend to wed, I will give it to one of Eirik's daughters on her wedding day."

  Alinor couldn't help herself. She reached out her free hand and touched the neck ring with her fingertips, very gently. "Dost know what this reminds me of? A poem I heard once. 'Twas written by one of the ancient Romans... Ovid, I think his name was. The poem was called Metamorphoses, and in it he described how the daughters of the sun god were overwhelmed by grief over the death of their brother and somehow they became transformed into trees. Their tears crystallized into amber, and from then on the people referred to amber as "The Tears of the Gods.' "

  Tykir was watching her closely, a strange expression on his face. "That is exactly what I call this neck ring," he said in a low voice, "and I have never heard that tale afore." He laughed then, as if embarrassed. "You and Bolthor are cut from the same ell of fabric, I swear. Both of you are storytellers."

  She'd been thinking the same thing about Tykir and his whimsical affection for an enchanted stone. "You misjudge me. I am not fanciful, at all. Never have I had the inclination or the talent for weaving stories. I weave fabrics, instead. As to Bolthor, I must tell you, Tykir, he is a horrible skald."

  "I know," he said unabashedly, then confessed sheepishly, "Sometimes when I see the verse-mood come upon his face, I pretend to be asleep." The whole time, his eagle eyes watched as she reluctantly removed her fingertips from the "Tears of the Gods" neck ring with a last, lingering caress.

  He shook his head, as if to clear it of unwanted thoughts. "Since you know of the amber legend in the Roman poem, does that mean you have coffers full of amber jewelry? Mayhap you have even bought one of my pieces in Jorvik."

  "What?" His question jarred her. Where would he get such an idea? He had visited Graycote and seen that it was a property not given to excess. The man had only to scan her plain attire to know she was not the kind of woman who amassed ornaments, costly or otherwise. But all she said was, "Nay."

  "Nay?" he persisted. " 'Nay,' you have no particular liking for amber? 'Nay,' you have no coffers? 'Nay,' you prefer jewelry of another type? 'Nay,' you collect—"

  "I have no jewelry. Why do you ask these questions?"

  "All women of station have jewels, whether they be gifts from a parent, brothers or husband... in your case, husbands."

  "Tykir, this subject is becoming tiresome. My parents died of the bloody flux in the year of the great cattle disease when I was but eight years old. My brothers have never given me aught but trouble, and that commenced even afore my parents left this world. As to
my three husbands... nay, there were no gifts. They considered themselves gift enough." Finally, when her emotions had calmed down, she concluded, "To tell you the truth, I would rather have a sheep than a bauble."

  Tykir threw his head back and laughed. .. which was fine with her. He'd been studying her closely, seeing overmuch, especially the way her eyes kept returning to the special neck ring.

  Alinor was spared further words on the uncomfortable topic just then as a feminine voice called out, "Tykir!"

  "Rachelle!" Tykir rushed behind the tables, dragging Alinor with him toward the jewelry maker, who had been working to the side of the building. With a whoop of delight, he lifted the woman into his embrace with his free arm so her feet dangled above the ground, and he hugged her tightly. It was an indication of Tykir's great strength that he could do so one-armed, whilst still restraining Alinor at his other side. The woman's unbound raven black hair swirled forward, covering both her face and Tykir's like a frothy nimbus.

  At first, Alinor thought the woman was sublimely beautiful, petite and fine-boned, with perfectly formed, delicate facial features... until she tossed her hair back and turned her face in profile. Then Alinor realized that the tip of the woman's nose had been cut off... not enough to be grotesque... just enough to make some hideous point. It was the sign of the harlot, imposed betimes by barbaric communities in the sanctimonious name of morality, often under the direction of clerics.

  Oh, Alinor held little regard for women of no virtue, but she abhorred the practice, which punished the women but not the men who availed themselves of a harlot's services,

  "Alinor, I would have you meet my business partner, Rachelle the Jewelry Maker." Tykir had lowered the woman to the ground, but still had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, tucking her close to his side.

  Rachelle looked at Alinor with interest, especially at rope that bound her wrist, then up to Tykir in question "This is Alinor the Witch... my captive."

  Alinor gave the brute a scowl of disgust and told Rachelle, "My name is Lady Alinor of Graycote."

  Rachelle was startled at first by Alinor's defiant words. Then she laughed gaily and extended a hand in welcome. "Come, you must crave a bath after your journey. I will fire up the stones in the bathhouse. Meanwhile, I am most anxious to hear how you came to be Tykir's... captive. And a witch, of course."

  Tykir undid her ties, seeming to take way too much time touching her wrist and palm and fingers, even her forearm, in the process of untying the tight knots. Everywhere he touched seemed to grow warm and tingly. Then, seemingly unaware of his effect on her, he turned to help the boy by serving some additional customers who had come up since the big Viking had departed. Rachelle took her arm, about to lead her into the doorway of the longhouse, when Alinor stopped short.

  She shouldn't have been surprised. She really shouldn't have.

  Standing in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his eyes, was a small boy of about four years. Apparently, he had just risen from his nap.

  "Mother," he whined, reaching his outstretched arms up to Rachelle.

  "Oooh, my sweet little Thibaud. Did you just awaken, heartling?" She lifted the child easily so his face was tucked into her neck and his skinny legs wrapped around her waist.

  The boy had long blond hair and honey-brown eyes.

  A mirror-image of Tykir.

  Alinor swung around to glare at Tykir, who was weighing a customer's silver on a brass scale in exchange for some purchase. He must have sensed her stare because he turned. At first, he tilted his head in question; then his eyes took in the scene with Rachelle, Thibaud clinging to his mother, and Alinor's flaming face. As understanding dawned, a slow grin tugged at his lips and spread into a wide smile. No shame or apologetic demeanor. The man was a troll.

  Chapter Seven

  "Thibaud is not Tykir's child," Rachelle informed her all of a sudden.

  Alinor hadn't realized that her thoughts were so obvious. She closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. Rachelle had been so nice to her these past three hours, and how did she thank her? By making judgments.

  Since their arrival, Alinor had bathed, laundered her dirty clothing, which hung wetly from pegs near the central hearth, and was now helping Rachelle prepare the evening meal, with the assistance of Maida, a servant from Dublin.

  Although it was barely late afternoon, dusk already enveloped the skies. Having only a few shuttered windows, the long house would have been dark and gloomy save for the dancing shadows from the raging cookfire. The warmth of the flames turned the house cozy and secure against the blustery winds. Winter was, indeed, on its way. In this warm atmosphere, Thibaud sat at the trestle table playing happily with a set of carved wooden animals from the eastern lands, which Tykir had brought for him. The fanciful creatures had their own gaily painted, compartmented chest.

  Tykir had bathed hours ago, then gone out to arrange the restocking of his ships with supplies to last him and his men over the winter months. Karl, the young boy who had been serving customers on their arrival, was outside with the guard, Ottar the Strong, closing up the trading stall for the day. Ottar had been advised not to allow Alinor outside the longhouse. If she disobeyed, Tykir gave Ottar permission to bind her to a support beam.

  Tykir had said he would be back in time for the evening meal but was unsure whether Rurik and Bolthor would return with him. Just in case, Rachelle said she would prepare extra food. Maida was chopping leeks and carrots and turnips to add to the cauldron bubbling over the fire, which Alinor was stirring with a long-handled copper ladle. Already, the smell of simmering chunks of venison filled the air, and Alinor's stomach rumbled with hunger.

  "Did you hear what I said, Alinor? Thibaud is not Tykir's child." Rachelle was in the process of taking some wooden trenchers and spoons off a shelf near the hearth, about to set the table.

  "Yea, I heard." Alinor had found herself looking involuntarily at the child and noting over and over the remarkable resemblance to his father. For some reason, she didn't want to examine the exhilaration she felt now over Rachelle's words, disclaiming Tykir's paternity. "I never thought... I mean, it's none of my affair."

  "Yea, you thought," Rachelle said with a chuckle. "Everyone does. And, furthermore, I suspect it is very much your affair."

  "I have no idea what you mean."

  Rachelle laughed softly. "Just do not let him charm you into some ecstasy, without the benefit of the marriage vows... assuming you are not already wed... Ah, I can see by the indignation on your face that you are not."

  "Charm? Tykir has the charm of a bullfrog, as far as I'm concerned. And you must be jesting with me about any ecstasy to be gained from a man's attention."

  "Nay, I am not jesting." Rachelle cocked her head in puzzlement. "Do you not find Tykir exceedingly handsome?"

  Alinor was about to say nay but chose the route of honesty instead. "Well, not exceedingly handsome. He is not charming, though. Leastways, not to me. He tries to prick me into a temper at every turn."

  "Yea, he is a charmer, for a certainty." Rachelle nodded her head, as if Alinor had agreed with her. "Beware when he stops the teasing and turns the tables suddenly to give you compliments or sweet caresses or soft words." Rachelle stopped in the midst of her short walk between the storage shelf and table, and her eyes went dreamy with some remembrance. Was she calling to mind Tykir, or Thibaud's father?

  "I am not so porridge-brained as to be taken in by the slick words of a man like Tykir Thorksson."

  Rachelle grinned, unconvinced. "Do not be offended by my words of surrendering to the woman-lust, Alinor. I am a perfect example of how not to handle the pretty words of a man in heat."

  "Oh, oh... you have said so many things I do not know where to begin discrediting them. Woman-lust? Hah! There is no such thing. I should know. I have been wedded and widowed three times in the past ten years. When it comes to lust, men have the sole rights. With their overblown egos, most of them consider women honored just to get a poke from their sorry dangler
s."

  "Danglers?" Rachelle choked out.

  "Yea, those appendages that dangle from men in a most ludicrous manner," Alinor explained, and continued with her tirade. "I've yet to meet the woman who brags that she needs five spouses to satisfy her bed needs, as that Viking lord did outside earlier."

  Rachelle laughed. "Ah, you have much to learn, my lady. Much. Methinks you are in for a sorry awakening if the right man comes along. Pray God it is not Tykir, because there is no future there, I fear."

  "I have no need of Tykir or any other man," Alinor asserted stormily. "Why are women so weak that they feel the necessity for a man in their lives to give them strength?"

  Rachelle's eyes went wide before she set the trenchers on the table. "Mayhap you are right," she admitted shakily, putting the fingertips of one hand to her disfigured nose, then glancing over to her son, who was still playing with his wooden animals. All laughter was gone now. "I stand as physical testimony to where woman-lust can lead a weak woman."

  The sad expression on Rachelle's face shamed Alinor. Putting the ladle aside, Alinor went to Rachelle and laid a hand on her forearm. "Forgive me if I gave insult. It is not my place to judge anyone. In truth, I have been speaking my mind, unbridled, from an early age, living as I did with the two biggest lackwits in all Britain. It mattered not how many times they whipped me for my impertinence. I always thought I knew best." She shrugged, with a wry grin. "I still do."

  Rachelle smiled weakly. "I am deserving of judgment, though. You see, I was married at the time. Thibaud is the result of an adulterous affair."

  Alinor tried to contain her surprise. For herself, she could never understand a woman willingly parting her legs for bedsport, but she knew there were women of little virtue who did such to attain some goal, whether it be coin or status or marriage. Rachelle seemed to fit none of those categories.

  "My husband, Arnaud, was a cruel man, subject to unreasonable bouts of temper at the least provocation. Even though he was a merchant in Frankland with much property, he made me continue to work at my jewelry craft, even after we were wed. He was so tightfisted with his coin that his household nigh starved to death for lack of food."