The Bewitched Viking

  "Is that true?" the lawspeaker demanded of King Anlaf. "Did you deceive Tykir thus?"

  "You say me wrong," Anlaf whined to Tykir in a wounded voice. When he saw that Tykir was unmoved, he spoke to the lawspeaker. "Nay, he misunderstood. I merely told Bjold to inform Tykir, as a last resort, that Adam was visiting at my court, and Tykir might want to join him here afore retiring to Dragonstead for the winter."

  "You lie!" Tykir yelled.

  "You overstep yourself," Anlaf yelled back. "Remember to whom you speak."

  "King you may be, Anlaf, but that does not give you leave to lie, or deceive."

  "It was a misunderstanding, I tell you. We are not foe-men, Tykir. Blood kin we be, and comrades. Do not test those bonds with ill-chosen words."

  "It is no small matter to deceive blood kin or comrade, be you king or cotter."

  The lawspeaker held both hands high to halt their argument.

  Bjold was called forth then, and he supported the king in a shifty-eyed, stuttering way.

  Tykir and Anlaf started hurling accusations back and forth again, while Bjold scurried away. Norsemen within the half-circle of twenty-one, as well as freemen throughout the hall, were muttering amongst themselves.

  Finally, the lawspeaker stood and banged his staff against a nearby shield, calling for attention. Quickly, with a rippling effect, quiet descended over the crowd.

  "Let the witch come forth," the lawspeaker said.

  Tykir flinched.

  Not a good sign, she thought. A moan escaped her lips.

  Adam helped her to her feet and whispered in her ear, "Do not go fainthearted now, my lady. Hang firm with the mettle you have shown thus far."

  Alinor's legs felt wobbly as she walked to the center of the room, where she was directed to stand, facing the assembly. She glanced toward Tykir for encouragement, but he just stared at her, his face angry and unsmiling. Whether he was angry at her, King Anlaf or the whole proceeding, she could not tell.

  "You have been accused of witchcraft, Lady Alinor," the lawspeaker said. "What say you?"

  She shook her head. "I'm not a witch."

  "How do you explain the hair of flame and Devil's spittle?"

  She shrugged. "God's choice, not Satan's."

  Father Caedmon stiffened, unsure if she were uttering a profanity or not.

  "Did you put a curse on King Anlaf's manroot?"

  "Yea," she answered truthfully, and there was a loud murmur of "Aha!" that resounded through the assembly. "But it was not the curse of a witch. Merely that of an outraged woman upon seeing a man about to rape a nun."

  "I... I... I... never... " Anlaf sputtered.

  "Yea, you did, King Anlaf. You and your fellow Vikings entered the abbey of St. Beatrice in Northumbria, where you raped and pillaged the good nuns. When I saw you spread the thighs of Sister Mary Esme, I became outraged. When my efforts to dislodge you proved fruitless, I shouted, 'By the Virgin's Veil, may your manpart fall off if you do this evil thing.' That does not mean I am a witch."

  "She cursed me, and my cock took a turn, halfway down," Anlaf argued. "I am confirmed a thousand times she is a witch."

  "If I were a witch, why would I not place a curse on this whole bloody assembly and be done with it?" she scoffed. "Then I would not need a Thing to gain my freedom. I would just fly off with the aid of magic arts."

  A number of the men shifted uncomfortably at her reminder that she could conceivably curse their dangly parts, as well. Some of them crossed their legs in protection, and a few reached for nearby shields.

  "And is the headrail you wear now the Virgin's Veil"" the lawspeaker asked.

  "Aaarrgh! Are you people listening to me? I am not a witch. There is no curse that could curve a man's staff, as far as I know. 'Tis said a certain malady can cause such I symptoms, which go away of their own accord, in time. But Father Caedmon, or Adam the Healer, would know more of that than I."

  "That is of no significance," Anlaf contended, examining his fingernails with unconcern.

  "Yea, it is. I believe you had a physical ailment, not a magical one."

  "That will be for the Thing to decide," the lawspeaker said sternly. "Now continue, Lady Alinor."

  "I have no knowledge of a relic known as the Virgin's Veil. This is one of five blue headrails I own, all cut from the same English cloth. 'By the Virgin's Veil' is an expression, that's all."

  "What explanation have you for all the frightful events that occur in your vicinity?" Anlaf asked belligerently.

  "Coincidence."

  "Hah!" Anlaf responded. And under his breath he muttered, "Bloody witch!" She could see equally dubious grimaces on the faces of many of the men.

  The lawspeaker stared at her for a long moment, then sighed loudly. "This is a dilemma. We have three versions of a dispute, all different. Let us think on this problem and come up with a just solution."

  About five minutes of contemplation followed then, as the men presumably thought through all aspects of the case. Some of them spoke to neighbors. There was much nodding and shaking of heads.

  Those five minutes felt like five hours to Alinor, whose fate weighed in the balance. Surely, in the end, Tykir would come to her rescue... if rescuing became necessary. Her instincts about him as her God-sent champion—her guardian Viking angel, ludicrous as that sounded—could not be so far off the mark.

  Finally, the lawspeaker's crinkled face brightened, as if inspired. He banged his staff on the floor for attention.

  "All good men know when to compromise," Styrr the Wise began. "It occurs to me that we have been told how a witch attempts to seduce mortal man so she may lose her tail. And I remind you that Tykir has told us he does not believe the Lady Alinor is a witch. Therefore, I suggest that Tykir prove his claim by marrying the witch." He smiled broadly through his toothless mouth at what he obviously considered a brilliant settlement.

  Tykir's face first went pale with shock, then purple with rage. He sputtered with disbelief.

  "Those are wise words Styrr has delivered... and well worth pondering," King Anlaf offered quickly. After only a moment of contemplation, he shouted, "Yea! A perfect solution!"

  And the entire body of free men and chieftains voted their favor with whooping cheers and the raucous clatter of their weapons against shields, the vapnatak. "Prove she is not a witch, Tykir. Marry the wench," many of them hollered.

  "Nay! I refuse," Tykir bellowed.

  "You refuse a decision of the Thing?" the lawspeaker inquired stonily. "Do you choose decision by combat instead?"

  "Wait a minute. Wait a minute," Alinor said. "Let me talk to Tykir in private for a brief moment."

  "I have naught to say to you," he said in an ice-laden voice when she pulled him off to the side. "This is all your fault."

  "My fault?" she snapped, but then softened her voice. She needed to have him on her side, not alienate him further. "Listen, Tykir, marrying me is a perfect solution."

  He made a snorting noise that was most offensive. She would have whacked him on the head if she did not need his help in this matter. "Really. Marry me to end this absurd problem with Anlaf. You take me away to Dragonstead for the winter, and I will return to Graycote come spring. It's a perfect solution for me. We will be wed, but not really wed. My brothers will be forced to end their marriage machinations. And I will not have to worry over having a bothersome husband about... ." Her words trailed off as she realized how insulting her plan sounded.

  Tykir was shaking his head at her, as if she'd lost her mind. "And what would I gain from this so-called marriage?"

  "Well... well... " she faltered. "It would be the noble thing to do."

  "Hah! More like the angel thing to do."

  "That, too," she said brightly.

  "I am not a saint."

  "I know."

  "Nay, Alinor. You do not know."

  "I could... you know... " Her face burned hotly.

  "Nay, I do not know. Tell me." He was not making this easy for her at all.


  "Well, I could be your... um, bedmate for the winter."

  At first his mouth dropped open with surprise. Then he laughed. The lout laughed. "What have you to offer that Samirah, or some other wench, could not provide... without all the bother?"

  "You wanted me before... in Hedeby."

  "A moment of madness."

  "Mayhap I have hidden talents." By the rood! Did I say that? The only talent I have in bedsport is gritting my teeth.

  He laughed mirthlessly and walked away from her, shaking his head and muttering something about having "gone berserk." He then addressed the lawspeaker, Anlaf and the freemen. "This I will agree to. King Anlaf will give me the stallion, five hundred marks of silver—"

  "Five hundred marks of silver!" King Anlaf exclaimed. "—and I, in turn, will take the Lady Alinor with me to Dragonstead for the winter, to prove I do not fear her witchly powers. I will not marry her, though. That is asking too much. Even Anlaf must admit that." He hesitated, then added, "You can keep the jingling girl."

  Alinor cringed inwardly at his vehement refusal to wed her. She understood. She really did. Still, it hurt.

  "Methinks it a reasonable compromise," the law-speaker opined.

  King Anlaf tapped his bearded chin thoughtfully. Finally, he nodded, and the weapon clatter of the assembly gave the final stamp of approval to Tykir's solution.

  "At least I walk away with my head, if not my dignity," she said to Tykir as he took her by the upper arm, nigh dragging her from the great hall. She was trying to lighten his dark mood.

  Bolthor followed behind, along with the seventy or so of his men who still remained. The men, armed with swords but no casting weapons, formed a tight phalanx as they withdrew from Anlaf's court, wary of any treachery. Farther behind, Adam sprinted along after them, his robe raised to his knees to facilitate flight. Rurik came last, weighted down by cloth sacks of the coin he'd amassed from his cross and holy water transactions.

  When they got to the doorway of the great hall, Tykir turned on her and said, nose pressed to nose, "Attend me well, lady. You are going to pay dearly for this trick you have played on me, in ways you cannot possibly imagine."

  " 'Tis nigh impossible I could even think up such a trick."

  "Shut... your... teeth."

  She would have liked to express her opinion of his nasty manner, but she was free, thanks to him, and she decided to show her gratitude by remaining silent. Not that she had a choice.

  As they all walked toward his longship in the falling snow, Alinor pondered Tykir's words. You are going to pay dearly for this trick you have played on me, in ways you cannot possibly imagine. In that moment, she discovered that she had a really good imagination.

  And she thought, Hmmm.

  An hour later, two of Tykir's longships prepared to set sail on the winding fjords north to Dragonstead.

  The weather had turned bitter cold, and sleet was coming down in a steady fall of wet, biting pellets. She could tell by the nervous efficiency that the seamen expended in their tasks that they were worried by the coming storm, and about whether they would be able to make the two-day trip home before the streams froze over.

  Alinor sat huddled under several layers of fur rugs. The horse—a beautiful beast of sleek-as-satin black—was firmly ensconced on the other vessel, despite Anlaf's offer to buy the animal back from Tykir.

  Tykir wasn't talking to anyone, most especially her. He went about his duties stoically, overseeing his ship's departure. His usually full lips were thinned and bluish, and not just from the cold. She could tell that he was in tremendous pain from his old leg wound but would not stop and rest, or he might not be able to go on. They were ready to set sail now. Tykir walked up to her and shoved a pile of five flat boxes into her hands. They were finely carved in some foreign style and gilded along the raised edges.

  "For me?" She was puzzled by the contradiction of gifts and his icy demeanor.

  "For you."

  "But... but why?"

  ' "These, my lady witch, will mark the first stage of your payment to me of the huge debt you now owe me."

  "I... I don't understand. You give me gifts so I can pay you?"

  "Yea," he said. The smile that stretched his lips never met his eyes, which regarded her coolly. "And your debt is huge."

  The fine hairs stood out at the back of her neck. "You are talking about punishment, not payment, are you not?"

  "Yea, but you have a few days to ponder your future, my lady. I will not begin to collect till we are settled in at Dragonstead for the winter... the whole bloody winter."

  "I'm not afraid of you," she said, even though she was beginning to be just that.

  "Then you are a bigger fool than I thought." With those words, he walked off and signaled his men to begin rowing.

  A short time later, Adam walked up and sat down beside Alinor. "Why are you frowning so?" Adam asked. "I would think you would be jubilant. You won."

  "I did no such thing. This wasn't a contest. And no matter what Tykir says, it wasn't my fault, either."

  Adam laughed. "He is a mite perturbed with you."

  "That's an understatement. It's why I was frowning. I don't understand these gifts he gave me. Oh, he spouted some nonsense about their being my first installment in paying him back a huge debt. But I've examined them and... " She handed them to Adam, and he opened the largest one first. It was a silk-lined shallow box containing dozens of feathers of all sizes, colors and textures. "Aren't they magnificent?" she commented.

  He nodded, deep in thought, and opened the next flat chest. This one contained ten flagons of various scented oils. "He has commented on the rose-scented hair cream that his sister-by-marriage, Lady Eadyth, gave to me, but I am deeply touched that he would grace me with these."

  Adam was beginning to grin enigmatically.

  "Why are you smirking?"

  "I am beginning to understand the method of payment Tykir plans to exact from you." He opened the next box, which held the oddest objects, short lengths of velvet ropes... four of them. "Yea, I am beginning to understand."

  A very small box held a magnificent amber cabochon, about the size of a bird's egg. "This is beautiful but has no backing to be used as a brooch, and no metal loop through which a neck chain could be run."

  "It's a belly button stone," Adam said with a chuckle.

  "A what?"

  "It's a special gem, favored by many of the houris in sultans' harems. The woman wears naught but this stone in the navel."

  It took a moment for comprehension to dawn. When it did, she gasped. "He's mad if he thinks I would... well, suffice it to say, he's mad." She turned the gem this way and that, trying to picture it in place. Finally, she put it away, making a tsk-ing sound of disapproval. "Is the man perverted?"

  "Probably." Adam winked at her and reached for the last box.

  "Oh, that one's a mistake," she said, trying to pull it back. "Tykir must have meant it for Samirah."

  He opened it, and out spilled the most scandalous garment, made of near transparent red silk scarves, edged with tiny jingling bells. "Nay, you are mistaken, Lady Alinor. He intends it for you. I am certain of that."

  She stared at him, aghast.

  "Lady Alinor, I predict this is going to be the most interesting winter of your life."

  Chapter Eleven

  They arrived at Dragonstead two days later as snow began to fall in a steady blanketing of puffy flakes.

  Alinor and all the other seafarers were exhausted, frozen to the bone and barely able to find their land legs as they disembarked from the ice-crusted longships. The trip had been harrowing, to say the least. Hard rowing through one fjord after another... some narrow, and so shallow the vessels risked being landlocked, and others as wide as a river.

  The weather had varied from rain to bitter winds, but was always intensely cold. They did not even camp for the night; it was dark a large portion of the day anyhow. Instead, they stopped for breaks at six-hour intervals whe
reby cold food was served—including the horrid gammelost—and bodily functions could be relieved in nearby bushes. All the time they were attempting to outrun the onslaught of full winter, which was apparently a disaster to be avoided when on the open waterways of the region known as the Land of the Midnight Sun.

  What a harsh land, this northern section of Norway! Of course, she was seeing it for the first time under the worst of circumstances, but it was a mountainous, primitive terrain, more suited to wild beasts than men.

  Alinor hadn't spoken with Tykir since he'd handed her the "gifts." He'd kept to the other longship most of the time, but she could see even from a distance that he was nigh crippled with pain. And Tykir wasn't the only one suffering. Many of the seamen were afflicted with the usual wintertime ailment of sneezing and running noses and eyes. Of course, they blamed it all on her witchly presence. Few had been convinced by Tykir's defense of her at Anlaf's court.

  She intended to make them all a good, rich chicken broth once they reached Dragonstead... a guaranteed cure for the winter chills. And she would force it down their stubborn throats if they resisted it as witch's brew... yea, she would. She was sick to death of stubborn, superstitious men.

  But now they'd come home for the winter. The timing was fortunate in that they'd arrived during one of the few hours of daylight. Many of the seamen were met by family members waiting for them on the wharves of Dragonstead. One by one, and in small groups, those men who did not reside in the main keep made for their homes in the nearby village.

  Finally, the chaos of unloading the goods was completed, and Alinor stepped onto the wooden planks of the dock, getting her first good view of Dragonstead.

  Then she gasped.

  Dragonstead was situated in a bowl-shaped valley known as the Valley of the Dragons. Adam had told her earlier that the name came from an old legend that millions of years ago this valley had served as a dragon's nest. Now, there was a small lake forming the base of the bowl and dense, tree-lined mountains surrounding it. The lake was formed from melted snow and rain run-off from the mountains, which flowed into the fjord by which they'd entered. A small timber and stone "castle," in the Frankish rather than the Norse style, sat perched on the lip of one side, overlooking the lake. Viking longhouses making up the Dragonstead village were scattered in clusters around the bowl.