My Fair Viking

  Now when he resumed kissing her, she had the double pleasure of feeling him move against her there. Tyra thought she had died and gone to Valhalla, so intense was the pleasure.

  The one time when she experimented and dipped the tip of her tongue into his mouth, he jerked against her. What a wonderful gift! To know that she… Tyra the Big… Tyra the Man-Woman… could have that kind of effect on a man like Adam… well, 'twas nothing less than a gift from the gods.

  "Why are they groanin' so much?" a little boy's voice asked.

  "Are they makin' a baby?" a little girl's voice asked.

  "Nay. You have to be naked to make babies," a voice that could only be Alrek responded. "Leastways, I think that is the way it works."

  Tyra and Adam did indeed groan then. They turned as one, with him still lying flat atop her on the well bench.

  It was Alrek, all right, with the baby Besji in his arms, sleeping apparently, her little head cradled against his shoulder. On either side of him were Tunni and Kristin.

  Adam pressed his forehead against Tyra's and seemed to be counting to ten. When he was done, he sat up gingerly. And she did the same.

  "What do you want?" Adam demanded testily. Tyra could sympathize with his frustration.

  "Rashid sent us to find you," Alrek said in a shaky voice.

  "He did? Are you sure?"

  Tyra understood Adam's confusion. Rashid knew what a nuisance these children were to his master.

  "Tell me exactly what were Rashid's words."

  "Well, he was in your bedchamber. Conductin' inter… inter… interviews, I think he called 'em."

  "Interviews?" she and Adam both said at the same time.

  "Yea, and what a mess it was, too! Had a dozen women lined up outside in the corridor, he did."

  "Interviews for what?" Adam asked through gritted teeth, though he and Tyra both knew the answer.

  "Yer harem. We wuz helpin' him with the interviews. Openin' and closin' the door, holdin' back the pushy ones. When we kept askin' him questions, that's when he said, 'Why do you not go hunt for Master Adam?' What does buxom mean, anyhow? And belly dancin'? I have heard of dancin' round the Friggsday bonfire, but belly dancin'… I jist can't picture it."

  Adam stood abruptly and began to stalk away. "I am going to kill the man, I truly am."

  The children were staring after him, worried, no doubt, that they had said the wrong thing. Tyra, on the other hand, had her palm pressed over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

  Just before he reached the outside staircase, Adam halted and turned. Pointing a finger at her, he asserted, "You and I have unfinished business."

  Tyra didn't even bother to disagree.

  In truth, she couldn't wait.

  Adam had to shove his way through two dozen milling women—the number appeared to be growing by the minute—to get to his bedchamber.

  I am going to kill him. Forget about my newfound dedication to healing. I am going to kill him.

  As he opened the door a crack, he heard Vana the White—Tyra's very own sister, for the love of God!—asking, "Does it matter if a new harem houri is a… a… virgin?" The last word came out on a mortified whisper.

  I am going to kill him.

  "Nay, it matters not." Rashid was waving a hand airily. The other hand held a parchment on which he'd presumably been taking notes on the harem candidates. "There is an ancient Arab proverb regarding this very thing. 'Virginity is like a blister. Once pricked, 'tis gone forever.' " Then he smiled widely, enjoying his own wisdom, no doubt.

  "Rashid!" Adam practically bellowed, opening the door wider.

  Rashid jumped, and so did the young woman.

  "Out!" he ordered Vana, then slammed the door after her.

  "Do you have a death wish?" he asked his assistant, who had the nerve to stare back at him with wide-eyed innocence, not the least bit repentant.

  "Nay, but I do have a wish to be happy. Is that too much to ask? That a man may be happy in this lifetime? Allah says—"

  "Do not dare quote me a proverb now. I am in no mood. Did I not tell you, over and over, that I do not want a harem?"

  "Who said the harem is for you?" Rashid placed a hand flat against his heart as if Adam's charge had wounded him greatly.

  Hah.' Rashid wasn't fooling him. "And who might this harem be for? The sultan of Baghdad? A desert caliph?"

  "Nay, nay, nay! Just for me."

  "Oh, really? And where were you planning on setting up this harem? My weaving shed in Northumbria?"

  Rashid raised his chin stubbornly. "You cannot tell me what to do with my free time. And if I want a harem, and have the funds to support it… which I do… then that is precisely what I will do."

  Rashid stormed out then. Adam wasn't sure if the hasty exit was because he was offended, or if he just wanted to escape his wrath.

  I have insulted my best friend.

  I have gained a triple shadow of pestsome children.

  I might very well have to run for my life if the king should die.

  I've become involved, despite my best intentions, with a female Viking soldier.

  How did my life become such a tangled mess? he wondered and put his face in his hands.

  What else could happen?

  "Your Uncle Tykir is here," Rashid called out gaily a mere one hour later, as if they had never exchanged harsh words.

  But then Rashid's message sank into Adam's brain. Tykir? Here? Oh, good Lord, what would he make of this mess? He will laugh at me… that is what he will do.

  Adam was in the king's bedchamber, checking on his condition. Thorvald had not come out of the deep sleep yet… if he ever would. But his breathing was normal, and his body temperature had not elevated. Fever was always a concern.

  Closing the door softly, Adam left Father Efrid behind to watch over Thorvald, with instructions to call him immediately if there was a change.

  As he walked down the upper corridor, Rashid told him, "They brought the new babe with them. 'Twould seem they miscalculated the birthing date, and it came six sennights ago. It is a boy… a fourth son for them, I believe. Allah must be well pleased with the father to bless him so."

  Rashid was rambling, as he often did, but Adam suspected he did so now to cover the awkwardness of their parting a short time ago. He put a hand on Rashid's forearm to halt their progress for a moment. "I apologize for my harsh words."

  Rashid nodded and patted his hand in acceptance. "No apologies are necessary between friends. Just know this, Master Adam, we come from different cultures. Do not be so quick to judge my ways."

  They continued toward the great hall, where Rashid went off to find Rafn. Meanwhile, Adam was greeted immediately by his Uncle Tykir, who lifted him off his feet and hugged him warmly. He and Tykir were of the same height, but Tykir had several stones on him in weight, being a fierce Viking warrior who guarded his home at Dragonstead with an iron hand. Dragonstead was less than a day's journey by horse and a half day by longboat. They were neighbors by Northern standards.

  "How is everything going, boy?" Tykir asked as he drew back. Tykir had seen more than forty winters, but age sat well on him. There were only a few gray hairs in his light brown hair. Already Tykir was leading Adam toward a trestle table where a housecarl was pouring mead for them. "We heard that you were here, and I was worried. Alinor suggested that we come. She was worried, too."

  "I operated on King Thorvald this morn. Thus far he seems to be holding on," he told his uncle.

  Tykir nodded, took a deep draught of mead, then plopped down onto the bench and motioned for Adam to join him. Then he did what Adam had been expecting all along. He grinned.

  Adam pretended not to notice and sipped thoughtfully at his ale.

  Just then Alinor came up and hugged him from behind. "How fare you, Adam dear?"

  He turned in his seat to get a better look at his aunt-by-mariage. He had not seen either of them for several years. Her hair was still rusty-red and her face was covered with freckles. Tykir
thought she was nigh gorgeous. Even now, after a full ten years of marriage, it was clear that the man was besotted with his wife, so sappy was the expression on his face when he gazed on her.

  "Ah, and this is the new addition to the Tykirsson family, I take it," he said, peering beneath the swaddling blanket at the newborn babe

  "Yea," she said with great pride. "Our fourth son. Selik Tykirsson. Is he not beautiful? He looks just like his father "

  Adam had to take a deep breath before he could swallow over the lump in his throat. They had named their babe after his adoptive father, Selik who had been sort of a stepbrother by marriage to Tykir.

  When Adam was able to speak, he said, "Of course, Selik is beautiful. All babies are. But I do not know about his being beautiful if he takes after his father." Adam regarded the infant, not knowing whom he would favor as he grew to manhood.

  Tykir punched him in the arm, then relieved his wife of her blissful burden, cradling the still sleeping child in the crook of his big arm. Adam noticed that Tykir and Alinor's firstborn, Thork, was making friends with Alrek, who was of a similar age. Although he was only nine years old, Thork already had a reputation for being wildly mischievous. Adam wondered what domestic disasters would come of Alrek's association with him. The Wild and the Clumsy! Tykir and Alinor's second son, seven' year-old Starri, and their third son, four-year-old Guthrom, were already chattering away with Alrek's brother and sisters.

  Alinor went to take a sip of her husband's mead, then frowned at Tykir when she realized the goblet was empty.

  Ignoring his wife's frown, he commented to Adam, "Well, you landed in the middle of it this time, didn't you?"

  "No thanks to you," Adam answered with a snort of disgust.

  "Me?" Tykir inquired, widening his eyes with an innocence he'd never had a day in his life.

  "You. 'Twas you that was responsible for the warrior wench kidnapping me and bringing me to this godforsaken land."

  'She kidnapped you?" Alinor asked.

  "Yea, she did. Whacked me over the head with a sword and tossed me over her shoulder."

  Alinor and Tykir tossed their heads back and laughed uproariously. As he'd known they would.

  'Tyra actually did that? Carried you off on her shoulder? Like a sack of barley?" Almor wiped the tears of merriment from her eyes, but her face was still split with a huge grin.

  "You know her?"

  "Of course I know her. I have lived in this country for nigh on ten years. She was at my wedding with her father and sisters. You did not meet her there?"

  He shook his head, wondering how he could have missed such a… a… wonder.

  They all turned as one then to stare across the room to where Tyra stood talking with her sisters. It was easy to pick her out. She was taller by a head than any of the others. And she was the only one wearing braies. Adam sensed Tyra's insecurities, especially in comparison to her sisters and their renowned beauty, but frankly, Adam thought she looked ten times better than any one of them, even in her male attire, even when she did manly things like scratching. Was he looking at her through prejudiced eyes, just as Tykir did when he gazed adoringly at his freckled wife? Now, that was an alarming thought!

  "She looks different somehow," Alinor mused, tilting her head one way, then another as she studied Tyra.

  "Yea, she does," Tykir agreed, a grin twitching his lips.

  Aaarrgh! It is starting already, the jesting at my expense.

  "Methinks it is her tousled hair and her—oh, my God'—her lips." Alinor exchanged a look with her husband.

  "You are right, wife. As usual. If I did not know better, I would think the lady soldier had been kissed good and well. In fact, her lips look rather, well, kiss-swollen."

  Tykir and Ahnor turned their attention to Adam.

  "Just like yours," Ahnor hooted with glee.

  Once again, Alinor and Tykir tossed their heads back and laughed uproariously.

  "Kiss-swollen lips, did you say?" It was Rashid who came up to join them. He looked pointedly at Tyra, then directly at Adam's mouth, and nodded his head with satisfaction. " 'Tis well past time, too. Two years of chastity is more than enough for any one man, I tell you. Allah says—"

  "Two years?" Mirth was replaced in Alinor's voice by shock and something else… probably concern.

  "Chastity? You?" Tykir was staring at Adam, his mouth agape with incredulity. He, too, looked a bit concerned.

  "Methinks this calls for a saga," Adam heard a booming voice announce behind him.

  "Oh, nay, oh please, God, not this," Adam prayed even before he turned around and saw the giant Viking with the one eye-patch. "Dear Lord, please, please, please, spare me."

  'Twas Bolthor, the world's worst skald.

  "This is the saga of Adam the Lesser," Bolthor began.

  Alinor and Tykir smiled their encouragement. Adam just groaned.

  But then Adam said, "What is this 'Lesser' business? You always say, 'This is the saga of Tykir the Great,' or 'This is the saga of Runk the Greater.' Why is it I get no 'Great' after my name?"

  "Well, Tykir was much chagrined when he found out that I named Runk the Greater, and—"

  "I was not," Tykir protested.

  "Yea, you were," Alinor disagreed.

  "… and he ordered me henceforth to name no one greater than he."

  "Are you really that vain?" Adam asked Tykir.

  "He's lying," a red-faced Tykir lied.

  "Yea, he is that vain," Alinor said.

  "As I was saying, this is the saga of Adam the Lesser."

  "Once was a Saxon healer,

  All the maids his beauty did stir.

  Some said he was overly cocky,

  But, till then, his life had ne'er been rocky.

  Along came a Viking princess,

  Warrior by trade and dress.

  Wanted the man,

  Clobbered the man,

  Carried off the man,

  Heeded no ban,

  Off she ran,

  Took him to her clan,

  Because the lady had a plan.

  Now, some say she needed his talent,

  That a miracle in him the gods sent.

  That very well may be true,

  But on this idea you should chew:

  Exactly which talent of the knave

  Did the fair maid crave?

  And, further, this advice I confide:

  Best that Eve should watch her backside

  When Adam is untied…

  Or better yet, at her bedside."

  Tykir and Alinor declared it the best poem Bolthor had ever created.

  "It even rhymed this time," Alinor cooed.

  "And it was long, too," Tykir added, as if that were an asset for a good saga.

  Rashid was practically in a swoon and swore that he and the skald would make celestial music by combining Bolthor's poetic talents with his own mental stash of proverbs.

  Tyra had walked up just as Bolthor began to speak. She was looking rather red, so Adam assumed she had overheard the saga. And, yes, her lips were kiss-swollen. Adam closed his eyes and wished he were back in Northumbria where being a hermit was sounding better by the minute.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, King Thorvald awakened for a short time and was able to swallow a bit of thin gruel. Adam started his day in a really good mood.

  To mark the occasion, he pinched Tyra's right buttock on the way out of the bedchamber, which caused her to squeal, just like a woman, which she probably hated. Then he winked at her, just to remind her of their bargain, which might very well go in his favor if her father continued to improve. The wink caused her to blush, just like a woman, which she probably also hated.

  He was whistling when he entered the great hall. Rashid motioned him over to a table where hesirs were sitting down to break their fast before beginning the day's work.

  "There are already people lining up for your services," Rashid told him.

  He nodded. "I will see a few
of them this morn, but not too many. I am still not sure how I feel about returning to medicine. Do you understand?"

  "I do," Rashid said. "Slowly at first. One patient at a time. One day at a time."

  He nodded.

  Rashid managed to get a small solar off the great hall assigned to them. It had a long table in it and several chairs, which served their purposes just fine. By noon, Adam had seen several dozen patients before he announced firmly, "No more today!"

  None of the ailments had been critical. A festering ax wound. A recurrent boil on the neck. A poison weed rash on the hands. A debilitating case of morning sickness. A fractured arm that needed splinting.

  And Adam found great immediate satisfaction in being able to quiet an old man's cough by prescribing hore-hound boiled in water and sweetened with honey. Or soothe a screaming baby's irritated bottom with his special ointment. Or stitch a knife gash. Or advise Arnora, a twenty-five-year-old mother of eight, how to avoid any more pregnancies, thanks to some information from his stepmother, Rain, who claimed to know of methods used by women far in the future.

  He told Rashid they would have to gather many more puffballs after a warm rain next summer, to replenish their stock. The edible fungus was wonderful to help bloody wounds clot because of the millions of tiny spores it contained. Lichen was also good for stanching wounds, but they had plenty of that.

  Quite a few people who came to him that morning suffered from severe louse bites… always a problem when bathing and cleanliness were ignored. He advised them to apply a salve of cammoc, crowfoot, radish, and wormwood pounded into a dust, then kneaded with oil. Fleas posed a similar problem. To prevent infestations, he told a group of women to take gorse seeds, wet them down, then sprinkle them about their longhouses to kill the fleas. This was something Ingrith already practiced about her castle, which was so clean no flea or louse would dare intrude.

  There were many ailments of the eye since Norse homes were so smoky. Adam suggested that the eyes be anointed with the juice from a roasted buck liver, and that afterwards the liver be eaten. Apparently, there was some ingredient in the meat that was beneficial to the eyes.