My Fair Viking

  Tyra had led her men in the counter attack, slicing one man in the neck and heaving his lifeless body overboard, grabbing another smallish Viking pirate from behind around his neck and squeezing till he fell dead to the deck. Grunts and shouts and screams and muffled cries had filled the air, but mostly there had been just the metallic sounds of swords and axes hitting one another. The skirmish had lasted barely a half hour before the pirates disembarked Tyra's ship, cut the grappling rope, and rowed off, leaving behind ten dead pirates and much blood. But it had been long enough for Adam to see that Tyra was indeed a Viking warrior, woman or not.

  And much to his dismay, he'd heard Tyra ask Bjorn, a berserker who also happened to be a blacksmith, if he wanted her to drain the still-warm blood from one of the pirates into a bucket to take home. The blood of an enemy was used betimes to "quench," or harden, white-hot swords during the pattern-welding process… though more times than not, water would suffice.

  He had been fairly certain at the time that she had been serious, but mayhap she had been trying to shock him.

  The bloodthirsty wench was about to walk by him now—and wasn't that an amazing sight? Whenever she remembered to do so, the woman swaggered—shoulders back, stride aggressive. Adam had lots of time to study this phenomenon and he'd come to the conclusion that Tyra deliberately tried to take on male characteristics. Perchance she thought they would give her greater authority. She even scratched her groin on occasion, as men did, and she spit over the side of the ship.

  Now she was about to swagger right by him, as if he were invisible, on her usual manly stroll from stem to stern to supervise the work of her sailors. He gritted his teeth with chagrin at her easy disregard of him, or his comforts. Luckily, his teeth were no longer chattering. Before taking him forcibly away from his home two days ago, the woman had given him an opportunity to change from his robe into braies, a wool tunic and heavy cloak, but, being exposed to the open air aboard ship, those garments had soon became soaked with sea water… until today when they'd seen their first warm sunlight. Now they were covered with residual sea salt. His situation was no different from that of every other person on the longboat. The Viking vessels rode low in the water, sloshing water in as a matter of course, and everyone was sodden most of the day. Baling water was a never-ending job.

  "My lady Viking," he called out, unable to control the sarcasm in his voice.

  Tyra paused and arched one eyebrow in question. "What? More complaints? Too cold? Too wet? Too hungry? Too tired? Too sore? Too, too, too… "

  He barely restrained himself from snarling. Quickly he banked his temper.

  "Now that you've kidnapped me, why won't you untie me?" he asked, not for the first time. "I concede I'm a prisoner, but prisoners have rights, too, you know."

  "I wouldn't precisely call it kidnapping," she contended.

  "Really? What would you call it?"

  "A forceful invitation to visit my homeland."

  "Word games!"

  "And as to why I won't release you, look what you did back at your keep when my mind wandered for a moment. Flat on my back I was with your clawlike fingers at my throat."

  Flat on her back. Yea, that is where women should be… rather, that is where this particular bothersome woman should be. And she will be, eventually, if I have my way.

  God, what is it about this woman? One moment I wish my hands were free so I could wring her neck. The next moment I wish my hands were free so I… so I could do other things.

  "My fingers are not clawlike. In fact, I have been told by many that my hands are quite attractive… and clever."

  "Clever hands? No doubt 'twas a besotted maid who spoke those words."

  "Does that make my hands less clever?"

  "This is a pointless conversation. The reason I won't release you is that you might try to escape."

  He looked all around him. Water, water, everywhere. "As talented as I am in many ways, I do not think I could survive a two-hour swim to shore."

  She shrugged. "You have a slick tongue, Saxon. You might try to convince my men to turn against me."

  "Mutiny? Pirates do that, don't they? Not civilized folks."

  "You consider us civilized?" She fair beamed at the presumed compliment.

  "I was speaking of myself."

  "Aaarrgh!" she said and walked away.

  He watched closely as she reprimanded one of her sailors for some misdeed, then moved on to a young boy, Alrek, who couldn't have seen more than ten winters. He was an apprentice who was trying desperately to impress his leader by maneuvering an oar bigger than himself. Adam had observed that the boy had great spirit and determination, but mostly he failed miserably at every task he tried, from scooping out bilge water in the early morning hours to archery practice during the evening exercises.

  Tyra instructed Alrek with gentle firmness now, showing him how to handle the oar so it put less pressure on his shoulders and back. When he still failed to understand, she took his place on the sea chest and began to row, expertly. My God! The woman had muscles in places women were never intended to have muscles. And, by damn, they looked good on her.

  Soon she was back in front of Adam again. "Would you like me to bring a bucket so you can relieve yourself, or turn you so that you can aim overboard? It has been a long time since our morning ablutions, and Rafn is too busy right now to handle the chore."

  He stared at her, bulge-eyed with horror. "Nay, I do not wish to piss in a bucket, or overboard… whilst you watch."

  "Well, then, would you like a serving of gammelost to break your noonday fast?"

  "If I never taste another bite of that stinksome cheese, it will be too soon."

  "I am so sorry I have no sweetmeats to tempt your palate."

  "Sarcasm ill suits you, m'lady. Do you not have some enemy to go bedevil, lop off a head or two, or something equally unfeminine, and leave innocents like me free of your word barbs?"

  "Innocent? You? Methinks you were not innocent even when you came squalling from your mother's womb." She sniffed the air around him then and remarked bluntly, "You need a bath, my healer friend. I cannot fathom why you will not bathe along the shore in the evenings with my men."

  "I am not going into any body of water with my arms and legs tied."

  "Perchance you would like me to remove your garments now so Rafn can hang you over the side with a rope till the currents wash you clean… let us say for an hour or so. What say you to that?"

  She was probably teasing.

  But then again, she might be serious. He remembered vividly the morning's events and the ill-fated pirate she'd chopped in the neck with her broadsword.

  "I am not a bloodthirsty man," he said evenly, "but it becomes increasingly clear to me that I am going to have to kill you."

  She laughed… she actually threw her head back and laughed at him, exposing white teeth and a mouth that was big enough to… well, suffice it to say, it was big enough. In deference to today's heat, she had forgone her cloak and tunic. Instead, she wore only a short-sleeved mail shert over tight leggings tucked into leather half-boots. But Adam was too angry now to admire the jut of her breasts or the taper of her waist.

  He sniffed in an exaggerated fashion, mimicking her. "Come to think on it, you are a mite rank yourself. That no doubt is why you scratch so much. Wouldst consider letting me remove your garments? We could both hang over the side together. I know, I know…" he said, as if suddenly inspired. "I will wash your back"—and other places—"if you will wash mine."

  "For a healer, you are not all that bright, are you?" Her eyes swept over him meaningfully from wind-blown, salt-lank hair to booted toes. "You are hardly in a position to harm even a flea, rope-bound as you are." It appeared she was going to ignore his naked-hanging-over-the-side-washing-backs business. But her pinkened cheeks indicated that his comment had had its desired effect.

  "I will not always be bound."

  "Ah, so you are saying that the moment you are re-teased, you will at
tempt to kill me? See, I was right when I said it would be unwise to untie you. But, truly, dost think it wise to give me fair warning?"

  He shook his head. "Nay, I will not kill you immediately." He let his eyes sweep over her body now, just as hers had done to him. "I have other plans for you first. And the longer I stand here tied to this bloody pole, the more detailed my fantasies become."

  "Oh?" Clearly interested, she put her hands on her hips, her legs widespread to balance herself on the moving ship.

  Oh, yea, really detailed. Keep standing like that and give me more ideas. "First, I intend to tup you till your toenails curl."

  She gasped. His remark had caught her off guard.

  It had caught him off guard, too. Who knew he was going to say such a thing?

  "Then I will tup you again till your eyes roll up into your head." My tongue seems to have developed a mind of its own.

  She regained her composure and glared at him, almost as if to make sure her eyes weren't rolling. "Has the sea air turned you barmy?"

  "And then I will make love to you again and again till you beg for more. That should take, oh, a sennight or two… or five. I cannot wait. How about you?" Mayhap Rashid's flapping tongue has rubbed off on me.

  "Pffff! You overstep yourself, Saxon, to speak thus to me. The only thing bigger than your nerve is your ego."

  "Or something else." He glanced significantly downward.

  She did not answer. In truth, she could not answer, for her mouth was hanging open. With shock or interest, he could not say, but either possibility marked success to his mind.

  "Then… and only then… will I kill you," he concluded, and grinned mirthlessly at her.

  She stared at him, pondering all he had said. After a while, her hand moved through the air in a gesture of unconcern. "You'd have to catch me first."

  "Oh, m'lady, you should see me run."

  Tapping her foot with exasperation, she bared her teeth and nigh growled at him. "Dost think you are man enough?"

  He wasn't sure if she referred to the tupping or the running. Either way, he knew the answer. "I know I am."

  She swiveled on her heel and stomped away from him, muttering something about coarse, dirty-minded oafs. But he could tell that he had disconcerted her, which had been his goal. He'd been trained as a soldier as well as a physician. After all, he'd been raised in a Viking household. She was not the only one well versed in the strategies of battle.

  He'd just declared war on his captor.

  On her return trip across the decks, she remarked, as if their conversation had not been interrupted, "Your crudity knows no bounds, but what could I expect from a bloody Saxon?"

  "My Saxon heritage didn't seem to concern you when you were on a physician hunt. By the by, I meant to ask you afore, how did you hear of me?"

  "Tykir of Dragonstead recommended you. I asked for his advice when he came to visit my father. He said you are the best healer in all of Britain, but he said naught about your refusal to practice the healing arts."

  "Tykir? My stepuncle betrayed me? I can hardly credit that."

  "He did not betray you. All he said was, 'If you want the best healer for your father, go get Adam.' He did laugh in a most peculiar manner afterward when I told him that I would do just that."

  "I am not surprised. Tykir always did have a warped sense of humor."

  "Don't you want to know about my father's illness… so that you may be prepared to cure him when we arrive at Stoneheim?"

  "Why should I inquire about his symptoms when I do not intend to treat him?"

  Her face was turning red with frustration. He could tell that she would love nothing more than to punch him in the stomach, but she feared alienating him more than she already had.

  "Why won't you treat him? Why have you given up medicine? Why do you disdain the talents your One-God gave you? Tis selfish, if you ask me."

  "That is my business, and mine only. 'Tis not for you to know."

  "Hmph! Well, I will tell you anyhow… so you can ponder your method of treatment, despite what you say. He was struck down in a minor battle about three sennights ago… a blow to the head from a spiked mace ball. He has been drifting in and out of sleep ever since."

  "Did you hit him over the head?"

  "Nay, I did not."

  "Do not be giving me a look of such affront, as if you'd never struck a man over the head with a deadly weapon. I know better than most that you have, as evidenced by the goose egg on my crown."

  The woman did not even have the good sense to look guilty. Instead, she raised her stubborn chin arrogantly.

  Suddenly another thought occurred to him. "Your father has been unconscious for three sennights and you expect me to cure him! What happens if I fail? I'm wagering on a head-lopping for such a serious offense. It's an impossible task you ask of me, my lady. Impossible!" He made a grunting sound of incredulity. "Are you demented, woman? I am a healer, not a magician."

  "Nay, I am not demented. Just desperate," she said.

  Adam could tell that the admission cost her much in pride. He knew too well how it hurt to lose a loved one. In a softer voice, he commented, "You must love your father very much."

  To his surprise, she shrugged. "The old sly-boots is even more selfish than you are. Of course, I want him to live, but mostly because once he is well, I can convince him to…" Her words trailed off, and her face turned an even brighter shade of red.

  Now this was interesting. "Convince him to what?" he asked when she looked everywhere but at him.

  "Never mind," she said and stomped off.

  On her next pass by him, she continued the conversation. "If you must know, I have four sisters," she informed him.

  "Huh?" He didn't recall asking her.

  "Four sisters! And all of them nagging and pulling at me for just one thing."

  "And that would be?"

  "A husband."

  Uh-oh!

  "You see, my father's family has a tradition… an ironclad one, passed down through many generations. The daughters in the family can only be married in the order of their birth. The first daughter must wed afore the second. The second must wed afore the third. And so on."

  Tyra looked so doleful he almost felt sorry for her.

  Almost. Humor outweighed pity, however. "Let me guess. You are the eldest."

  She nodded.

  "Why not just get married?" he asked when he was able to bank his mirth.

  "Look at me," she said, sweeping a hand from her blond head to her big-booted toes.

  I'm looking. I'm looking. I'm looking way too much. "What is your point?"

  "My point is that I do not have the usual feminine attributes that attract a man."

  I beg to differ, my lady. "If you say so."

  "Besides, by the time I had seen ten winters, my father realized that his seed was only going to bear girl-fruit. He decided that if he wanted his kingdom to pass to his blood kin, it would have to be me. So he trained me to be a soldier… a good soldier. That's why it's urgent that you heal my father. If he should die, I must continue to lead his men."

  "I'm confused. If your father dies, you will lead his men. So, if you want your father to live, it must be so you will be able to find a willing husband."

  She glared at him. "Nay, you dunderhead. Do you deliberately misunderstand? I do not want a husband, but I do want my sisters to be able to wed. And I want my father well again. Then he can take back his chieftain duties. Then I can announce the severing of our kinship… a divorce, if you will. If I am no longer his daughter, there is no need for me to take on a loathsome oppressor… in other words, a husband… for my sisters' sake."

  "If this severing is such an easy task, why have you not done so before?"

  She blushed. " 'Tis a recent idea of mine."

  "This is the most far-fetched bit of feminine ill-logic I have ever heard," he said. "What in the name of God would you do if this… this… divorce took place?"

  " Tis simple. I w
ill join the Varangian Guard."

  "In Byzantium?" His jaw hung open for a moment before he noticed and clicked his teeth in place. "I have never seen or heard of a female in that prestigious group of Viking warriors."

  "I have already spoken with the emperor's captain. He thinks a female addition to the Guard would not only be permissible, but highly desirable." She raised her chin another notch, daring him to disagree.

  All he could say was, "Oh, my God!" Adam started to laugh then. And laugh. And laugh.

  When he told the story to Rashid that evening, he was still laughing.

  Rashid, of course, homed in on the most irrelevant part of the story. "Four sisters! Five in all! Dost think that is a Norse version of a harem? Allah be thanked, that it might be so!"

  "Five sisters do not count as a harem. Definitely not! And do not dare bring up the subject!" He couldn't stop laughing, though.

  However, his assistant saw things in a different light. "If her father dies, mayhap her tribe, including the sisters-harem, will look for you to be the warrior princess's husband."

  Adam stopped laughing.

  Chapter Three

  "I will never become a fierce Viking warrior," Alrek complained dolefully. Tears pooled in his green eyes which he quickly wiped away on the sleeve of his tunic.

  Adam was still tied to the mast pole, but he'd sunk down to the deck. The boy, whose hair was bleached almost white by the sun, had plopped down beside Adam and was now munching on a piece of gammelost wrapped within a slice of manchet bread. Every time he took a bite, he pinched his nose to avoid smelling what he was eating.

  "Why do you eat the overripe cheese if it tastes so bad?" Adam had asked him more than once.

  Alrek had replied, " 'Cause I need to eat so I kin grow big and strong."

  Both sets of legs were extended outward. Alrek's were half as long as Adam's… and so skinny, it was pitiful. Even more pitiful were the bleeding blisters that marred the palms of his hands—testament to his dogged determination to become a sailor and a fighting man.