Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (10 page)

Could this trip to the Norse lands be a celestial vehicle for God’s plan to rescue me?

Then the most outlandish question of all assailed Alinor, and she groaned with dismay.

Could Tykir be my guardian angel?

“The witch weeps,” one of his men said warily, as if Tykir had not already noticed. And the burly sailor’s words were repeated down the row of oarlocks, and back up the other side, like a whisper on the wind. “The witch weeps, the witch weeps, the witch weeps…”

Apparently tears on a witch must be rare, or have some significance. He would have to ask Bolthor or Rurik. They were the sorcery experts. This witch business was all new to Tykir.

Then a new refrain began. “What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it mean? What…”

His men looked to him for answers.

“Weeping is naught but a witch’s trick,” he decided.

His men nodded hesitantly, bowing to his greater wisdom. He was certain—
well, fairly certain
—that the witch hoped to snare them with her ploy for pity.

Did Alinor take him for a fool, that he would be swayed by such blatant feminine wiles? Hah! He had been turning up the hems of female robes since he was twelve years old. There was not a fluttering of the eyelash, sway of the hip, bounce of the buttock, exposure of a breast, exaggerated sigh, or silly sob he had not witnessed in his many encounters with the weaker, though more devious, sex. Women were so transparent. They had not the subtlety of men.

Tykir stalked back to the area where a canopy had been set up for Alinor. Looming over her, hands on hips, he demanded, “Stop it!”
Is that subtle enough for you, my lady?

“Stop what?”

“Crying.”
What do you think I mean? Dancing?

“I’m not crying,” she said, peering up at him through watery green pools, shaded by thick fringes of reddish-
gold, glistening with wetness. Remarkable, really, how beautiful her eyes were in a face mottled with those ugly freckles.

“Ert me mjg falleg augu,”
he murmured. “You have very beautiful eyes.”
Now, why would I feel the need to tell her that?

“What did you say?”

“Your eyes are crossed,” he lied. “When you weep, your eyes look crossed.” Her beautiful eyes set on him, but not with sorrow. He suspected that she got so few compliments in her life that his rude criticism rang true with her. No doubt her One-God exercised fairness in giving the woman one single mark of beauty to make up for all those other less beauteous attributes.

But, nay, that wasn’t quite true. There were other attributes. Like that naked body he had seen.
Nay, nay, nay! I promised myself not to think about that.
“Not crying? My lady, you are making more water than a war horse. Soon we will have to bail out the bilge again.” He thought she would smile at that jest, though her smiles were infrequent, and reserved only for Bolthor, or for her bloody sheep. Mayhap that was what caused her sudden dispirit. She missed her sheep.

“Do you miss your familiars?”

“My
what?”

“Familiars. Don’t all witches have familiars?” He felt rather silly now and could feel his face heat up.

“And my familiars would be…?”

He hated that superior attitude she exhibited betimes. Like now. “Sheep.”

“Sheep?” Stunned, she blinked at him.

No doubt his perception stunned her. Perchance if he made a baaing sound that would cheer her up. Better yet, he could butt her derriere like that randy ram of hers.

He couldn’t help but grin at that.

“Stop smirking. I am not crying. I never cry. ’Twas just the wind. Furthermore, you have strange objects rattling about in your skull if you think my sheep are familiars.”

“Your freckles are growing.”
Now where did that half-brained observation come from? Humph! I guess I’m just trying to avoid noticing those magnificent eyes. Or thinking about her naked. Nay, nay, nay! I have wiped that image from my mind.

“What nonsense do you speak now? Do you think to disconcert me with your idle remarks? Well, you can forget about that nonsense. I care not if you like my freckles or not.”

Truly, your tongue wags more than a puppy under the high table at a drunken feast, my lady blabberer…rather, blubberer.
“I am wounded at your unjust criticism, my lady. What I meant was that your freckles grow larger when you blubber…or leastways, they appear to do so when your nose reddens and your face splotches up.”
Well, I feel better now.

“You are a troll.”

“So you have said afore.” Leastways,
she
must be feeling better, if sniping at him caused her to stop sniveling. Tykir puffed out his chest with pride. He ever did have a talent for brightening the spirits of fair maidens. Not that she was fair, but…“Just so you stop your watery show. It bothers my men.”

She suggested he do something to himself that he knew for a fact was nigh impossible. And she said his
bothered
men could bloody well join him in the exercise. He put a hand over his heart with exaggerated shock. “I have never heard a high-born lady use such words afore. Of course, you are a high-born lady
witch;
mayhap the rules of your society are different.”

“Go away,” she said with a slump of the shoulders.

He hated it when she slumped her shoulders. It made him feel as if he was responsible for her woes, which he was not.

Instead of going away, he hunkered down in front of her, his forearms resting on his widespread knees. Instinctively, she shifted her body so they were not touching.

That annoyed him. So, of course, he moved in closer. Now his inner knees bracketed her tightly closed thighs, under the enveloping cloak.
His
cloak, by the by, he noted with a clutch of unreasonable warmth that she was wearing his garment. Almost as if she were under his protective shield.

Nay, nay, nay. She is a mere captive. To be delivered and be done with. Do not get involved, Tykir.
But he was never one to listen to good advice, especially his own. “Tell me why you weep,” he urged.

“I was not weeping,” she said with a break in her voice. “But if I were…weeping…which I’m not…well, I have good cause, do you not think?”

“And why, pray tell, is that?”

Alinor wore no wimple or headrail today, but her rust-colored tresses, held in place by a braided silk cord around her forehead, did not fly about, as was their norm, because she had taken to using a pomade that Eadyth had given her, causing her hair to lay in gentle waves. The rose fragrance of the cream wafted out to him in delicate enticement.

“Why are you sniffing like a hedgehog?”

That brought him back to reality with a rude jolt. Lopping off her head was gaining more and more appeal. Or, leastways, lopping off her tongue.

“And would you mind moving?” she snapped, trying
unsuccessfully to shuffle backwards, away from his legs’ embrace. “You are blocking the sun.”

He smiled at that. He was a large man, but not
that
big.

“Lady, you avoid my question. Why would you have good cause to weep?”

“I was not—”

He held a forefinger to her lips to prevent her further protestations.

A big mistake, that. Touching her body.
Her lips parted with surprise under his finger, which lingered in place. And he noticed for the first time that her lips were full and puffy. And kiss-some, truth be told. Furthermore, they were raspberry-colored, just like her nipples.

Aaarrrgh! Forget I thought that. ’Twas a mistake. I have forgotten entirely how the wench looks naked. It has been so long since I’ve seen a raspberry, I no longer even remember how they look, or taste. Taste? Bloody hell!

“Oh, good Lord, not that again!” she said, swatting his finger away.

“What?”

“You are staring at me naked,
again.”

“I am not,” he lied.

“Yea, you are, and I will not stand for it.”

He wondered how she could stop him. In truth, he would like to know so he could stop himself. Then his reckless tongue took on a mind of its own. “My lady, do you deliberately remind me of your raspberry nipples, which match your raspberry lips, by the by, to avoid speaking of your tears?”

“And to think I was envisioning you as my guardian angel!”

Now, that remark surprised him. The woman did have a knack for catching him off-guard. “What? Who? Me? Ha, ha, ha!”

“Yea, it
is
humorous, isn’t it?”

“Humorous? It is preposterous.” He thought a moment. “Why is it so preposterous? Dost think there are no Vikings in your heaven? Dost think we have no godliness in us? Dost think you Christians hold the rights to goodness? Dost forget that many of us Vikings practice both the Norse and Christian religions?”

Her mouth gaped open with incredulity at his vehement words. Her lips were not quite so kiss-some when sucking air like a North Sea puff fish.
Thank the gods!

“What? You
want
to be my guardian angel?” she asked, once she’d clicked her teeth shut.

“Nay, I do not want to be your guardian angel. I do not want to be your…anything.” Now, that was a near mistake. He’d almost said that he did not want to be her lover, which was a lie, he admitted to himself now. Yea, ever since he’d seen her naked, the thought of wetting his wand…rather, whetting his sword…at least once…had been hovering in his head like a tiresome headache. Once? Hell, in his mind pictures he was wetting and whetting endlessly.

“It was a foolish notion, I admit.”

What is she talking about? I am so busy thinking about sex I’ve lost the thread of her talk. Now I remember. Angels, that was it. She thinks I’m her guardian angel, of all things.
“Aha! So that is why you wept. They were tears of relief that your One-God had sent you the most handsome, bravest, perfect guardian angel.”
I swear, my tongue has gained a mind of its own.

“Are you really as lackwitted as you appear betimes?”

Yea.
“No more lackwitted than you…that you would insult a fierce warrior as you do,
constantly.”

“’Tis just that you provide so many instances of idiocy.”

“Aaarrrgh! Your head must be like a pond and your thoughts like little frogs, jumping from one lily pad to another.”

“How poetic!”

He made a low, snarling sound of exasperation. “Could you just once finish one subject before hop-hop-hopping to another?”

“If you insist,” she said demurely. What a farce! The woman wouldn’t recognize demure if it smacked her in the middle of her freckled forehead. “What would you like to know?”

“Why did you think I was your guardian angel?”

“Well, not precisely a guardian angel,” she amended. “More like a protector sent by God.”

“Sounds like a guardian angel to me,” he argued.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Leastways, this was my logic…”

Logic and women are an impossible contradiction.

“…you know how some people believe that if you save a person’s life, they are forever beholden to you? Well, I was thinking that mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me to—”

“Anlaf sent me for you. Last time I checked he was no way close to being a god.”

“Stop interrupting me, you clod.”

“Tsk-tsk. Is that any way to speak to your guardian angel?”

She made a scowly face at him, which made her resemble an angry rooster. Not an attractive picture.

“As I was saying…mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me,
by way of King Anlaf,
so that you could rescue me from my brothers’ latest outrage. In truth, I suspect He sent King Anlaf to that Northumbria nunnery in the first place to set His plan in motion. And further, I
was thinking that mayhap you are now responsible for protecting me. So, really, I should not be worried anymore about what will happen to me in Trondelag because you will be there as my personal…well, Viking angel.” She flashed him a brilliant smile of satisfaction at her deduction.

Incredible! The gall of the woman!
“And that is why you wept?”

“Yea, in relief.” She shifted her eyes, avoiding direct contact, and he suspected she twisted the truth more than a bit.

He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed out the furrows. “First off, methinks you think too much. Second, you surely jest if you say your One-God sent Anlaf a crooked cock in order to lure me to your side. Third, I am in no way responsible for your safety. Get that through your muddled head. Once I deliver you to Anlaf, I am done with you. And, finally, do not for one minute think of me as an angel, Viking or otherwise. Believe me when I tell you that I have led a less than saintly past, and believe me when I say that the picture of you, naked, in my head does not prompt visions of me flapping my wings about you in protection. More like I am flapping another body part,
in you.”

She gasped at his crudity.

Good. ’Tis best to set the witch straight from the start.

“You…are…a…troll.” It was a favorite refrain of hers.

“Well, then, just call me Saint Troll.”

“I don’t care what you say. You won’t abandon me to some wretched king who might…who might—”

“Lop off your head?” he offered.

“Yea.”

“You have the wrong opinion of me, my lady. The
wrong opinion, by far. I know I jest overmuch, but do not be mistaken in thinking I am soft. I am not. From the age of fifteen till recently, I was a warrior in the armies of any king paying the price, whether it be Jomsviking or Byzantine, it mattered not to me. I cannot count the men I have killed.”

“So?”

“So? What do you mean, ‘So’?”

“I never questioned whether you had been a stalwart soldier, or are still. But I misdoubt you ever killed a woman, leastways not without some great provocation.”

“Oh, my lady, best you think about how much provocation you have given me thus far.”

“You will
not
abandon me to some tyrant if there’s the least chance of his killing me,” she insisted.