Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (20 page)

To her amazement, when King Anlaf called on Rurik to give testimony against her, he refused to say anything. Instead, he sat with his elbows braced on his widespread knees, staring glumly downward. The only explanation Alinor could come up with was that Tykir had threatened him with some dire consequence.

Now it was Tykir’s turn to present his complaint. He told how King Anlaf’s messenger, Bjold, approached him in the market town of Birka. The young man was sitting behind King Anlaf, ready to be called to testify, if necessary.

“First, Bjold offered me the Saracen stallion, Fierce One, if I would complete a mission for King Anlaf.”

There were many ooohs from the Viking men, who were clearly impressed with Anlaf’s generosity. If Anlaf had any thought of rescinding that offer, it was now locked in place by the approval of his peers. He chose the higher road and nodded graciously at the compliments being showered on him.

The toad!

“My mission was to search out the witch, Lady Alinor, in Northumbria,” Tykir continued, “and bring her back to King Anlaf’s court so she could remove the curse on his manpart.”

“But I’m not—” Alinor started to say.

The lawspeaker ignored Alinor’s outburst and waved for Tykir to proceed.

“When I declined to take on Anlaf’s mission, even for such a fine horse, Bjold added to the pot another morsel.” A slight grin tugged at his lips—
the lecherous lout!
—as
he pointed to a far corner where the slave girl, Samirah, of the silver bells, huddled in conversation with several other women. The girl, no more than eighteen and beauteous of form and face, smiled coyly at Tykir. And Alinor felt tears brim her eyes.

Adam noticed. “Besotted, are you?”

“I…am…not!” she asserted, giving him a look that would have withered one of her house carls back at Graycote but merely drew a smirk to Adam’s lips. But, oh, despite her protests, she feared she
was
starting to care about the rogue. Untenable as it was, she was jealous of a mere girl with bells on her breasts.

Tykir stood silent for a moment before commencing afresh. “I declined both offers that Bjold brought on Anlaf’s behalf because I had important work to do afore winter. But then he made me an offer I could not in good conscience refuse. He told me that Adam was being held hostage at his court and would not be released until I delivered the witch. He called it a ‘friendly hostage,’ but a hostage just the same.”

“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 foemen, 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 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 lawspeaker 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.