Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (22 page)

“I’ve been so frightened,” Alinor confessed. “Never have I encountered a fever so fierce, nor long-lasting.”

“Well, the Master Tykir has had many a year to master his war wounds. He knows well enough not to be abusing the leg when it starts to ache. And, for a certainty, in the past he has always been back here at Dragonstead afore the cold weather set in. I don’t know what the foolish man could have been thinking.”

“His men blame me for all the delays.”

“And are you at fault? Is it guilt that prompts your vigil by his bedside?”

“Nay! The clodpole kidnapped me. ’Twas not my fault it took him so long to find me, nor that delays happened along the way. But he did stay at Anlaf’s court to defend me, and he did bring me here against his wishes. For that, I owe him plenty.”

“Don’t be beating your breast over this, dearie. You’ve spent way too many hours hovering over the man as it is. When did you sleep last? If you’re not careful, Lady Alinor, you’ll be getting sick yourself. And don’t be thinking the master will be thanking you for your ministrations, or your lack of rest on his behalf. The way I hear it, the master is planning some grand punishment for you.”

Alinor felt her face flame. “Adam has been talking.”

“You could say that.” Girta put a floury hand to her mouth and giggled. “But Adam would not give us any details. All he does is waggle his eyebrows and make suggestive remarks to tease everyone. The rascal!”

Alinor put all her broth ingredients into the large cauldron over the fire and added a goodly amount of water. Stirring it with a large copper ladle, she then covered the pot and moved the spider hook to the back of the hearth for slow simmering.

Having finished rolling the first of her crusts, Girta clapped her hand to remove the flour, then wiped her hand on the open-sided Norse apron that covered her from shoulder to ankle. Next Girta took the lid off the eel barrel on the side of the fireplace and reached into the murky water to retrieve a particular long, slimy creature—about the size of a battle pike. With nary a grimace, Girta pressed the squirming eel onto a cutting block and whacked its head off with a cleaver. Alinor flinched at the sight of the headless, still flailing eel, spurting blood.

With an economy of effort, Girta made a slit the length of the snakelike animal and peeled its skin back, all in one clean piece. As she chopped the eel meat into pieces, and dropped it into a bowl of thick cream and wild onions garnished with peas, Alinor was staring at the eel skin on the floor. An outrageous thought had occurred to her.

Do not be ridiculous, Alinor. Stop it right now. You are becoming as wild and unrestrained as these heathen Vikings.

Still, the mischievous thought persisted.

“Do you know where Rurik is?” Alinor asked tentatively.

“In the guard room, sharpening weapons, methinks,” Girta answered distractedly as she worked to crimp together the crusts of the first eel pie.

The blue-faced Viking had been blathering high and low since they’d arrived at Dragonstead. Tykir may have defended her before Anlaf’s court, but Rurik still proclaimed her a witch. At the same time, he was profiting mightily
on her magic wordfame, selling wood crosses and holy water. Truly, Rurik was the biggest, most irksome thorn in her side.

Mayhap ’twas time to shake that thorn loose.

Oh, I couldn’t.

Yea, I could.

’Twould be childish.

Yea.

Alinor leaned down to pick up the eel skin gingerly, between a thumb and forefinger.
It resembles a…well, tail,
she thought and smiled with wicked anticipation.

Before she had a chance to surrender to her more rational misgivings, Alinor hiked up the back hem of her gown and tucked the end of the eel skin into the waistband of her underdrawers. Then she dropped the gown back in place. Peering over her shoulder, she saw the eel skin emerging along the floor, like a tail.

“For the love of Freyja!” Alinor looked up to see a startled Girta watching her, mouth gaping open. Then the cook smiled widely as comprehension dawned.

Alinor sauntered off to the guard room, hips swaying, tail swishing. “Oh, Rur-ik,” she called out.

“What in bloody hell do you want now?” the surly knight answered her.

Well, I certainly feel no guilt now.

At first he paid her no nevermind, just murmured something about wenches having no business in a man’s workroom. So, she wandered around the room, examining the armor and shields and deadly weapons that lay about.

The rasp of a sword edge along the whetstone slowed, then stopped.

A bare instant later, Rurik emitted a loud masculine shriek, then a shout of “
Aaaaack!
Run, everyone! Run!” that reverberated throughout the castle. As Alinor scurried
through the kitchen, tossing the eel skin under the table, paying no nevermind to a clucking Girta, she heard one of the young armor boys back in the guard room say, “The master Rurik ’pears to be having a fit. His mouth is sucking in and out like a fjord flounder.”

Alinor hid in the buttery for more than an hour, laughing till tears rolled down her cheeks. What had possessed her? It was the most foolish, impetuous, uncharacteristic thing she had ever done in her entire life. And the most satisfying.

The scent of roses drew Tykir from his deep sleep.

He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but he was weak as dragon piss. His body weighed him down to the mattress, heavy and aching. Most of the ache was centered in his thigh, which throbbed painfully. But, in truth, he felt better than he had in days.

The roses pulled at Tykir’s senses…a memory tugging at him that he couldn’t quite grasp. Was he in an English flower garden? Or an eastern harem, where floral oils were often used by the
hour is?
He opened his leaden eyelids slowly and realized he was in the huge bedstead in his upper chamber at Dragonstead. The air was chill in the room, though he was warm as a babe in the womb under the layers of bed furs covering his body. And there was some heat generated by the roaring fire he heard crackling in the fireplace, though the hearth heat did not fill the entire chamber. Sometimes the walls were covered with ice in winter, even as the fire blazed.

Tykir turned his head slowly on the pillow toward the hearth.
Ahhhh!
Now he recognized the source of the rose scent.

Lady Alinor, of the rose-scented hair.

He licked his dry lips and tried to focus. He was not
really surprised to see the witch standing there. Every time he’d awakened during the past three days of fever, she’d been in his bedchamber, leaning over him, pressing cool cloths to his forehead, forcing spoonfuls of chicken broth into his mouth. It wasn’t that the broth tasted vile; there was just so much of it. In his dreams, he’d taken to crowing like a rooster. At least he wasn’t laying eggs. Yet.

Had she really pinched his nose to force his mouth open? She would pay for that.

He’d been barely conscious…seeing everything through a filmy haze…sometimes flailing and muttering senselessly…but he’d recognized her as a continuing presence during his illness. And been strangely comforted.

It was probably a spell.

Alinor was combing her wet hair in front of the fire…thus the roses. Damn his sister-by-marriage for giving Alinor the hair cream. Just how much had she given her? Hopefully, Alinor would run out soon. Then again, mayhap he did not really want her to stop enticing him thus.
Aaarrgh! I’m being driven mad by rose hair cream. Could Eadyth perchance be a witch, too?

Alinor must have just taken a bath because she wore a loose chemise, the type women usually donned after rising from their baths. Over and over, she raised the ivory comb—his comb, he realized by the by, with an odd tug in his chest—then pulled it through the waist-length strands. Each time she lifted her arm, the outline of her breast under the white linen raised, as well. Every time she followed through on the comb stroke, the breast relaxed into its natural, delicious shape.

Someday he would like to watch her perform this sensuous exercise nude. And he had no trouble imagining how she would look. He knew exactly how to picture the
witch naked. It was an exercise at which he’d become adept.

He stared, mesmerized, at the rhythmic motion of her hand, and her body in profile.

And another part of his body reacted to the rhythm with a hardening rhythm of its own. Leastways the fever had not caused any permanent damage to
vital
organs.

He tried to smile, but his chapped lips cracked. He barely noticed, though, because his eyes were already fluttering closed. There must be some sleeping herb in that bloody chicken brew.

As he drifted off to sleep again, he began to dream. And they were very interesting dreams. Not just erotic, which were his favorite kind, but accompanied by their very own smell.

Roses, of course.

It was an odor that drew Tykir out of sleep once again. But not roses.

Chicken broth
, he realized sluggishly and gagged. “Yeech.” Which gave the witch an opportunity to shove a wooden spoon sloshing chicken broth into his mouth, practically to his throat. He knew it was the witch because his eyes shot wide open.

It must have been some time since his last awakening because Alinor’s hair was dry now and hanging in a single braid down her back. Her chemise was covered with a dark green, thick wool gunna, covered with an open-sided Viking apron.

Too bad!
He much preferred her earlier attire. Or non-attire.

Oh, well, I can always imagine her naked.

“You’re awake,” she said cheerily.
I am not in the mood for cheerily.
She shoved another spoonful of the
broth into his mouth.
I am not in the mood for more chicken broth.
This one had a glob of dough floating on top.
I am not in the mood for globs of dough.

“Glpugglup,” he sputtered as he attempted to choke and speak and chew at the same time. Then he grabbed the wrist of the hand dipping the empty spoon into a bowl on the bedside table and growled, “Yea, I’m awake. How can I not be awake with all that slop you are feeding me?”

She winced, but not from his tight fingerhold on her wrist, which he immediately released. Nay, she’d winced because he’d hurt her feelings.

Bloody hell! Why should I feel guilty for voicing a fact that should be apparent? She has been overdoing the chicken broth. But mayhap I shouldn’t have referred to her good efforts as slop.
He wasn’t in the mood for apologizing, though.

“I want some real food,” he said, sitting up suddenly, then immediately dropping back to the pillow when an invisible broadaxe cleaved his skull. He pressed the heels of both palms to his brow to stop his brains from spilling out. “Did you poison me again? Did you give me a potion to explode my head this time, instead of my bowels?”

She ignored his accusations and immediately reached forward with concern, placing a cool palm on his forehead.
I am not in the mood to be placated, but her hand does feel good. Mayhap I will let it rest there for a moment.

“What is amiss? Is it your head?”

“Nay, it’s my arse.”
Hell and Valhalla! I am in a vile mood.

She made a tsk-ing sound as she adjusted the furs around him, tucking them in tightly at the sides till he felt like a corpse being dressed for the coffin.

He slapped her hands away. “Stop fussing over me.”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“Help me by fetching some bloody damn food.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“I don’t give a damn what you like.”

“My, my, you are testy today. Must be you are getting better when you begin to sound like Rurik. Grumble, grumble, grumble all the time.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Was that Rurik I heard shouting earlier today?”

She examined her fingernails with blatant guilt. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t keep track of Rurik’s doings.”

“What did you do to him now?” he demanded to know.

“Me?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes. “I have no idea what you mean.”

He rubbed his bristly jaw. “God, my mouth tastes like a midden on a hot summer day.”

“Your breath smells the same.”

“Thank you for pointing that out. Chicken breath, that’s what I must have. Now get me some food. Anything, as long as it doesn’t have feathers. Mutton would be good. Or lamb chops. Baby lamp chops.”

All that talking had worn him out, and he yawned widely, feeling his body closing down for sleep once again.

He thought he heard the wench giggle then as she eased herself off the high bed and asked, “How about some eel pie?”

“What’s so funny about eel pie?” he grumbled.

“If you’re lucky, Viking, I might just show you.”

A smell drew Tykir out of his sleep once again.

It was a strong, pungent smell this time…not unpleasant, but different. Soap. That’s what it was. Girta’s homemade soft soap, used in the bathhouse.

He opened his eyes a mere slit and saw that Alinor was
bathing him. The nerve of the wench! Bathing him like a newborn babe. But, nay, there were other possibilities. Immediately, he closed his eyes, hoping for “other possibilities.” He was too weak to engage in any vigorous activity, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t enjoy laying back for a few lustful…possibilities.

He tried to regulate his breathing to emulate sleep, a hard task when she was lathering up his neck and shoulders and—Oh, my God!—his chest. He did have a fondness for touching…both being touched and doing the touching himself. There was an art to good touching. Alinor was an artist, if he did say so himself…or she would be once he’d given her the advanced tutelage of a touch master.

She used a damp, soapy cloth to wash his neck and shoulders, wiping the area off with the same cloth, which had been rinsed and wrung out. But she worked the soap into his chest hairs with her fingertips, over his flat nipples, skimming his abdomen and waist, over and into his navel.