Page 6 of The Viking’s Captive

“I knew you could not walk away from medicine permanently,” Rashid said. “Why else would you maintain your studies? Why else would you continue to gather herbs? Why else would you correspond with healers of other lands? You may call yourself knight or land owner, traveler or hermit, but at heart you will always be a physician. Till the day you die. For the love of Allah, ‘tis time you stopped fighting your fate.”

Rashid’s wise words did not require comment, but Adam did ponder all he had said. A long period of silence followed.

Adam worked with great concentration, writing in his journal. Rashid, giving up on his harem exhortations for the moment, sat on the bench across the table from him, looking for more work to do now that he was finished with the beeswax balm. After years of noisy towns and battlefields, after the turmoil of personal tragedies, after so much death … well, the familiar, peaceful sounds of his quill scratching on parchment and Rashid’s pestle now moving rhythmically against fragrant herbs in a stone bowl were oddly soothing.

Alas, their solitude was broken of a sudden.

Clang! Clang! Clang!they heard, accompanied by huffing-and-puffing noises and a few muttered expletives. There were also the neighing of horses and the rhythmic clatter of shod hooves on wood, probably the drawbridge planks.

Adam and Rashid turned as one with surprise toward the windows that looked out over the bailey, then toward the open doorway that led down to the great hall. The sounds seemed to emanate from somebody, or somebodies, stomping through the courtyard and up the steps to his keep.

“Did you forget to pull up the drawbridge?” Adam asked sardonically.

“Ha, ha, ha! May Allah be laughing at your marvelous wit,” Rashid replied. Adam, Rashid, the cook, a chambermaid, and a stable boy were the only people living in this cavernous wood castle. There was nothing worth stealing. And the drawbridge was rusted into a down position, as they both well knew. “No one ever comes to this desolate place. You live like a hermit.”

“You already said that.”

“Some things bear repeating.”

“Not that.”

“Mayhap it is your stepuncle, Lord Eirik, returning with yet another invitation to spend the coming harvest season at Ravenshire.”

Adam peered out through one of the arrow slit windows. “Nay, these men appear to be Viking soldiers and a hersir, by their attire and weapons.” Although Eirik was half Viking, he had long ago adopted Saxon ways, including his manner of dress.

“Your other stepuncle, Tykir, then? He is a full-blooded Viking, is he not?”

Adam shook his head. “Tykir is Norseman to the bone, but he would not venture past the bounds of Dragonstead in Norway … not at this time of year … not with his lady, Alinor, breeding yet again at the advanced age of five and thirty, no less.”

Adam shrugged with unconcern. They had naught to fear; there was nothing worth stealing. Even so, they both grabbed short swords lying nearby and made for the doorway.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Huff, puff, huff, puff.“Bloody damn hell!” The noises made by the intruders were getting louder as they climbed the steps. Adam heard a female screech of dismay … probably Emma, the cook. No, there were two female screeches, combined. It must be Emma and Bridget, the chambermaid. By the timbre of their screams, you’d think a dragon had entered his keep.

The huffing-and-puffing, the clanging, and the expletives, he understood immediately. After all, there were thirty-seven steep stone steps leading up from the bailey to the double doors of the great hall. He knew because he’d counted them on innumerable occasions and cursed fluently in several languages, especially when he was suffering from mead-head.

Adam and Rashid were making their way down the interior stairway when Adam stopped abruptly at the bottom, incredulous at the sight he beheld. Rashid slammed into his back.

“Oh … my … God!” Adam muttered.

“For … the … love … of … Allah!” Rashid muttered.

They were standing next to each other by now, gaping at the other side of the great hall, where a small entourage of Viking warriors stood, broadswords drawn and battle-axes at the ready. They were a fearsome group of fighting men, massive in height and breadth, clad in furs and armor, wielding weapons that could cleave a grown man from head to groin with a flick of the wrist. That was what had caused Emma and Bridget to scream, no doubt; both women stood leaning against a nearby wall, fanning themselves with their aprons.

“May God help us!” Adam exhorted.

“Hah! I prefer the proverbial wisdom, ‘Call on your God, but avoid men with sharp blades.’”

In truth, these Norsemen did not frighten Adam, his words prompted more by surprise than fear. Even though he was Saxon by birth, he and his sister Adela had grown up in a Norse household. It was not the sight of armed Vikings that had caused Adam and Rashid to go slack-jawed with amazement. It was the leader of the Norse troop that drew their attention. Tossing aside a full-length, midnight blue, wool cloak lined in gray sable, the Norse chieftain stood before them, arrogant and proud.

It was a woman.

A woman warrior.

A sudden thought occurred to Adam, and he turned on his assistant. “Rashid! You didn’t! Surely this is a coarse jest, even for you.”

“Me? What have I done?” Rashid slapped a palm over his heart, as if suffering some great insult.

“The harem nonsense,” Adam reminded him. “A short time ago, you urged me to start a harem, and now this,” he said, indicating the Amazon who had resumed her bold approach toward him, followed closely by a dozen soldiers. The woman even walked like a man, in an exaggerated, swaggering sort of way.