Page 115 of The Bewitched Viking

Ignoring his advice, Adam continued to dress…in his ridiculous Arab robes, at that. Tykir would like to see him astride a horse in a good wind. Some of the female amber gatherers would like that, too, he would wager. “Something told me you were going to make a muddle of things with Alinor,” Adam continued to blather while he tied a robe around the waist of his flowing robe and grabbed a hunk of manchet bread topped with a slice of cold sausage to break his fast.

“Well, something should tell you to just blow away. Mayhap I like being in a muddle.”

“I just knew you would need my expert advice in love matters.” Adam had an annoying habit of screening out any words he did not want to hear and talking over a person. Apparently, he was screening him this morn because the jabberling went on blithely. “And see, I was right. Here you are. Alone. Smitten. And dying of a broken heart. Methinks I got here just in time.”

“Methinks you think too much,” Tykir countered, shoving the young know-everything in the arm. He then proceeded to suggest that Adam do something he presumed was physically impossible. But then, one never knew with Adam.

The lackwit just grinned at him and danced away to avoid his second punch. “I could give you advice on how to hold a woman’s attention…a sort of reverse bewitching,” Adam said, munching on his cold repast.

Tykir slanted him a sideways glance of disgust, then dunked his head in a bowl of water, drying off with a rough linen. “Brrr!” was his only response to Adam—or the quick cleansing.

“Really, Tykir. I know things,” Adam continued, waggling his eyebrows. “Things I learned in the Arab lands. Those desert princes have naught to do out on the dunes except count sand particles and chase camels; so, they have become adept at—Hey! Be careful!” Tykir had thrown the wet cloth at him, mussing his hair, which was clubbed back off his too-handsome face.

“It wasn’t my lovemaking skills, or lack thereof, which caused Alinor to leave.”

Adam seemed to ponder that assertion. “I could have sworn that she loved you…and you know how women are once they are bitten by that particular bug. There is no getting rid of them. What did she say when you told her you loved her?

“Adam! Your intrusiveness passes all bounds. You have no right to ask such personal questions of me.”

Adam studied him for a moment, a frown creasing his brow. “Do not tell me that you never told her how you feel. Surely you are not that inept in the love arts.”

“How I feel! How I feel!” he exclaimed, pulling at his own hair. “How the hell do I know how I feel?”

Adam’s face brightened, as if a candle had been lit behind his eyeballs. “Ah, there is the rub, then. At last we have arrived at the crux of your problem. Now I will be able to prescribe a solution.”

“What problem?” Bolthor asked, coming in, unannounced, to Tykir’s rustic longhouse near the Baltic beach. “Oh, are we speaking of Tykir’s problem? Didst thou tell him of the solution we conjured yestereve over our horns of ale?”

Tykir put his face in his hands.

“I was even inspired to write a poem about it.”

Still with his face buried in his hands, Tykir groaned.

“Pride is the downfall

Of many a man.

And a Viking most of all.

Lord of the swordplay he may be.

And sing his weapon does.

But when it comes to the music

That fills his heart,

Pride stands in his way.

Rather than sing of his own true love,

The proud Viking bird goes mute,

And falls on his less-than-feathery arse.”

With a cough, Bolthor concluded, “This is the Saga of Tykir the Great, also known as ‘The Saga of the Proud Viking.’”

“More like, ‘The Saga of the Viking Who Fell on His Arse,’” Adam muttered under his breath.