Page 12 of The Bewitched Viking

A flush of panic swept her features, causing the freckles to stand out even more. However, before he could assure her of her safety—leastways till they got to Anlaf’s court—a loud rumbling came from Tykir’s gut, followed by a most painful cramping. At the same time, bile rose without warning into his throat.

Startled, Tykir glanced first at Bolthor, who was gazing at him with concern as he bent over at the waist, clutching his midsection, then at the Lady Alinor, who had the effrontery to grin. He thought he heard her murmur, “’Twould seem I had a choice after all.” Without another word, he made a mad rush for the garderobe.

There were two things Tykir heard Bolthor say behind him as he laid one palm over his stomach and another over his mouth, praying he would make the privy before he embarrassed himself: “Lady Alinor, if you have put a curse on my master Tykir, I will light the torch beneath your stake myself. And it will be a slow-burning fire.” Then, “Methinks a good title would be, ‘Tykir the Great and the Raging Bowel.’”

Two days later, Tykir sat atop his horse in the inner bailey, about to leave Graycote, finally. He was weak-kneed as an untried boy after his first swiving, and he’d lost so much weight he resembled a starvling, but he was alive, praise be to the gods, and there had been times in these past two days when he questioned whether he’d survive the violent heaving and purging.

“I still say you should have let me kill the scurvy witch when first we realized she had laid a curse on your entrails,” Bolthor complained. “Mayhap the spell would have been removed earlier.”

All of the castle folk—three dozen of them, from the high castellan to the lowly kitchen carls—were barricaded in the stable under Bolthor’s stern-faced guard. When Tykir and his comrades reached a village later today, or mayhap even tomorrow, they would make sure someone was sent back to unlock them. There was plenty of water to share with the horses, and it would do none of them harm to go a day without food.

Bolthor left his post and mounted his horse upon seeing Rurik emerging from the manor’s great hall. He led the much-subdued Lady Alinor by a rope tied round her neck, though her eyes sparked green fire of outrage at her mistreatment by her three captors, including himself. Hah! He would like to speak with her about real mistreatment.

Welt marks stood prominent on her right cheek from Rurik’s slap yestermorn when she finally confessed her perfidy, though she’d claimed ’twas a mere herb, not a deadly curse. Furthermore, she’d avowed that the herbal potion was intended to delay his departure from Graycote, not cause his departure from this world. If she’d wanted to kill him, she would have given the tainted drink to Rurik and Bolthor, as well, she contended. Tykir could have accepted that explanation if she hadn’t then refused to explain what purpose could be served by a delay.

That’s when Rurik had wielded his open palm on her. It had taken both Tykir and Bolthor to hold Rurik back from more permanent injury. No doubt Rurik would have liked to mark the witch’s face permanently, just as his had been.

That side of her face was swollen and bluish-yellow with healing—a stark foil against her pale skin highlighted with the ungodly freckles. She was fortunate Rurik hadn’t loosened all her teeth with the force of his blow. Rurik’s hatred of witches had intensified threefold since their arrival at Graycote.

Tykir stared at her dispassionately. Violence was a common happenstance in a Viking’s life, especially in battle, but it was rarely directed at women. He could feel no sympathy for this woman, though, since he had suffered so much worse at her hands.

He supposed they should be fearful in her presence after what she had done to him and Anlaf. But the three of them now wore makeshift wooden crosses hanging from leather thongs on their chests. It was Bolthor’s idea. A sure method for warding off evil spirits, including a witch’s magic, or so he asserted. Plus, they had put their braies on backwards to confuse the witch—another of Bolthor’s bright ideas—something that was inconvenient when visiting the garderobe for a mere piss. Finally, Rurik had brought forth a small vial of holy water he’d been given by a monk in Dublin. Periodically, these past two days, Rurik sprinkled each of them with the blessed liquid. He intended to replenish his supply at the minster in Jorvik.

When Rurik had doused the witch with a generous splash of the holy water, they’d all backed away, fully expecting her skin to sizzle and burn. But nothing had happened, except she resembled a sodden rooster.

Tykir wasn’t so sure about all these maneuvers, especially when Lady Alinor snickered the first time he explained their purpose, including the backwards braies.

“Are you an idiot?” she’d asked.

“Nay!” he’d snapped. Mayhap, he’d thought.

Two days had gone by without another witchly spell; perchance they were safe for now. And it was past time to leave this bloody Saxon land and return to Trondelag, where witches and trolls and magical events were the stuff of legends. He could scarce wait till this whole witchly mission was over and done. If it weren’t for Adam, he would have abandoned the ill-fated assignment sennights ago.

Because the Lady Alinor’s hands were bound in front of her, Rurik put his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her up to her saddle, none too gently. She wore loose underbraies so she could sit astride, something she had protested vehemently, but he’d insisted upon for the sake of speed. The lady’s snarl was her only reaction to being touched by a man who clearly repulsed her. With good reason.

In a rare moment of consciousness these past two days, Tykir had discovered that Rurik was piling tree limbs and kindling in the courtyard…enough wood to feed a huge bonfire. In the midst of this was a wooden stake to which Rurik intended to place the witch the moment Tykir died and went off to Valhalla.

Luckily, Tykir had not died. Lucky for the witch, as well.

But the witch’s pyre still stood as a reminder in the courtyard for all to see. And the grim-faced Alinor was all too aware of its continuing existence.

In the process of arranging the woman on the shifting mare, Rurik jerked her restrained hands forward so she would be able to grasp the front of the saddle. Bolthor had already taken her reins in hand and would lead her horse.

“You brute!” the foolish woman commented to Rurik.

“You daughter of Satan!” Rurik countered

“If I had real powers, I would have struck you dead long ago.”

“Desist!” Tykir roared. “’Twill be two or three sennights, at the least, on land and sea, till we get to Anlaf’s court. Let me establish here and now that I refuse to listen to you two bickering endlessly the entire time.”

“But he—” she started to say.

“But she—” Rurik started to say.

“But nothing!” Tykir growled, rubbing his forehead. It was an ill omen of things to come if he had a headache even before they began their journey. He fixed Lady Alinor with his gaze now. “You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

“Hah! ’Tis a fine time to be asking.”