Page 33 of The Bewitched Viking

He could see by her fisted hands that she barely restrained herself from clobbering him…or trying to. “Even if I am a witch?” she asked in an overly sweet voice.

“Even if you have a tail.”

“Well, I still say you won’t abandon me. I’m your responsibility now,” she persisted.

He used a very coarse word in connection with responsibility.

She raised her chin and glared down her nose at him. “I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight. Among other things, I intend to beseech the Blessed Lord to cleanse your foul tongue.”

“Hah! When you tell your beads this eve, best you pray that this image of you, naked, leaves my head. Otherwise you will have a lot more than my foul tongue to worry over.”

“And that would be?”

A warrior, such as himself, knew when to charge and when to retreat. A trader, such as himself, knew when to bargain and when to accept defeat. The wench, who apparently had the skills of a rock, did not have the sense to stop when she was ahead.

He raised up on his knees with a palm braced on either side of her hips on the storage box. Leaning closer, he pressed his manhood against the joining of her thighs. Layers of clothing separated them, but his message was clear. His lips were almost touching hers. He felt her breath against his gritted teeth as she inhaled and exhaled with some strong emotion. Their eyes held the entire time, his in challenge, hers in irksome defiance. He stayed in that position for only a moment before rising to his feet. It was enough time…for both of them.

He proceeded to leave her then, and the lady called out in a foolish attempt to have the last word, “Well, speak up, you oaf. What do I have to worry about with you?”

His final words—rude and provocative and, yea, just a little bit enticing—lingered on the sea breeze long afterwards:

“You do not want to know, my lady. Truly, you do not want to know.”

Several days later they approached the land of the Danes and its famous market town at the base of the Jutland peninsula. Hedeby, which the Vikings referred to in their Northern tongue as æt Hæum, was located at the junction of several major trade routes, by sea and land.

Despite being more than a thousand miles from home and in the heart of Viking territory, Alinor had more than one reason to feel a vast relief…and not just because she would finally be stepping on land again.

It was only noon, but already, three times that day, they had encountered vicious-looking pirates. Seamen often put their long shields on the mast-top with the point turned downward to indicate that they came as friends. Not these sea wolves! With their scarred faces and burning eyes, these scavengers of Zealand put a bone-deep fear in Alinor, as Tykir and his Vikings had not thus far. Bolthor had explained that these particular sea outlaws, led by a man called Hord the Rat, maintained a den somewhere between Zealand and Funen…a place of terror to one and all. They had gained much success of late in terrorizing the southwest coast of Norway, the Øresund Passage and the Baltic.

The pirate leader had bidden his sailors heave to and grapple the nearest of Tykir’s ships. Fortunately, they had given up their attempts quickly on getting a closer view. The mere presence of the fierce fighting forces on Tykir’s ships had convinced the pirates to keep their distance thereafter and let them pass by unmolested. Alinor wondered if her prayers in regard to her fate in King Anlaf’s court hadn’t helped in this regard as well. Or perchance it had been the sight of Tykir and his tall, imposing Northmen, their muscles well honed by battle, donning chain or leather shirts and pulling out sharp swords and battle-axes.

One thing was certain: With each passing pirate sail, Alinor’s respect for Tykir as a leader had risen a notch. She didn’t have much respect for him as a man, since he’d captured her and disrupted her life on a whim and still declined responsibility for her fate. But as a ship’s captain and a chieftain of fighting men, she’d never met better.

There had been times when Tykir’s longships rode close to shore, and on some of these promontories and river mouths she’d sometimes seen bearded heads on pikes, indicating that the peoples of that particular land did not welcome seamen from the north. Even when they’d been Northmen themselves. Fortunately, Tykir seemed to know how to choose his battles, and when to ride away from a fruitless fight…though Alinor suspected that he enjoyed a good fight like any other man. ’Twas the nature of the beast.

Now Alinor was leaning against the ship’s rail near the prow, with Bolthor at her side. He was the only one of Tykir’s men who would speak with her. Though even Bolthor, giant as he was, made sure that his wooden crucifix was visible and that he was doused with Rurik’s holy water. As a further precaution, he kept making the Christian sign of the cross on his chest when, in the midst of conversing with her, he recalled that it was a witch with whom he made discourse.

Yestereve, Tykir had doled out small sacks of coins in payment to his men, though he’d cautioned them that a wise seaman never counted his wealth till he was home. Some of Tykir’s sailors would be disembarking in Hedeby, staying with two of the longships that would be beached there over the winter. Amongst those men, some would take ship on other vessels leading to their homelands, to return next spring for the amber harvest in the Baltic. The other five ships would travel to Trondelag in a day or two, first to King Anlaf’s court, then onward to Tykir’s home.

Tykir was busy with the ships’ last-minute business, and he had ordered Bolthor to stand guard over her, which was ridiculous. How did they expect she would escape here? Jump overboard and swim in the frigid waters? Fly away on one of the blustery late autumn breezes? And to what safe haven? A shark’s teeth? The pirates’ den?

Now the seven ships were making their way across the smooth lake at the head of the river Schlei. It was a beautiful day with clear skies and only a faint breeze, the kind of day when autumn is shiveringly over but winter’s icy blanket not yet covering the land. The lake resembled a blue-tinted mirror, broken only by the wake of the longships as they rowed smoothly across its calm surface.

“It’s spectacular,” Alinor said, staring at the unbelievable sight before them. Hedeby.

A huge timber rampart and a lengthy moat surrounded the trading center in a rough semicircle. To the east it was bounded by the waters of Haddeby Noor, with its notably shallow and therefore protective entrance from the Schlei. There were three wide gateways or tunnels—paved with stones—one south and one north for the transit of men, horses and wagons, and one on the west, where a thin stream ran between its piled and strengthened sides down to the fjord.

“Have you never traveled much with your brothers?” Bolthor asked, no doubt amused at her gaping at every new vista like an awestruck child.

She gave the giant a sideways glance of disbelief. “My brothers took me nowhere…lest it be some estate or royal gathering where they might barter my body for yet another marriage bed. Never outside Britain.”

Bolthor shrugged, as if it was the lot of women. Not worth discussing. Alinor thought about filling the oaf’s head with a thought or two about what it was like to be a young woman…an uncomely young woman with freckles and unmanageable red hair. Could he imagine the humiliation of being rejected, over and over these past ten years and more, since the age of fourteen, as a mate by all the eligible men below the age of fifty of suitable line-age and wealth? No, she guessed that this thick-headed fool—like men of all nations—would fail to see the unfairness of a system that placed women lower than thralls and fine-bred animals. He would consider it a woman’s lot, and that was that.

“I’ve been to Jorvik many a time, of course,” she said, instead. “I have an agent there who sells my raw wool and fine fabrics for a good price in the trading stalls of Coppergate. I go into the market town at least twice a year. ’Tis best for a person to keep a hand in her own business.”

Bolthor smiled down at her. “You sound like Lady Eadyth. She is ever protective of her honey and mead interests, as well. In truth, Tykir carries many of her products with us this trip to see if he can get a better price for her in the north lands than she does in her native England. Mayhap the jarl will do the same for you when…if…”

His words trailed off, and Alinor knew he stammered because he was unsure whether she would be returned to her home and her sheep. It was disconcerting to know that Bolthor shared her reservations about her fate.