Page 41 of The Bewitched Viking

“Rachelle!” Tykir rushed behind the tables, dragging Alinor with him toward the jewelry maker, who had been working to the side of the building. With a whoop of delight, he lifted the woman into his embrace with his free arm so her feet dangled above the ground, and he hugged her tightly. It was an indication of Tykir’s great strength that he could do so one-armed, whilst still restraining Alinor at his other side. The woman’s unbound raven black hair swirled forward, covering both her face and Tykir’s like a frothy nimbus.

At first, Alinor thought the woman was sublimely beautiful, petite and fine-boned, with perfectly formed, delicate facial features…until she tossed her hair back and turned her face in profile. Then Alinor realized that the tip of the woman’s nose had been cut off…not enough to be grotesque…just enough to make some hideous point. It was the sign of the harlot, imposed betimes by barbaric communities in the sanctimonious name of morality, often under the direction of clerics.

Oh, Alinor held little regard for women of no virtue, but she abhorred the practice, which punished the women but not the men who availed themselves of a harlot’s services.

“Alinor, I would have you meet my business partner, Rachelle the Jewelry Maker.” Tykir had lowered the woman to the ground, but still had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, tucking her close to his side.

Rachelle looked at Alinor with interest, especially at the rope that bound her wrist, then up to Tykir in question.

“This is Alinor the Witch…my captive.”

Alinor gave the brute a scowl of disgust and told Rachelle, “My name is Lady Alinor of Graycote.”

Rachelle was startled at first by Alinor’s defiant words. Then she laughed gaily and extended a hand in welcome. “Come, you must crave a bath after your journey. I will fire up the stones in the bathhouse. Meanwhile, I am most anxious to hear how you came to be Tykir’s…captive. And a witch, of course.”

Tykir undid her ties, seeming to take way too much time touching her wrist and palm and fingers, even her forearm, in the process of untying the tight knots. Everywhere he touched seemed to grow warm and tingly. Then, seemingly unaware of his effect on her, he turned to help the boy by serving some additional customers who had come up since the big Viking had departed. Rachelle took her arm, about to lead her into the doorway of the longhouse, when Alinor stopped short.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. She really shouldn’t have.

Standing in the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his eyes, was a small boy of about four years. Apparently, he had just risen from his nap.

“Mother,” he whined, reaching his outstretched arms up to Rachelle.

“Oooh, my sweet little Thibaud. Did you just awaken, heartling?” She lifted the child easily so his face was tucked into her neck and his skinny legs wrapped around her waist.

The boy had long blond hair and honey-brown eyes.

A mirror-image of Tykir.

Alinor swung around to glare at Tykir, who was weighing a customer’s silver on a brass scale in exchange for some purchase. He must have sensed her stare because he turned. At first, he tilted his head in question; then his eyes took in the scene with Rachelle, Thibaud clinging to his mother, and Alinor’s flaming face. As understanding dawned, a slow grin tugged at his lips and spread into a wide smile. No shame or apologetic demeanor.

The man was a troll.

Chapter Seven

“Thibaud is not Tykir’s child,” Rachelle informed her all of a sudden.

Alinor hadn’t realized that her thoughts were so obvious. She closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. Rachelle had been so nice to her these past three hours, and how did she thank her? By making judgments.

Since their arrival, Alinor had bathed, laundered her dirty clothing, which hung wetly from pegs near the central hearth, and was now helping Rachelle prepare the evening meal, with the assistance of Maida, a servant from Dublin.

Although it was barely late afternoon, dusk already enveloped the skies. Having only a few shuttered windows, the long house would have been dark and gloomy save for the dancing shadows from the raging cookfire. The warmth of the flames turned the house cozy and secure against the blustery winds. Winter was, indeed, on its way. In this warm atmosphere, Thibaud sat at the trestle table playing happily with a set of carved wooden animals from the eastern lands, which Tykir had brought for him. The fanciful creatures had their own gaily painted, compartmented chest.

Tykir had bathed hours ago, then gone out to arrange the restocking of his ships with supplies to last him and his men over the winter months. Karl, the young boy who had been serving customers on their arrival, was outside with the guard, Ottar the Strong, closing up the trading stall for the day. Ottar had been advised not to allow Alinor outside the longhouse. If she disobeyed, Tykir gave Ottar permission to bind her to a support beam.

Tykir had said he would be back in time for the evening meal but was unsure whether Rurik and Bolthor would return with him. Just in case, Rachelle said she would prepare extra food. Maida was chopping leeks and carrots and turnips to add to the cauldron bubbling over the fire, which Alinor was stirring with a long-handled copper ladle. Already, the smell of simmering chunks of venison filled the air, and Alinor’s stomach rumbled with hunger.

“Did you hear what I said, Alinor? Thibaud is not Tykir’s child.” Rachelle was in the process of taking some wooden trenchers and spoons off a shelf near the hearth, about to set the table.

“Yea, I heard.” Alinor had found herself looking involuntarily at the child and noting over and over the remarkable resemblance to his father. For some reason, she didn’t want to examine the exhilaration she felt now over Rachelle’s words, disclaiming Tykir’s paternity. “I never thought…I mean, it’s none of my affair.”

“Yea, you thought,” Rachelle said with a chuckle. “Everyone does. And, furthermore, I suspect it is very much your affair.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Rachelle laughed softly. “Just do not let him charm you into some ecstasy, without the benefit of the marriage vows…assuming you are not already wed…. Ah, I can see by the indignation on your face that you are not.”

“Charm? Tykir has the charm of a bullfrog, as far as I’m concerned. And you must be jesting with me about any ecstasy to be gained from a man’s attention.”