Page 57 of The Bewitched Viking

Tykir narrowed his eyes at Adam, who still held his shoulder in a brotherly embrace, patting it in exaggerated sympathy. “Too bad? Why is that? Has the desert sun burned out your eyesight? Obviously, you have not looked closely at the wench.”

“Are those freckles I see?” Adam slitted his eyes, as if to see better. “I knew a sultan once who claimed every freckle on a woman’s body was an erotic spot.”

“What?” Tykir fixed his gaze on Alinor, whose head was tilted in puzzlement at their scrutiny. By rough estimate, he figured the woman must have about a thousand of those marks on her body, if he could recall her naked body properly. Hah! That image was imprinted on his lustful brain for all time.

But, as to Adam’s correlation betwixt freckles and sex, could it be possible? He turned to question Adam further and was met with a wide, white-toothed grin. Realizing he’d been taken in by the rogue’s foolery, he shoved Adam’s arm off his shoulder. The lackwit bent over at the waist, laughing his fool head off.

“What the hell are you wearing anyway?” Tykir grumbled, flicking the fingertips of one hand at the loose white, hooded robe Adam wore, with all the flair of a royal courtier.

“What? You do not like my caftan?”

“Like has naught to do with it. It appears to me you have borrowed some bed linens.”

“Methinks you are jealous, Tykir. Tell me true, do you not think I resemble a desert prince? Can you not picture me riding the sand dunes atop my camel?” He waggled his eyebrows at Tykir.

Tykir jabbed him with an elbow to behave. “I certainly hope you are wearing braies beneath. ’Twould be unseemly otherwise.”

“Hah! When have I aimed to be seemly?”

The two men grinned at each other.

“Actually, there’s a certain freedom in letting your nether parts breathe.”

Tykir had to laugh aloud at the rascal then. “If you do too much breathing in this part of the country, you will end up with frost on your arse.”

A feminine scream rent the air then. At first, Tykir thought it was Alinor, but she stood silent, staring at him as if he were St. Michael the Archangel, about to slay her dragons.

“Why does the witch gaze at you as if you are the raisins in her porridge?” Adam asked.

“She thinks I’m her guardian angel,” Tykir replied dryly.

“You?” Adam hooted and doubled over again, resuming laughter.

Another loud scream ripped through the din of the great hall.

This time, Tykir jerked around to see Signe, her fingers clawing at her own hair. “A witch! A witch! And she is covered with the Devil’s Spittle…and hair like Satan’s fire,” she wailed. “’Tis a bad omen to have a witch attend one’s wedding. Do not let her look upon me, Father, lest I have a clove-footed babe nine months hence.” With one last scream, she fell into a faint in her new husband’s arms.

“Oh, for the love of Mary!” Alinor muttered with disgust at Signe’s spectacle.

King Anlaf could not be concerned about his daughter, however. “Guards, take the witch away. Make haste afore she renews the curse on my manroot.”

Tykir drew his sword instinctively, not about to let Anlaf’s guards mishandle the wench…rather, witch…till she had a chance to defend herself. Not that he’d heard a single word from her mouth these many sennights that would weigh in her favor.

Fortunately, Anlaf’s personal guard was nowhere to be seen, having the good sense, or the non-sense, to leave the range of Alinor’s witchly powers. None of them wanted a crooked staff. With a cry of distress, Anlaf pulled his battle shield off the wall and held it in front of his midsection. Many men throughout the hall did likewise.

“Oh, for the love of Mary!” Alinor reiterated.

“Mary? Who is this Mary the witch keeps calling upon?” Anlaf inquired. “Is it perchance the high-witch?”

“King Anlaf! For shame!” the priest who’d been sitting with Adam exclaimed. Tykir had met him before. Father Caedmon was his name. “Did you not take your baptismal vows seriously when I christened you last year? Mary is the mother of God.”

“Oh, that Mary.” Anlaf’s face turned red under his blond beard. Leastways, what could be seen of his face behind his shield, which he still held in front of his body.

“Enough of this prattle!” Tykir roared, waving his sword in the air. “Assure me of Lady’s Alinor’s safe passage home, and I will be on my way to Dragonstead.”

“Sheath your sword, Tykir,” Anlaf ordered, his eyes peering above his massive shield. “Is the witch worth losing your life?”

“What makes you think I will be the one spilling wound dew?” he said icily.