Page 6 of The Bewitched Viking

“Perchance,” Rurik said hesitantly, “her familiars are sheep.”

“Sheep?” he and Bolthor said as one.

All of their jaws dropped open with amazement at this incredible turn of events.

But then Tykir came to his senses. “I have ne’er heard of anything so ridiculous in all my life.”

“Me neither,” Rurik and Bolthor agreed.

But they all looked at each other, unsure. If indeed she did use sheep as familiars, she must be a powerful witch. There were dozens of sheep in the area.

“And look,” Bolthor added, “she carries a staff. Everyone knows that a witch carries a magic staff. And a bell and a crystal, of course.”

A tinkling sound came from the neck of the female sheep being swived by the lusty ram. The fine hairs stood out all over Tykir’s body at that affirmation of at least one of the witch’s tools.

They all narrowed their eyes to see if she might be wearing, or carrying, a crystal. They saw nothing but her simple, rumpled gown. No doubt she kept it hidden.

“Do you think she dances naked in the forest?” Rurik wondered. “’Tis a common witch practice.”

“Did your witch?” Tykir asked with a grin.

“Yea, she did,” Rurik told him, grinning back. “’Twas almost worth receiving her cursed mark to see that exhibition.”

“I’m not sure there would be so much pleasure in seeing this witch naked,” Tykir said. They all concurred.

While they were making these observations, Rurik’s dog was barking wildly, the sheep were bleating, and the nervous horses were neighing. In the midst of this chaos, a mangy sheepdog galloped over the fells toward them, a flock of bleating sheep following behind. Apparently, the sheepdog had noticed Rurik’s wolfhound, Beast, who stood near his horse’s right front leg, trying to appear aloof but pissing trickles of excitement.

The jaws of Tykir and his comrades nigh dropped to the ground with this ungodly spectacle.

Just then, the ram finished his rutting and his sheeply mate escaped. But apparently the randy ram had other ideas. He chased after her, then stopped dead in his tracks, did an about-face and began chasing Lady Alinor, who had been shouting at the two of them to desist at once. When the ram bumped Lady Alinor’s rump with his curly horns, she fell to the ground, rump in the air.

And all three men stared, transfixed, at one particular spot.

Did she have a tail or didn’t she?

Chapter Two

The Vikings really were coming.

In fact, they’d come.

And they were staring at her posterior.

Lecherous heathens! Bloody libertines! Viking curs! If they dare try to rape me, I’ll pull out my shears, and at least one of them will no longer have the lewd inclination.

Elswyth was whimpering, a continuous “Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh” of mortal fright. The dog and a half-dozen sheep were circling the whole lot of them, with Beauty yipping an overexuberant dog welcome to the beautiful wolfhound who’d arrived with the Northmen. Meanwhile, David had already mounted the finally docile Sheba, and the look on his face was pure ecstasy.

Alinor would have been mortified if these were anything but Vikings, who probably witnessed such crude behavior all the time in their primitive lands.

“My good men, what do you here on my lands? How may I assist you?” Alinor inquired in the Norse tongue, which was very similar to English. She’d become proficient in the language these past years as she’d negotiated for her wools in the markets of Northumbria, which were heavily populated with peoples of Viking descent.

Now, as she spoke to them, she scrambled clumsily to her feet and put one hand on her hip, trying to strike a casual pose of fearlessness, at the same time adjusting her headrail with the other hand. Except that her headrail and wimple had managed to disappear. Alinor raked her fingers through the disarray atop her head. She suspected that she looked like a flaming, long-haired sheep before the shearing. Truth to tell, Egbert had once told her just that, in a lame attempt at encouraging her to improve her appearance to aid their matrimonial pursuits for her. When her ragged nails kept snagging on the knots in her hair, she gave up. “My manor house is over the fells a short distance,” she informed the Vikings, pointing westward. “If it is food and drink you seek, my steward will offer you and your fine steeds hospitality. We are a poor estate, but you need not fear….”

Her words trailed off as she tossed her hair back off her face and got her first good view of the three Viking men, who still sat atop magnificent black destriers with finely tooled leather and silver trappings. She shivered, but not from the cool autumn breeze, which was brisk and gaining strength. Deadly sharp swords, pattern-welded in the Viking tradition, hung from scabbards at their sides. On their horses were highly embossed shields. All of the men were uncommonly tall and hugely muscled. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She had to bite her bottom lip to keep from whimpering, just like Elswyth.

All the men wore slim black wool braies and short leather ankle boots, cross-gartered up trim legs. The one on the left was a veritable giant—at least a head taller than the other two, and they were exceedingly long of frame themselves. His white-blond hair hung loose to shoulder-length. He wore a brown wool tunic, belted at the waist and covered at the shoulders with several layers of matching mantles of different length that left one arm exposed, an arm that rested on a long-poled battle-ax, braced now on the ground. He had probably seen no more than thirty winters, but harsh lines etched his face, aging him beyond his years. A black patch over one eye completed the picture of battered soldier.

The Viking on the right was dark haired, and, Alinor guessed, vain as a peacock. At least five years younger than the giant, he stroked his silky mustache. His beard and hair were woven into intricate braids—a habit many warriors adopted to avoid their hair flying into their eyes in the midst of battle—but this Viking’s plaits were interlaced with colored beads. Most interesting was the blue jagged line down the middle of his face, which detracted not at all from his appearance; in fact, some might say it enhanced his attraction. He wore a blue wool tunic, matching his eyes and his face design, but instead of a shoulder mantle, a gray fox skin was tossed carelessly from shoulder to opposite waist, front and back, tucked into a wide belt of tanned leather. The animal that had died for his comfort must have been huge. Reaching down nimbly to the ground, he patted the clamoring dog, cautioning, “Shhh, Beast. ’Tis just a scurvy bitch. Beneath your interest for a quick dalliance, my good dog.” He grinned at Alinor as he spoke, making it unclear whether he was referring to Beauty or to her.