Page 60 of The Bewitched Viking

More vigorous nodding.

“Trial by water? What’s that?” he heard Alinor inquire of Bolthor.

“They hold you under water for ten minutes or so. If you survive, you must be a witch. If you drown, then your good name is clear.”

Alinor thought for a second. “And that is Viking justice?”

“We learned it from the Saxons,” Bolthor told her.

Meanwhile, the Norse revelers were continuing to throw out suggestions to the king regarding the witch’s fate.

“Has anyone checked for a tail yet?” one man cautioned.

The murmuring throughout the hall was ominous, to him as well as Alinor, whose face had gone bone white under her horrible freckles. He saw that Rurik’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist in a vicelike grip.

He stomped down the dais steps, stormed over to Alinor’s side, smacked Rurik’s hand aside with a hissing sound of rage at the blue finger marks already marring the delicate skin and dragged her forward with him, an arm protectively draped around her shoulder. Though they stood at the bottom of the short stairway, everyone at the high table rose from their seats and took two steps backward. The bride, who had regained consciousness, was whimpering. The bridegroom was comforting her with a sweeping hand across her back that kept returning to the rump region. Tykir didn’t think he was searching for a tail.

“Enough!” Anlaf dropped his shield to the floor and shouted in a roaring voice, which carried across the great hall like thunder, causing waves of silence to follow in its wake. When all was quiet, Anlaf announced, “I have come up with a solution. Tomorrow we will hold a Thing to decide the witch’s fate.”

The Thing was about to start by midmorning the next day.

If Alinor had expected a disorganized governing body run by an unruly bunch of primitive Vikings, green-faced from overdrinking the night before, she was woefully mistaken. The Norsemen apparently held their laws in great respect, for they were groomed and dressed accordingly. Many of them had bathed and donned clean clothing, shaved or trimmed mustaches and beards and combed or braided their long hair. They must have risen at dawn to prepare for this event. Either that or they’d stayed up all night, though none the worse for wear, except for a few bloodshot eyes and breath odor that could wipe out a troop of soldiers with one mighty exhalation.

There were spaces for twenty-one men to sit in a half-circle at the head of the room, facing toward the empty dais…three each, including the chieftains, from the seven “tribes” or geographical regions in attendance at the gathering. Tykir, Rurik and Bolthor would sit there, as well, once the Thing began. The rest of the free men were seated on benches behind their chosen representatives. King Anlaf, dressed in his full royal regalia topped by a narrow golden circlet banding his forehead, was to act as the Thing-Leader. He sat in an armed chair in the center of the half-circle.

There were few women present in the assembly itself, though they could be seen in the background, moving about their chores, or eavesdropping on what must be mostly a male event.

She and Tykir were sitting on a bench off to the side, along with other parties who had disputes to be settled by the Thing. Bolthor, Rurik and Adam sat on either side of them on the bench.

Primitive wooden crosses abounded on the chests of many. Alinor suspected that Rurik was doing a prosperous business in crucifixes and holy water. She wished him a bad case of splinters.

An ancient, gray-bearded man rose from the assembly and was making his way slowly toward the front, his progress impeded by those who stopped him along the way in warm greeting. He wore a full-length coat of marten skins. His neatly combed white hair hung about his shoulders like a silken mantle. In his right hand, he carried a long, wooden staff intricately carved with runic symbols. It resembled a bishop’s crozier.

“Who is that?” Alinor whispered to Tykir.

He just stared ahead, stone-faced. This was the first she’d seen him since last night, having been taken forcibly to a storage room, where she’d been locked in alone till this morning. It was clear that Tykir blamed her for the whole predicament.

Was it her fault she found herself in the middle of Viking lands? Was it her fault they’d declined to allow Tykir to dump her there whilst he went on his merry way? Was it her fault a storm was brewing outside, turning the skies black and it not yet noon? Was it her fault a threat loomed of their being snowbound at Anlaf’s court for the winter?

Adam leaned forward from his seat on the other side of Tykir and informed her, “That’s Styrr the Wise, the Lawspeaker. The Norse people have many law codes, but they are seldom written down. It’s the responsibility of the lawspeakers to commit those laws to memory and recite them before the Thing begins.”

Tykir gave Adam a piercing glare, labeling him traitor for speaking to Alinor when he would not.

Adam ignored Tykir and graced Alinor with a roguish smile that had probably melted more than one maiden’s heart. “I am Adam of Godwinshire, by the by. We’ve not been properly introduced.”

Tykir made a snorting sound of disgust.

She smiled back at Adam, more to annoy Tykir than to respond to the younger man’s seductive grin. “I am Lady Alinor of Graycote…victim of this oaf’s ridiculous mission,” she said, rolling her eyes toward Tykir. “He wants to blame me for this turn of events, but deep down he knows he is at fault.”

“It must be real deep,” Tykir mumbled.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Nothing. I am not speaking to you.”

“Don’t you think that’s a trifle immature?”

“Adam, will you be coming with me to Dragonstead for the winter…assuming we get out of here afore the fjords freeze?” Tykir inquired, speaking over her. “Or will you stay with Father Caedmon at Anlaf’s court?”