Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (2 page)

Tykir scratched his unshaven face and wondered idly if he smelled as bad as his companions. Vikings were renowned for their fastidious nature, unlike those piggish Saxon and Frankish men, who bathed but once a season. Lifting one arm, he sniffed under his armpit…and flinched.

“How do you spell duckling?” Bolthor whispered in an aside.

“C-O-C-K,” Tykir responded dryly. Let Bolthor figure how to translate the word into the futhark alphabet. That should take a goodly amount of time.

He turned to Bjold. “Proceed,” he directed him with a wave of his hand. “I doubt me I will like your report from King Anlaf, but spare me not even the smallest detail.”

When Bjold finished, at last, a good hour later, a sudden realization came to Tykir…one that drew a wide smile to his face, overshadowing the anger that lingered beneath the surface over Anlaf’s treatment of Adam.
I am no longer bored.

He looked at Rurik, then Bolthor, before announcing, “It would seem we are going a-witching.”

North Yorkshire, six sennights later

“The Vikings are coming. The Vikings are coming.”

“Baaa. Baaa. Baaa. Baaa.”

“Bleat. Bleat. Bleat. Bleat.”

“Ruff ruff, ruff, ruff!”

“The Vikings are coming. The Vikings are coming.”

Whether it be her crying sheep or her barking sheepdog or her shrieking, sheeplike maid, Elswyth, who was approaching with the dire warning of yet another Northman sighting, Lady Alinor had more than enough problems for one day. A most unladylike phrase escaped her lips—something to do with an unmentionable exercise the Vikings, the sheep and the dog could do to themselves, or to each other, for all she cared. ’Twas an expression she’d heard her hesirs use on more than one occasion when they were ready to explode with ill-temper. And Alinor’s temper was very ill, and explosive, at the moment.

Hanging on to a tree root with one hand, Alinor was dangling into a shallow gully infested with briars, trying to extricate one of her ewes, Bathsheba, from the sharp thorns with the crook of her long staff. Her mangy sheepdog, inappropriately named Beauty, was yipping off in the distance as it attempted to steer a small flock of straying sheep back to the stone-fenced pastures of the lower dales.

Continuing to bleat his yearnings nonstop was David, a lusty, overanxious ram of a curly-horned breed almost nonexistent outside Córdoba—a bride gift from her last marriage. Ironically, Sheba was in heat, and she yearned mightily for the mating that would produce new lambs for Alinor’s thriving flock come spring, but still the dumb female had felt the need to play games of catch-me-if-you-will with the curly-horned David. That’s when the coy Sheba had landed herself in the briar patch.

Not all that different from human males and females in their mating rituals, Alinor supposed.

“The Vikings are coming. The Vikings are coming.”

“Baaa. Baaa. Baaa. Baaa.”

“Bleat. Bleat. Bleat. Bleat.”

“Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff!”

Alinor paused in the act of cutting away the branches caught in Sheba’s matted fur, glanced over her shoulder, and groaned at the sight of her kitchen maid rushing toward her over the heather-blanketed flatlands, headrail flapping in the wind and brown homespun kirtle hiked practically to her knobby knees. Elswyth
always
thought the Vikings were coming, no matter if it was mere wayfarers approaching Graycote Manor from the old Roman road or stray cows from the pastures of Castle Bellard, three miles to the east.

In truth, fighting men from the North had been coming into Britain in droves this past year as news spread of Eric Bloodaxe’s campaign to expel King Olaf Sigtryggsson and regain the crown of Northumbria. Recently he had achieved that goal, thanks to the efforts of Archbishop Wulfstan and members of the Norse nobility residing in northern Britain.

Elswyth’s fears had started a year past, when she had accompanied Alinor to the nunnery at St. Beatrice’s Abbey. Whilst there, they’d had the misfortune to witness a thwarted Viking attack on the good nuns. Alinor had been hiding out at the convent from her twin brothers, Egbert and Hebert, who had come up with yet another marriage prospect for her: Ecgfrith of Upper Mercia, a doddering old lord with one foot in the grave. Actually, Ecgfrith had passed away before Egbert and Hebert even found Alinor at the nunnery. What a birching she’d received for her willfulness! Though she had seen only twenty-five winters, Alinor had wed and been widowed three times since her fifteenth birthday, all to serve the greedy needs of her brothers.

And it would seem her problems were unending, for just yestermorn she’d received a missive from her wool agent
in Jorvik, informing her that Egbert and Hebert had been boasting in the market town of a new marriage contract that carried the seal of their third cousin, King Edred—a contract for matrimony between their sister, Lady Alinor of Graycote Manor, and Lord Cedric of Wessex. The sickly king had been plagued by troubles since his reign began six years past. If the Vikings weren’t stirring unrest in the north, his own noblemen—not least of whom her own brothers—were constantly nagging at him for favors.

It mattered not to her brothers that the short, corpulent Cedric was as wide as he was tall. He weighed as much as a horse and was old enough to be her great-grandsire. The important thing to Egbert and Hebert would be the estates Cedric owned, which would cede to a wife, and therefore to them as guardians, upon his death.

Well, Alinor could not refuse the king’s command, but if she never actually received the royal command of her weak-sapped sovereign, how could she be deemed lacking in proper loyalty? Therefore, she intended to be long gone, into a new temporary hiding place, before Egbert and Hebert’s arrival, which she estimated to be two days hence, giving Alinor temporary respite from her brothers’ machinations.

“Come, Elswyth,” she entreated, now that the maid drew near. “Help me free Sheba.”

“But…but…” Elswyth protested breathlessly, “the Vikings are coming.”

“And if they are? What is it to us? We have no riches for them to pillage—apparent ones, leastways.” Alinor had willingly given up all the estates deeded to her by three dead husbands, except for this one measly manor in the far north of Britain, precisely so that she would garner no attention from her only remaining family. The fact that she prospered with her thriving wool trade went unnoticed
by her brothers since she plowed all the profits back into the sheep folds and hidden chests of gold. Her greatest dream was that one day she would just be left alone.

“But they could
ravish
us,” Elswyth cried in a horrified whisper.

Alinor had to laugh at that. They would have to be sorry Vikings indeed to feel the inclination to toss the aging Elswyth’s robes over her head. And Alinor had known well and good from an early age that she was not comely to men. With hair of a most garish shade of red and freckles covering her entire body, which was too tall and too thin by half, Alinor held no appeal for the average man…and Vikings, renowned for their good looks, were reputed to be most particular.

“Elswyth,” she said in a kindly tone, “we are in more danger of being raped by David than any Viking if we do not soon extricate his lady-love from these brambles.”

Grumbling, Elswyth reached forward to assist Alinor, but under her breath she mumbled that famous Anglo-Saxon refrain, “Oh, Lord, from the fury of the Northmen please protect us.”

Tykir was furious.

It had taken him two sennights to complete his trading ventures in Birka, along with some ship repairs, before sailing for British soil. Now, for the past four sennights—twenty-eight wasted, bloody days—he and Rurik and Bolthor had been riding from one end of the British isle to the other, searching for the elusive witch. Vikings were meant to sail the seas, not travel long, bumpy distances on land, atop horses, till their arses were bruised and their moods riled.

And it was all the fault of the Lady Alinor. Rather, the Lady Witch, he corrected himself. An interesting lady, as
it turned out. The thrice-widowed sorceress—
and didn’t that happenstance of three conveniently dead spouses provoke a thinking man’s suspicion?
—owned a dozen wealthy estates across this hellish land, all managed by her brothers, the bumbling twins to whom Bjold had referred. But she chose to live in a poor holding in the bleak, far northern Northumbria, almost up to the Scottish borders…no doubt to practice her pagan rites in privacy.

Well, the quest was almost over. When they’d stopped at Graycote Manor a short time ago, her castellan informed Tykir that the Lady Alinor was up in the fells tending to her sheep.
Tending? Was she engaged in some black rite involving animal sacrifice or such?

The odd thing was the timber and stone keep, with its crumbling ramparts and stockades, was kept neat, but sorely out of date. At the same time, vast fields of cut hay lay drying for winter feed. A dozen cows lowed in a nearby byre waiting to be milked. Piles of harvested turnips, carrots, cabbages and other food items rolled by in heavy carts. It was an ill-kept estate, overflowing with provender. How peculiar!

Well, be that as it may. He cared not if the witch was rich or poor. Soon his journey would be over, and the Lady Alinor would pay good and well for all the trouble she had put him to.

“We must be careful, Tykir,” Rurik warned him.

The three of them rode horses side by side up one fell and down the other, following the castellan’s directions. Lady Alinor’s dim-witted castellan—leader of a scraggly band of hesirs—had not even thought to question his mistress’s safety in sending three Viking warriors after her.

“I am loath to ask you…but why?”

“We know not if this witch is a solitary or in a coven.”

Tykir nodded, though he had no particular knowledge
of witchcraft, solitary or otherwise. He would have to bow to Rurik’s greater wisdom in that regard.

“No doubt the witch will take on a most beauteous countenance to draw us under her spell.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yea, that is what happened to me, I warrant. Why else would I have let my guard down in a strange country in the presence of a known witch?”

Tykir laughed. “Because the Scottish wench opened her lissome legs for you, that’s why. Because the man-lust is always upon you. Because you think with the rock betwixt your legs, instead of the rock betwixt your ears.”

Rurik lifted his chin with affront, calling attention to the blue-dyed line down the middle of his face—testament to his foolish entanglement with a witch.

“Since we are so close to Scotland, why do you not go in search of the witch? Mayhap you can rid yourself of her mark once and for all.”

“All of last year I spent searching for the wench, to no avail. I refuse to spend the winter months in the Highlands freezing my arse in search of her now. Next summer I will find her, or be damned.”

“I for one wouldst like to know if the old tales are true about witches having a tail they hide beneath their robes,” Bolthor interjected. “’Tis said that the only way they can lose the long appendage is by marrying a mortal man.”

“See,” Rurik argued to Tykir, “I was right about witches taking on a tempting form. It makes sense that they would need to be beautiful if they want to snare a man and thus lose their tails.”

“You two would believe anything,” Tykir hooted. “All I know is that I want to be the one to light the fire under this particular witch…once King Anlaf is finished with
her, that is. Then, if I never see English soil, or an English wench, again, it will be too soon for me.”

“There she is,” Rurik said excitedly.

A long, telling silence followed. Finally, Tykir snorted with disgust and said aloud what they were all thinking: “So much for the theory of beautiful witches!”

“Methinks this calls for a saga.” Bolthor was already pulling his wax tablet from a saddlebag, muttering something about “Tykir and the Flame-Haired Witch.” Then he launched into his usual introduction, “Hear one and all, this is the saga of Tykir the Great.”

“How would you like a stylus up your arse?” Tykir responded.

Bolthor just ignored him and began spouting his verse.

“I saw a fruit that color once whilst a-Viking in the southern climes. ’Twas called an orange, I think.” Rurik spoke with awe on viewing the wench’s odd-colored hair.

Tykir had seen red hair before—they all had, of course. Even the great Odin had red hair. But never had Tykir witnessed hair quite like this. Rurik was wrong about its orange color, though; it was more like bright rust on a metal shield.

“Oh, for the love of Freyja! Is that the devil’s spittle
that adorns her, too?” Bolthor shivered with distaste. “Hair like the fires of hell and the mark of Lucifer on her skin…Of a certainty, she is a witch.”

He was right. The woman
was
covered with freckles, every part of her exposed skin, and no doubt every other place beneath her drab robes. Her headrail and wimple, which would normally cover the hair of a lady of her high birth, hung ignominiously from a briar thatch just beyond where the Lady Alinor was chasing a ram, who was chasing a bleating sheep.

“Dost see her familiars anywhere about?” Bolthor asked in a hushed voice. “Ofttimes witches use cats as their familiars.”

They all scanned the horizon. Not a cat in sight.

“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.