Page 1 of The Bewitched Viking

Chapter One

Birka, A.D. 952

“The king’s manroot took a right turn.”

“What? What root?” Blinking with confusion, Tykir Thorksson lifted his head off the alehouse table and gaped drunkenly at Bjold, the royal messenger.

“And he beseeches your service in correcting the…uh, problem.”

“Me? Do my ears play me false?” With a brain that felt like a mashed turnip itself, Tykir scratched the fine hairs on his forearm and wondered irrelevantly how the emissary of his cousin King Anlaf, had even tracked him to Birka. And why, for the love of Freyja, would he go to the botherment of the grueling trek from the far northern reaches of Trondelag to this bustling market town on the island of Björkö in Lake Mälar? To tell him about…vegetables? “Blód hel! I am inclined to take offense. You see afore you a noted warrior and a trader in precious amber. Since when have I become a farmsteader, with knowledge of roots?”

Bjold’s jaw dropped at Tykir’s ferocious overreaction. Immediately, he clicked it shut and, with a snarl of impatience, tried again. “The king’s cock has taken a right turn.”

“His rooster?” Tykir was becoming more and more confused. First vegetables. Now poultry. Next this lackwit would be asking him for help in drying lutefisk.

“Not that cock.” Bjold sniffed huffily, clearly repelled by Tykir’s mead-sodden state.

In truth, Tykir did not often drink to excess. Though he appeared to have a carefree nature, he detested any lack of self-control. He had reason to celebrate, of course, having just returned from a successful trip to the Baltic lands, where his workers had harvested a crop of prized amber for his trading ventures.

Still, this heavy cloud of depression had been hanging over him for days. No doubt it was just boredom. “A-Viking, a-fighting and a-wenching” had long been his life’s motto—leastways on the surface—but somehow those pleasures were fading.

Having seen thirty-five winters, Tykir had garnered more wealth than he could use in a lifetime. He’d lost count years ago of all the beautiful women he’d bedded, but now he no longer felt a youthling’s swift rush of enthusiasm at the sight of every comely wench who came within snaring distance.

Then there was the matter of fighting—a time-honored Viking pastime. From the age of fourteen, he’d fought like a wild berserker in the battles of various kingdoms, like his father afore him—may his soul be resting in Valhalla! But he found himself questioning of late the motives of leaders who called for the rash spilling of blood from their underlings.

Well, there was a-Viking. Tykir had seen adventure in all his trading and Viking voyages. From the Rus lands to Iceland, from the Baltic Ocean to the English Channel, Tykir had visited and revisited, explored and discovered, even conquered. Never did he stay long in one place, though, by deliberate intent. ’Twas not good for a man in his position to form roots.

What else was there to draw a man’s jaded interest? What challenges that he had not already mastered?

Tykir sighed deeply.

“By your leave, Jarl Thorksson, ’tis the king’s other cock I refer to.” Bjold had been rambling on whilst Tykir’s mind wandered. Suddenly, the messenger’s words sank in, and Tykir’s eyes went wide with understanding. Manroot. Cock. He glanced down to the jointure of his thighs and winced in masculine empathy. “The king’s cock did what?”

“Made a right turn. Halfway down.” The envoy thirstily quaffed a horn of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He was clearly relieved that Tykir finally understood his message. “Looks like a flag at half mast, it does.”

“And he wants me to fix it?” Tykir gasped out with horror.

“Not you precisely.”

Tykir leveled a glare at the impudent lad. “Who precisely?”

The tone in his icy voice must have caught the lackwit’s attention. With eyes darting nervously from side to side, Bjold answered, “The witch.”

Odin’s blood! ’Twas like pulling burrs from a wolf’s tail, getting a straight answer from the dolt. “Just any witch?”

“Nay. One in particular.” The messenger shifted uncomfortably under Tykir’s close scrutiny.

Tykir rolled his eyes heavenward. “Well, that is clear as fjord fog on a rainy day.” If I were not so tired, I would shake the brainless cur till his rotten teeth rattled for such discourtesy.

Bjold let out a long whoosh of exasperation and disclosed, “The witch with the ‘Virgin’s Veil.’”

Tykir made a low growling sound, and Bjold, with belated wisdom, hurried to explain. “The witch’s name is Alinor…Lady Alinor of Northumbria. ’Tis she who put the curse on Anlaf’s manpart. All because Anlaf and his hird of soldiers stopped by St. Beatrice’s Abbey in Britain one day last year. The abbey is home to a nunnery where Lady Alinor was seeking sanctuary for a time from her bumbling brothers, the Lords Egbert and Hebert.”

Tykir wondered what would constitute “bumbling” in the mind of this bumbling idiot. But he did not dare ask, lest he face another long-winded discourse. Instead, he focused on Bjold’s other words. “Stopped by? Anlaf stopped by a nunnery? For a bit of raping and pillaging, I wager.”

“And if we did?” Bjold bristled, revealing his part in the marauding band. “’Tis neither here nor there whether we were a-plundering or not. I daresay you’ve done a fair share of plundering in your day, too. At issue here is the fact that the witch waved a relic in the king’s face…a blue headrail, which she claimed once adorned the Blessed Virgin Mary.” He paused, then explained, as if Tykir were a dimwit, “The Virgin Mary is the mother of the Christians’ One-God.”

Tykir fisted his hands to prevent himself from throttling the fool. “I know who the Virgin Mary is.”