Page 103 of The Bewitched Viking

Not that he was planning to drop anchor with any woman. Not even Alinor. Besides, she’d probably heave the anchor onto her shoulder and stomp off into her own destiny in Northumbria.

It was just an interlude they were sharing. A pleasant one. But that was all it was, or could ever be.

He knew Eirik and Eadyth failed to understand his resistance to love and marriage, even to a mistress of any long-standing. But the soul-deep hurts he’d sustained as a child and the defenses he’d erected as a result were part of his very nature now.

Imbedded in his brain were unsavory images of himself: as a needy, pathetic boy searching every passerby’s face for his long-gone mother; as a youthling standing at one roadway or dock after another waving farewell to his Jomsviking father, and later standing at his bedside when he died far too young from battle wounds; as a tearful eight-year-old shattered by his brother Eirik going off a-fostering to King Athelstan’s court; not to mention the disappearance of his stepmother Ruby; then, finally, the loss of his grandparents, Dar and Aud, at Ravenshire.

Oh, he knew there were many who had suffered as much or more. His own brother Eirik, for one, who’d had a finger chopped off as a boy by Ivar the Terrible, the same villain who had killed their father. But Eirik was half-Saxon, a different bird all together. Plus, he’d been a few years older than Tykir and certainly more mature when all these events had taken place.

Being a scrappy young Viking through and through, Tykir had learned to survive his hurts by building an invisible wall around himself. A man—or boy—couldn’t be hurt if he didn’t care.

Except…

Tykir glanced to his side and watched Alinor, whose rapt attention was caught by the saga Bolthor was telling. He’d already advised the giant skald, on threat of a detongueing, that there were to be no “Tykir the Great” sagas or poems at this feast. So, Bolthor was now relating for those assembled the tale of Tykir’s paternal grandsire, Harald Fairhair.

Alinor looked at him and smiled. “Your grandsire was quite a man. All those wives and mistresses. And, blessed heaven, twenty-two sons and a comparable number of daughters.”

“Your sarcasm ill-suits you, wench,” he growled.

She laughed gaily, something she did far too rarely.

“You share his blood, Viking. Do you share his nature?”

“Nay. As you well know, I have not even one wife and only one mistress at the moment.” He immediately regretted his hasty words when he saw the quick flash of pain on her open face. He knew she did not like her designation as mere mistress. Would she be any more pleased to be called wife of a heathen Viking?

Aaarrgh! Where did that traitorous thought come from?

“Some say King Harald was inspired to greatness by the taunts of Gyda, daughter of the king of Hordaland,” Bolthor was relating. “Gyda was an ambitious wench, and she declined to wed with Harald till he ruled all Norway. So, Harald made a solemn vow: He would not comb or cut his hair till he had won all Norway and the fair Gyda. Ten years it took Harald to achieve his goals. Thereafter, the man known as Harald lúfa, or mop-hair, became known as Harald hárfagri, or fairhair. And a finer set of tresses were never seen in all the Norse lands. Further, some say that a great swiving took place that day in the chamber of Gyda, once she yielded to Harald’s great feats. This is the saga of Harald Fairhair.”

“Did you ever meet your grandsire?” Alinor asked, reaching to take a drink of wine from Tykir’s cup. The wine was from the private stock he’d traded for in Rhineland last year and was reserved for special occasions. Tonight felt special.

He liked the way she put her lips to his cup on the very spot where he had been drinking. It was probably a coincidence, but he preferred to think otherwise.

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Meet your grandfather?”

“Yea, I did. He came to King Sigtrygg’s Norse castle in Jorvik when my father lay dying.”

She tilted her head, waiting for him to disclose more.

“He was a majestic old man, massive in size, not shriveled and bent over like some graybeards. His long hair had gone completely white by then, but was luxurious just the same, and held in place by a gold circlet around his forehead. He was wearing a black velvet cloak embroidered with gold thread and studded with precious jewels. Odd that I should recall those details.” Sighing deeply, he added, “I saw him a few times before he died about ten years ago. He was a hard master, to his underlings as well as his family. I cannot say he ever loved any of us. Though, I must admit, the old man deeded me Dragonstead on his death, much to my surprise. It was one of his lesser garths, ’tis true. Still…”

“Mayhap he was like many men, unable to show his affection.”

“Mayhap.” He turned to address Alinor directly. “These are not pleasant memories you prod in me, Alinor. Why so curious?”

“I just want to know more about you.”

He felt a tightness in his throat at her words. She was starting to care, just as he was. Best he put a stop to that nonsense right away.

“The only thing you need to know of me is betwixt my legs,” he said crudely.

She jerked her head back as if he’d slapped her.

Guilt tugged at his conscience, but he shoved it aside. At least she was not looking at him with caring now.