Page 28 of The Bewitched Viking

“You have an answer for everything, my lady. But the fact is, my men believe you are a witch.”

“Of course they do. They are encouraged by Rurik’s rancor and Bolthor’s skaldic imagination, not to mention your constant grumbling. And speaking of men, who knew there would be so many of them? ’Tis not proper that a lady should travel, unchaperoned, in the company of so many men.”

“Didst think that Rurik, Bolthor and I would row the ships ourselves?” he answered with undue sarcasm.

“Mayhap I should have known a great number of sailors would be required…to man one vessel. But how was I to know the number of ships you own?” The longship on which she traveled now, Swift Dragon, was one of a fleet of seven dragonships, each manned by more than sixty Viking warriors. The other ships were Fierce Dragon, Bold Dragon, Brave Dragon, Savage Dragon, Mad Dragon and Deadly Dragon, all of them owned by Tykir. Apparently, it was necessary to travel in convoy to fight off pirate ships, which lurked off the coasts of the northern market towns.

“Didst think I was a pauper?”

“Nay. I know you for what you are. A troll.”

He bared his teeth in a gritted smile, and she knew she pushed him dangerously.

To her surprise, the number of ships and the treasure trove of market goods they carried bespoke great wealth on Tykir’s part. It was a good thing her brothers didn’t know about Tykir’s affluence. They’d probably try to make a marriage pact with him. But, nay, he was too young for their devious designs. They would want an old man, soon to die. Besides, Tykir would never agree to wed such as her.

Where are these horrible thoughts coming from? “Tykir,” she began in a conciliatory tone, “I was standing at the prow of your ship, avoiding the sailors, as you told me to do. I was trying to eat the midday meal, as you told me to do. But I just could not stomach that revolting gammelost. So I fed crumbles of it to some passing seagulls. And before I knew it, there were dozens of the birds taking the bits of the smelly stuff right from my fingers.” She sniffed first one hand, then the other. “I still stink.”

“It is just old cheese.”

“Old cheese?” she scoffed. “That cheese could walk by itself.”

Despite his best efforts, a grin tugged at his lips. “Actually, there is a legend that says gammelost contributed to the victory of King Harald Fairhair, my grandfather, at the Battle of Hafrsfjord in 872,” he disclosed with a sheepish smile.

She arched a brow in question.

“The story goes that the king fed his warriors gammelost for the breaking of fast in the morn, prior to battle, thus transforming them into berserkers.”

“See, it wasn’t my fault. The seagulls just went berserk.”

“I…don’t…think…so,” he said with a short laugh. “In any case, stay here and enjoy this beautiful day. We may not have another. Weather changes abruptly during this season.”

He rolled his shoulders then, by pressing his elbows backward till they almost touched at his spine, then crossing his arms in front. Several times he did this, as his men were wont to do on occasion, to remove the kinks that came with cramming so many bodies into such a small space.

The man was godly handsome, Alinor had to admit. Even now, wearing a salt-stained leather tunic over black braies, with a wide leather belt tucking in his waist, his body was the embodiment of manhood. His blondish brown hair was tied back into a queue, but its silken texture was still apparent. Women must make much ado over him.

Unaware, or uncaring, of her scrutiny, he stopped rolling his shoulders and leaned down to rub his upper thigh. Eadyth had told Alinor of Tykir’s grave injury at the Battle of Brunanburh several years ago, where he’d almost lost his limb.

“Does your leg hurt?” she asked.

His head jerked up. “Which one has the running tongue? Bolthor or Rurik?”

“Eadyth.”

He shook his head with disgust. “Yea, my old wound rears up on occasion.”

“I have no sympathy for you. A man your age has no business riding across several countries in pursuit of a nonexistent witch.”

“A man my age?” he sputtered indignantly.

“Yea, do not pretend to be a youthling. You are just like all the other men approaching their middle years, trying to be younger than you are. Cavorting and fornicating till your heart, or other body parts, give out.”

“Ca-cavorting?” He was doubled over with laughter at her words. “I am thirty-five years old. I am not yet in my dotage, I assure you, my lady.”

“Be that as it may, I could prepare a potion for you that would help. Applied directly, it soothes on contact.”

“Lady, your last potion put me on intimate terms with the garderobe. Thank you, but I will decline your offer.” Taking a deep breath, he scanned his ship and those following in an arrow formation behind them. The pride on his face was unmistakable.

“You love this life, don’t you?”