Page 29 of The Bewitched Viking

He turned to her with wariness. “Yea, I do. There is no better sight this side of Valhalla than a dragonship with her sail hauled up and the wind filling it. ‘Cloaks of the wind,’ we call our sails. A good longboat, a strong breeze and cloaks of the wind…surely these are gifts from the gods.”

As he walked off to assist the helmsman maneuvering the tiller on the steering oar, Alinor had to agree with him. These long, slim ships, with their carved prows and big, single square sails of red and black stripes, were works of art, as well as being functional…a credit to some of the finest craftsmen in the world. The oaken vessels were low in the center, rising gracefully like a swan’s neck at prow and stern, soaring high above the waves. They were light in weight—in fact, they could be lifted overhead by the men for portage on reaching stretches of dry riverbeds—yet the ships sailed equally well in shallow waters or rough seas. Rich carvings in the form of intertwining dragon beasts etched the sides of Tykir’s ships where the black and yellow battle shields of the warriors hung majestically on the outer edge. Those colors, and red as well, were picked out on the carved dragon heads that embellished the prows, as if the fierce animals were leading a bold path through the dangerous seawaters.

The crew, tanned by the sun and burned by the wind, their clothing stained with salt, were brawny examples of prime manhood. The sailors had to have dexterity to step adroitly about the moving ship, where two men sat on personal seachests at each of the sixteen oar holes lined up on either side of the ship—one to row and the other to spell. At the same time, great strength was needed to raise the long mast and to row in a continuous, back-breaking rhythm.

One of the smaller Norsemen, a nimble-footed lad, was performing a feat he’d done on one other occasion…dancing over the ocean atop the shafts of the spears. It was a contest the bored seamen engaged in on occasion, betting to see who could perform the oar dance without falling into the salty depths.

Alinor had to smile. It was a beautiful day, just as Tykir had said. There weren’t many occasions on which Alinor had the free time to just sit back and admire God’s nature around her.

But what she did, instead, was start to weep. First one tear, then another escaped her brimming eyes. With a muffled sob, Alinor used the hem of Tykir’s cloak to wipe her cheek. But no sooner did she sop up one tear than another replaced it.

It was untenable. Alinor did not cry. Long ago, when she was no more than eight or so, she’d realized that tears did not move her brothers one whit, and crying gave her no real satisfaction. She’d resolved then to be stronger than they were, sharper of wit, more devious. And her strength of determination had served her well. Until now.

The situation in which she found herself was ludicrous. That anyone would seriously think her a witch defied logic. If only Tykir had spoken with her servants and the villagers at Graycote. She was not the first woman to be abducted…for ransom or rape, or spoils of some raid, even to be sold into slavery. But to capture her for sorcery was so far beyond belief that Alinor had not taken the situation seriously enough while still in her home territory…while there was still time to alter her circumstance.

How will I ever escape now?

What will happen to me in that heathen land?

Will I ever see my beloved sheep and Graycote again?

More tears slipped down her cheeks, unchecked now.

What am I going to do?

She said a silent prayer then, though Alinor was not much prone to zealous religious practices. She rather favored doing good work every day as a form of prayer. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Please, God, help me in this desperate situation, she prayed silently, sniffling back a sob.

Just then, on the other side of the ship, Tykir laughed at something one of his shipmates said to him.

Alinor’s eyes went wide with surprise.

Could it be…is it a sign?

Has God sent Tykir to save me from my brother’s evil machinations?

Could this trip to the Norse lands be a celestial vehicle for God’s plan to rescue me?

Then the most outlandish question of all assailed Alinor, and she groaned with dismay.

Could Tykir be my guardian angel?

“The witch weeps,” one of his men said warily, as if Tykir had not already noticed. And the burly sailor’s words were repeated down the row of oarlocks, and back up the other side, like a whisper on the wind. “The witch weeps, the witch weeps, the witch weeps…”

Apparently tears on a witch must be rare, or have some significance. He would have to ask Bolthor or Rurik. They were the sorcery experts. This witch business was all new to Tykir.

Then a new refrain began. “What does it mean? What does it mean? What does it mean? What…”

His men looked to him for answers.

“Weeping is naught but a witch’s trick,” he decided.

His men nodded hesitantly, bowing to his greater wisdom. He was certain—well, fairly certain—that the witch hoped to snare them with her ploy for pity.

Did Alinor take him for a fool, that he would be swayed by such blatant feminine wiles? Hah! He had been turning up the hems of female robes since he was twelve years old. There was not a fluttering of the eyelash, sway of the hip, bounce of the buttock, exposure of a breast, exaggerated sigh, or silly sob he had not witnessed in his many encounters with the weaker, though more devious, sex. Women were so transparent. They had not the subtlety of men.

Tykir stalked back to the area where a canopy had been set up for Alinor. Looming over her, hands on hips, he demanded, “Stop it!” Is that subtle enough for you, my lady?

“Stop what?”