Page 32 of The Bewitched Viking

“Why did you think I was your guardian angel?”

“Well, not precisely a guardian angel,” she amended. “More like a protector sent by God.”

“Sounds like a guardian angel to me,” he argued.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Leastways, this was my logic…”

Logic and women are an impossible contradiction.

“…you know how some people believe that if you save a person’s life, they are forever beholden to you? Well, I was thinking that mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me to—”

“Anlaf sent me for you. Last time I checked he was no way close to being a god.”

“Stop interrupting me, you clod.”

“Tsk-tsk. Is that any way to speak to your guardian angel?”

She made a scowly face at him, which made her resemble an angry rooster. Not an attractive picture.

“As I was saying…mayhap God sent you to Northumbria for me, by way of King Anlaf, so that you could rescue me from my brothers’ latest outrage. In truth, I suspect He sent King Anlaf to that Northumbria nunnery in the first place to set His plan in motion. And further, I was thinking that mayhap you are now responsible for protecting me. So, really, I should not be worried anymore about what will happen to me in Trondelag because you will be there as my personal…well, Viking angel.” She flashed him a brilliant smile of satisfaction at her deduction.

Incredible! The gall of the woman! “And that is why you wept?”

“Yea, in relief.” She shifted her eyes, avoiding direct contact, and he suspected she twisted the truth more than a bit.

He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed out the furrows. “First off, methinks you think too much. Second, you surely jest if you say your One-God sent Anlaf a crooked cock in order to lure me to your side. Third, I am in no way responsible for your safety. Get that through your muddled head. Once I deliver you to Anlaf, I am done with you. And, finally, do not for one minute think of me as an angel, Viking or otherwise. Believe me when I tell you that I have led a less than saintly past, and believe me when I say that the picture of you, naked, in my head does not prompt visions of me flapping my wings about you in protection. More like I am flapping another body part, in you.”

She gasped at his crudity.

Good. ’Tis best to set the witch straight from the start.

“You…are…a…troll.” It was a favorite refrain of hers.

“Well, then, just call me Saint Troll.”

“I don’t care what you say. You won’t abandon me to some wretched king who might…who might—”

“Lop off your head?” he offered.

“Yea.”

“You have the wrong opinion of me, my lady. The wrong opinion, by far. I know I jest overmuch, but do not be mistaken in thinking I am soft. I am not. From the age of fifteen till recently, I was a warrior in the armies of any king paying the price, whether it be Jomsviking or Byzantine, it mattered not to me. I cannot count the men I have killed.”

“So?”

“So? What do you mean, ‘So’?”

“I never questioned whether you had been a stalwart soldier, or are still. But I misdoubt you ever killed a woman, leastways not without some great provocation.”

“Oh, my lady, best you think about how much provocation you have given me thus far.”

“You will not abandon me to some tyrant if there’s the least chance of his killing me,” she insisted.

“Well, that is no longer the issue.”

She tilted her head in bafflement.

“Now that I have seen you naked, and once Anlaf sees you naked, I know that the king would take you on as his sixth wife.”