Page 40 of The Bewitched Viking

Alinor looked down at the table where Tykir had led her, which displayed unmounted pieces of amber.

“We call amber ‘The Gold of the North,’ but it comes in many colors. Most people think of amber as yellow, like this,” he explained, pointing to a stone the size of a hen’s egg, “but as you can see, it comes in many colors…yellow, orange, red, white, brown, green, blue and even black, which is actually dark shades of the other colors. Those cloudy stones are raw amber, untreated and unpolished. After being heated in oil, the bubbles and fissures will disappear and the amber turns transparent.” He moved his hand over the table in a sweeping gesture to illustrate.

“I never realized,” she murmured, picking up the egg-shaped piece of amber and closing her fist over it. Immediately, she raised surprised eyes to his. “’Tis warm, as if it has a life of its own. In fact, it seems to pulse.”

Tykir smiled, and she could tell that he was pleased by her interest. “That is why so many cultures believe it has mystical, even medicinal, attributes. As to that, I cannot verify, but there is something otherworldly about the stone, methinks.”

She cocked her head in question at his fancifulness. This was a side to Tykir she had not seen before. “Were you always interested in amber trading?”

He laughed. “Nay, I only dabbled in trade betwixt battles for one king or another. In those days, wines and furs held more appeal for trade. But then one day, about seven years past, I saw some horsemen in the Baltics harvesting a crop of amber from the sea waves. From then on,” he said, shrugging with some embarrassment, “I have been fascinated by this gem.”

Amazing, she thought. Both Tykir and the stone.

“Didst you know that amber is naught more than tree sap from millions of years ago?” he went on.

“I had heard such.”

“Consider this: Many millions of years ago, when there were great stands of forests reaching almost to the sky, huge globs of resin seeped from the bark, catching in their path various seeds, leaves, feathers, insects, even whole animals. Over the years, the resin hardened, preserving the object. Like this butterfly here.” He handed Alinor a chunk of rock, which shimmered with a rainbow of translucent yellows. Inside was a tiny butterfly…perfect in every detail.

“Oh,” she sighed, putting a hand to her mouth in awe. “Never have I seen such a wondrous object.”

“Yea,” he agreed in a soft voice, staring down at the object with equal awe. “Once, I had a piece with a honey bee in it, but I gave it to Hrolf the Ganger, first Duke of Normandy.” He took the pendant which hung round his neck on a gold chain in his hand and showed it to her. The reddish-gold amber had been cut and polished into a star shape, and inside was what appeared to be a drop of blood. “Look closely,” he said. “What appears to be wound-dew is the petal of a flower…mayhap some ancient rose.”

Alinor peered close and saw that it was so. “How old do you think this stone is?” she asked, pointing once again to the remarkable amber-encased butterfly.

He shrugged. “No one can say for sure. Mayhap back to the time when the world was created.”

“Before Adam and Eve?” she breathed.

He smiled at the childlike wonder in her voice. “Or the time when the Norse gods and goddesses formed the beginning of our civilization.”

“Oh, my!” Alinor said then, her attention diverted to a piece of jewelry lying on a scrap of blue velvet. Alinor had never been one to covet expensive body adornments, but this neck ring was the most magnificent bit of vanity she had ever seen. Surely fit for a queen. The thick gold band would fit snugly around a woman’s neck, above the collarbone. From it were suspended a dozen tear-shaped amber stones, starting with a large one in the center and decreasingly smaller ones on either side, down to the size of tiny human tears.

“You like that, do you?” he said, with a laugh. “’Tis the most precious item of jewelry I have, and it is not for sale. It was given to me by an Arab goldsmith, in return for a favor I rendered him. Ahab recommended that the neck ring be given to my bride on our wedding night, as a charm ensuring marriage-luck. Since I do not intend to wed, I will give it to one of Eirik’s daughters on her wedding day.”

Alinor couldn’t help herself. She reached out her free hand and touched the neck ring with her fingertips, very gently. “Dost know what this reminds me of? A poem I heard once. ’Twas written by one of the ancient Romans…Ovid, I think his name was. The poem was called Metamorphoses, and in it he described how the daughters of the sun god were overwhelmed by grief over the death of their brother and somehow they became transformed into trees. Their tears crystallized into amber, and from then on the people referred to amber as ‘The Tears of the Gods.’”

Tykir was watching her closely, a strange expression on his face. “That is exactly what I call this neck ring,” he said in a low voice, “and I have never heard that tale afore.” He laughed then, as if embarrassed. “You and Bolthor are cut from the same ell of fabric, I swear. Both of you are storytellers.”

She’d been thinking the same thing about Tykir and his whimsical affection for an enchanted stone. “You misjudge me. I am not fanciful, at all. Never have I had the inclination or the talent for weaving stories. I weave fabrics, instead. As to Bolthor, I must tell you, Tykir, he is a horrible skald.”

“I know,” he said unabashedly, then confessed sheepishly, “Sometimes when I see the verse-mood come upon his face, I pretend to be asleep.” The whole time, his eagle eyes watched as she reluctantly removed her fingertips from the “Tears of the Gods” neck ring with a last, lingering caress.

He shook his head, as if to clear it of unwanted thoughts. “Since you know of the amber legend in the Roman poem, does that mean you have coffers full of amber jewelry? Mayhap you have even bought one of my pieces in Jorvik.”

“What?” His question jarred her. Where would he get such an idea? He had visited Graycote and seen that it was a property not given to excess. The man had only to scan her plain attire to know she was not the kind of woman who amassed ornaments, costly or otherwise. But all she said was, “Nay.”

“Nay?” he persisted. “‘Nay,’ you have no particular liking for amber? ‘Nay,’ you have no coffers? ‘Nay,’ you prefer jewelry of another type? ‘Nay,’ you collect—”

“I have no jewelry. Why do you ask these questions?”

“All women of station have jewels, whether they be gifts from a parent, brothers or husband…in your case, husbands.”

“Tykir, this subject is becoming tiresome. My parents died of the bloody flux in the year of the great cattle disease when I was but eight years old. My brothers have never given me aught but trouble, and that commenced even afore my parents left this world. As to my three husbands…nay, there were no gifts. They considered themselves gift enough.” Finally, when her emotions had calmed down, she concluded, “To tell you the truth, I would rather have a sheep than a bauble.”

Tykir threw his head back and laughed…which was fine with her. He’d been studying her closely, seeing overmuch, especially the way her eyes kept returning to the special neck ring.

Alinor was spared further words on the uncomfortable topic just then as a feminine voice called out, “Tykir!”