Page 54 of The Bewitched Viking

He barely winced at her blow. But he did concede, “Then again, mayhap not.”

Anlaf’s castle stood on a high motte, or earth mound, overlooking the joining of two rivers. At the base of the flattopped hillock was the usual water-filled moat. There were hutlike homes and small longhouses down by the piers, but most of the people lived within the royal ramparts and the vast surrounding stockade. It appeared as if it could accommodate hundreds, even as many as a thousand inhabitants.

“Are there always so many people here?” Alinor asked Tykir.

“Nay, it must be a feast of one sort or another.”

“’Tis the marriage celebration for Anlaf’s oldest daughter, no doubt,” Bolthor said in passing, with a huge wooden chest on his shoulder. “Yea, methinks I heard that Signe was to wed this season.” He grinned at Tykir. “She finally gave up on you.”

Tykir grumbled something in the Norse language…probably a foul expletive.

But then she considered Bolthor’s news. Wonderful. I get to have my head lopped off during a wedding feast.

Stop it, Alinor. Naught will happen. You are under the protection of a fierce warrior…an important merchant prince.

A troll.

Oh, God!

Having already passed through the gatehouse, Tykir led her with a hand under her elbow. With the onset of the cold weather, his leg wound had started to bother him, and Alinor could see that he fought against limping, or letting anyone see him limp. Prideful man! Most of his men had gone on ahead, or scattered in various directions. For many of them, this was home for the winter. Others would be traveling on to Tykir’s homestead, or to their own homes in this immense northern wilderness. The huge double doors were opened by a guard who in turn signaled to another guard who blew a horn announcing their arrival.

The earth and timber castle was enormous, like a palatial fort. It had no clear architectural style, having been added to indiscriminately over the years. But the doors and lintels and various crenallations, even those of stone, were highly carved in the Norse style. Everywhere, there were fierce-looking sentries of tremendous size, carrying swords and shields and battle-axes.

They entered the vast great hall, which at present surely seated more than five hundred men and women, though the latter were in much shorter supply. A dozen enormous free-standing, raised hearths were arranged down the long center of the rectangular room. Mostly, they were intended for warmth during the interminable winter months, since cooking was done in a separate kitchen wing, but with all the body heat being generated by the eating and drinking crowd on this festive occasion, the fiery blazes were hardly needed. On either side of the hearths were arranged three very long rows of trestle tables, starting at the dais, where the high table stood, and leading to the far end of the room, where the lesser guests were seated.

“Come,” Tykir said, taking her hand in his and leading her along the right wall toward the dais. Rurik and Bolthor followed behind them, having tied Beast to a post outside. Many friends and acquaintances nodded and greeted the three men along the way, giving Alinor only a passing glance of curiosity. She had the hood of Tykir’s cloak pulled up over her head, so there was naught about her appearance to spark any interest.

“Tykir! When did you get back? Did you bring that case of Frisian wine I ordered?”

“Come tell us the news of that weasel, Edred! Is he still nipping at Eric Bloodaxe’s heels?”

“How was the amber harvest this year? My third wife has a yearning for one of your baubles.”

“Come share a cup with us when you have finished with your king’s business, Tykir. We would hear again about the time a sultan’s harem was opened to the Varangian Guard.”

“Bolthor, is that you? Have you any new sagas to regale us with? I still chuckle betimes over that ‘Tykir the Great and the Spitting Contest’ tale that you related last year at Gudrik the Glutton’s funeral feast.”

“Stay here,” Tykir told her when they finally reached the head of the first table. He didn’t even frown at the reminder of one of Bolthor’s sagas, which invariably poked fun at him. The solemnity on his usually open face scared Alinor. Why wasn’t he jesting and teasing her in his usual manner? Why wasn’t he smiling at all his laughing countrymen who greeted him? Why did he act as if her head was already on the chopping block?

Rurik stepped to the side, about to speak to a group of half-drunk Norsemen dressed in the rich cloth of Norse nobility.

“Keep your teeth shut for a change,” Tykir warned Rurik, who was no doubt about to spread his stories about Alinor the Witch.

Rurik seemed about to argue with Tykir’s command, but then came back to stand next to Alinor. Glowering at her, he pulled his wooden cross from inside his tunic and waved it in her face.

She crossed her eyes at him.

His face turned bright red under the woad design and he looked as if he might be choking on his tongue.

Good.

“Would you two stop?” Tykir hissed, then proceeded to walk up the steps to the dais.

“Tykir!” The enthusiastic greeting came from a regally dressed Viking man with an ornate gold circlet sitting on his forehead holding back his long blond hair. His luxurious beard was braided with precious stones and his mustache was full and drooping practically to his jaw. King Anlaf, she presumed from his appearance and his position at the head table. “Welcome! Welcome, my cousin! You have come to help celebrate Signe’s wedding, eh?” the king roared jovially, giving Tykir a bone-crushing clap on the back.

The two men were of the same size and age, though Tykir was by far the more handsome. Aaarrgh! I do not care about such things. Leastways, I never did afore hooking up with the beauteous troll. Somehow, Alinor had thought Anlaf would be much older, especially with a daughter of marriageable age, but then she reminded herself that a man of five and thirty was certainly capable of siring a daughter of seventeen or so winters.

But Alinor was woolgathering whilst events were taking place which could affect her destiny. Tykir was kissing the new bride now…a petite, flaxen-haired girl with even features and a dimpled smile. She was not beautiful, but comely nonetheless in a wholesome sort of way. He was also speaking his good wishes to her groom, an attractive young man of about eighteen winters. No elderly husband for this precious daughter.