Page 61 of The Bewitched Viking

“I know not for certain. It depends on whether it comes to combat here at the Thing. If we have to fight our way out of this mess…” he shrugged, “…then there will be no choice.”

“Combat?” she protested. “I thought this was a law court.”

Before anyone could answer—not that anyone was rushing to attend to her concerns—Rurik leaned forward from the other side of Adam and addressed Tykir. “Methinks you should let me take the wench outside and lop off her head. That would solve everyone’s problem. What say you? Shall I unsheath my trusty sword?”

Alinor told Rurik what he could do with his trusty sword; it was that selfsame vulgar expression she’d used on rare occasions afore. All four men, including Bolthor, on her other side, gaped at her as if she’d sprung three heads.

Hell’s teeth! Had they never heard a coarse word from a lady’s tongue afore?

Apparently not.

“That is not the first time she has used that expression with us. Is that not so, Tykir?” Rurik curled his upper lip with distaste. “It must be a trait of Saxon women to speak with the roughness of men. Mayhap ’tis just Saxon women who live with sheep. Ones little inclined toward meekness.”

Alinor said nothing, but she waggled her fingers in the direction of Rurik’s manparts and muttered some nonsensical words. “Mimje hwan ziba-ziba.”

Rurik stood at once and sputtered, “See…did you all see her put a curse on me?” With a gasp, he rushed from the hall.

“Where is he going?” an amazed Adam asked.

“To the privy to check for curves,” Bolthor replied with a dry humor she hadn’t known he had. “He does it at least thrice a day.” He seemed to catch himself then. “Begging your pardon, my lady, for my crudeness.”

Then Bolthor launched into one of his sagas. “Hear one and all, this is the saga of Rurik the Beautiful:

“Rurik was a Viking

Who had a grand passion.

But he chose a witch

To dip his wick.

And now he regrets

The ill-fated lesson.”

Tykir and Adam’s slack jaws clicked shut with a resounding snap. Truly, Bolthor was not the world’s best skald.

“What were the words of that curse you put on Rurik’s manpart?” Adam wanted to know, turning his attention back to her.

“God spare me from blue-faced lackwits,” Alinor answered.

It took only a moment for Adam to realize that Alinor was not serious. He threw his head back and laughed heartily, uncaring of the Vikings who turned to stare at him. “I like you, Lady Alinor. Mayhap we could…ah, talk later, if things work out with the Thing.”

“Talk? Hah!” Tykir observed. “She’s too old for you, Adam. Why don’t you go jingle some bells or something.”

“Too old? Tsk-tsk, Tykir. Where are your manners? A chivalrous man does not comment on a woman’s age. You must forgive Tykir’s testiness, m’lady. He is not himself today.”

“Really? He is always testy, as far as I can tell.”

“Uh, just to satisfy my curiosity, how old are you, Lady Alinor?” Adam posed the question with studied casualness.

Now where did that come from? Oh, I see. The rascal probably thinks I’m a centuries’ old witch. “Twenty-five.”

“Hah! That is only five years’ difference. Besides, I have always liked older women.” Adam jiggled his eyebrows at Alinor.

She couldn’t help but smile at the outrageous rogue.

“She nags incessantly,” Tykir said of a sudden, startling them all. “And her voice! Blessed Freyja! Betimes it is so shrill it makes your ears ache. In truth, I would wager she nags even in the midst of bedsport.”