Page 66 of The Bewitched Viking

Anlaf shrugged. “Mayhap she is a man-hater. Or an enemy of all Norsemen, as many Saxons tend to be. Why else would they recite that foolish prayer to their One-God? ‘Oh, Lord, from the fury of the Northmen please protect us.’”

Several men preened, as if engendering fury were a good thing.

“King Anlaf!” Father Caedmon spoke up. “You have taken baptismal vows yourself.”

“That I own,” Anlaf said, waving a hand dismissively. It was obvious his conversion to Christianity was in name only.

Next, Anlaf detailed the affliction he’d sustained as a result of her supposed curse—the notorious crooked manpart. By the time he was done describing the curvature, the horrific pain, the inability to bury his bent sword into the straight sheaths of his wives and mistresses and the blow to his pride, the majority of the men in the great hall were cringing and tutting with commiseration. Alinor, on the other hand, felt like throwing up the meager contents of her breakfast—gruel with a side of gruel.

Then, the men all oohed and aahed on viewing the new—better than ever, to hear Anlaf tell it—manpart. Alinor tried not to look, except for a quick peek through her fingers, which she held to her eyes. Her stomach roiled again. “As far as I can see, it’s just an ugly old thing. And purplish, for the love of heaven! Certainly nothing to make such a fuss about.”

Adam was bent over, quaking with silent laughter.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Tykir said and stood abruptly, interrupting Anlaf’s discourse on his remarkable organ, which didn’t please Anlaf very much because he was right in the middle of expounding on something called “staying power,” or was it “staying up power”?

Men took their manparts entirely too seriously, in Alinor’s opinion, and she told Adam so in no uncertain terms, which caused him to sputter with continuing laughter. “Oh, oh, oh…I do not believe this.”

That was just before Tykir stomped—or as close to a stomp as he could manage with his limp—over to their bench, where he snarled in her ear. “Shut your teeth, you foolish wench, or I may not be able to save your head.” To Adam, he just shook his head and muttered, “Fool!”

Before she could ask if, indeed, he intended to save her head, he was stomping/limping back to his judgment seat.

Next Anlaf brought forth his witnesses. His healer, Father Caedmon, a witch expert (though how the old hag gained that expertise was never explained) and finally, three wives and two mistresses, who attested to the severity of his affliction and the pain and deprivation he had suffered, not to mention their own unsatisfied state for many months. That latter was almost laughable to Alinor, but she did not dare show her amusement in the face of the unending glower Tykir sent her way.

Next, Anlaf called on some of Tykir’s men, who reported, reluctantly, on the dead seagulls, the shower of goose dung, the bowel fluxes, crab lice, soured wine, sheep familiars and, worst of all, the potion that almost killed Tykir.

The mouths of some of the hardened Vikings were hanging open with amazement. More than a few looked as if they were barely holding back belly-quaking mirth, at Tykir’s expense.

It was the strangest experience of her life…a wildly preposterous trial in a wild land of wild, wild men. Bolthor was mouthing some words to himself, no doubt composing a new saga, “Tykir the Great and the Wild Thing.”

To her amazement, when King Anlaf called on Rurik to give testimony against her, he refused to say anything. Instead, he sat with his elbows braced on his widespread knees, staring glumly downward. The only explanation Alinor could come up with was that Tykir had threatened him with some dire consequence.

Now it was Tykir’s turn to present his complaint. He told how King Anlaf’s messenger, Bjold, approached him in the market town of Birka. The young man was sitting behind King Anlaf, ready to be called to testify, if necessary.

“First, Bjold offered me the Saracen stallion, Fierce One, if I would complete a mission for King Anlaf.”

There were many ooohs from the Viking men, who were clearly impressed with Anlaf’s generosity. If Anlaf had any thought of rescinding that offer, it was now locked in place by the approval of his peers. He chose the higher road and nodded graciously at the compliments being showered on him.

The toad!

“My mission was to search out the witch, Lady Alinor, in Northumbria,” Tykir continued, “and bring her back to King Anlaf’s court so she could remove the curse on his manpart.”

“But I’m not—” Alinor started to say.

The lawspeaker ignored Alinor’s outburst and waved for Tykir to proceed.

“When I declined to take on Anlaf’s mission, even for such a fine horse, Bjold added to the pot another morsel.” A slight grin tugged at his lips—the lecherous lout!—as he pointed to a far corner where the slave girl, Samirah, of the silver bells, huddled in conversation with several other women. The girl, no more than eighteen and beauteous of form and face, smiled coyly at Tykir. And Alinor felt tears brim her eyes.

Adam noticed. “Besotted, are you?”

“I…am…not!” she asserted, giving him a look that would have withered one of her house carls back at Graycote but merely drew a smirk to Adam’s lips. But, oh, despite her protests, she feared she was starting to care about the rogue. Untenable as it was, she was jealous of a mere girl with bells on her breasts.

Tykir stood silent for a moment before commencing afresh. “I declined both offers that Bjold brought on Anlaf’s behalf because I had important work to do afore winter. But then he made me an offer I could not in good conscience refuse. He told me that Adam was being held hostage at his court and would not be released until I delivered the witch. He called it a ‘friendly hostage,’ but a hostage just the same.”

“Is that true?” the lawspeaker demanded of King Anlaf. “Did you deceive Tykir thus?”

“You say me wrong,” Anlaf whined to Tykir in a wounded voice. When he saw that Tykir was unmoved, he spoke to the lawspeaker. “Nay, he misunderstood. I merely told Bjold to inform Tykir, as a last resort, that Adam was visiting at my court, and Tykir might want to join him here afore retiring to Dragonstead for the winter.”

“You lie!” Tykir yelled.