"Viking Love"
Reviewed by Gabrielle Lee
Posted February 19, 2011
Romance Historical | Romance Paranormal
I love Sandra Hill and her Vikings and this book was no
exception. I enjoyed reading the romance of Tykir and
Alinor. Tykir is on a mission to capture and return the so-called
witch who supposedly put a curse on his king and his
privates. When he finds her he never expected to have
feelings of any kind for her, and he certainly did not
expect the sheep that follow her around or her brothers. After becoming a widow three times, having the sheep
following her, and now Tykir comes to take her to his king
to remove a curse, Alinor only wishes to be left alone. Yet
the more time she spends with him the more she begins to
have feelings for Tykir. Alinor and Tykir's attitudes
towards all that is around make them a perfect match.
Watching their love bloom through it all was a
great read. I loved seeing Tykir become so protective of
Alinor when everyone else seemed to be relying on
superstitions only. Although I prefer Ms. Hill's time travel books,this was a
fun book to read. I enjoyed Alinor and Tykir's adventures.
The banter between not only Tykir and Alinor but between all
the characters was entertaining. If you enjoy humor along
with your romance, then this may be a book you will want to
pick up. THE BEWITCHED VIKING keeps the reader entertained from
beginning to end. I loved not only the romance but also the
humor that the author interjects throughout this story. I
was laughing out loud at many parts of this story. The
short poems and songs in this book where a hoot to read. I
will definitely be picking up more of Sandra Hill's Viking
books in the future.
SUMMARY
Even fierce Norse warriors have bad days. 'Twas enough to
drive a sane Viking mad, the things Tykir Thorksson was
forced to do—capturing a red-headed virago, putting up with
the flock of sheep that follows her everywhere, chasing off
her bumbling brothers. But what could a man expect from the
sorceress who had put a kink in the King of Norway's most
precious body part? If that wasn't bad enough, Tykir was
beginning to realize he wasn't at all immune to the
enchantment of brash red hair and freckles. Perhaps he could
reverse the spell and hold her captive, not with his mighty
sword, but with a Viking man's greatest magic: a wink and a
smile.
ExcerptWarning: From the 1994 EditionChapter One
Birka, A.D. 952 "The king's manroot took a right turn." "Wh-what? What root?" Blinking with confusion, Tykir
Thorksson lifted his head off the ale house table and gaped
drunkenly at Bjold, the royal messenger. "And he beseeches your service in correcting the...uh,
problem." "Me? Do my ears play me false?" With a brain that felt like
a mashed turnip itself, Tykir scratched the fine hairs on
his forearm and wondered irrelevantly how King Anlaf's
emissary had even tracked him to Birka. And why, for the
love of Freyja, would he go to the botherment of the
grueling trek from the far northern reaches of Trondelag to
this bustling market town on the island of Björkö in Lake
Mälar? To tell him about...vegetables? "Blód hel! I am
inclined to take offense. You see afore you a noted warrior
and a trader in precious amber. Since when have I become a
farmsteader, with knowledge of roots?" Bjold's jaw dropped at Tykir's ferocious overreaction.
Immediately, he clicked it shut and, with a snarl of
impatience, tried again, "The king's cock has taken a right
turn." "His rooster?" Tykir was becoming more and more confused.
First, vegetables. Now, poultry. Next, this lackwit would
be asking him for help in drying lutefisk. "Not that cock."
Bjold sniffed huffily, clearly repelled by Tykir's mead-
sodden state. In truth, Tykir did not often drink to
excess. Though he gave the appearance of a carefree nature,
he detested any lack of self-control. He had reason to
celebrate, of course, having just returned from a
successful trip to the Baltic lands where his workers had
harvested a crop of prized amber for his trading ventures. Still, this heavy cloud of depression had been hanging over
him for days. No doubt, it was just boredom. "A-Viking, A-
fighting and A-wenching" had long been his life-motto--
leastways on the surface--but somehow those pleasures were
fading. Having seen thirty-five winters, Tykir had garnered more
wealth than he could use in a lifetime. He'd lost count
years ago of all the beautiful women he'd bedded, but now
he no longer felt a youthling's swift rush of enthusiasm at
the sight of every comely wench who came within snaring
distance. Then, there was the matter of fighting--a time-honored
Viking pastime. From the age of fourteen, he'd fought like
a wild berserker in the battles of various kingdoms, like
his father afore him--May his soul be resting in Valhalla!
But he found himself questioning of late the motives of
leaders who called for the rash spilling of blood from
their underlings. Well, there was a-Viking. Tykir had seen adventure in all
his trading and Viking voyages. From the Rus lands to
Iceland, from the Baltic Ocean to the English Channel,
Tykir had visited and revisited, explored and discovered,
even conquered. Never did he stay long in one place,
though, by deliberate intent. 'Twas not good for a man in
his position to form roots. What else was there to draw a man's jaded interest? What
challenges that he had not already mastered? Tykir sighed deeply. "By your leave, Jarl Thorksson, 'tis the king's other cock
I refer to." Bjold had been rambling on whilst Tykir's mind
wandered. Suddenly, the messenger's words sunk in, and
Tykir's eyes went wide with understanding. Manroot. Cock.
He glanced down to the jointure of his thighs and winced in
masculine empathy. "The king's cock did what?" "Made a right turn. Halfway down." The envoy thirstily
quaffed down a horn of ale, then wiped his mouth on his
sleeve. He was clearly relieved that Tykir finally
understood his message. "Looks like a flag at half mast, it
does." "And he wants me to fix it?" Tykir gasped out with horror. "Not you precisely." Tykir leveled a glare at the impudent lad. "Who precisely?" The tone in his icy voice must have caught the lackwit's
attention. With eyes darting nervously from side to side,
Bjold answered, "The witch." Odin's blood! 'Twas like pulling burrs from a wolf's tail,
getting a straight answer from the dolt. "Just any witch?" "Nay. One in particular." The messenger shifted
uncomfortably under Tykir's close scrutiny. Tykir rolled his eyes heavenward. "Well, that is clear as
fjord fog on a rainy day." Bjold let out a long whoosh of exasperation -- If I were
not so tired, I would shake the brainless cur till his
rotten teeth rattled for such discourtesy. -- and
disclosed, "The witch with `The Virgin's Veil'." He might as well have said, "The witch with the wolf's
tail," for all that meant to Tykir. Tykir made a low growling sound, and Bjold, with belated
wisdom, hurried to explain, "The witch's name is
Alinor...Lady Alinor of Northumbria. 'Tis she who put the
curse on Anlaf's manparts. All because Anlaf and his hird
of soldiers stopped by St. Beatrice's Abbey in Britain one
day last year. The abbey is home to a nunnery where Lady
Alinor was seeking sanctuary for a time from her bumbling
brothers, the Lords Egbert and Hebert." Tykir wondered what would constitute "bumbling" in the mind
of this bumbling idiot. But he did not dare ask, lest he
face another long-winded discourse. Instead, he homed in on
Bjold's other words. "Stopped by? Anlaf stopped by a
nunnery? For a bit of raping and pillaging, I wager." "And if we were?" Bjold bristled, revealing his part in the
marauding band. "'Tis neither here nor there whether we
were a-plundering or not. I daresay you've done a fair
share of plundering in your day, too. At issue here is the
fact that the witch waved a relic in the king's face...a
blue headrail which she claimed once adorned the Blessed
Virgin Mary." He paused, then explained, as if Tykir were a
dimwit, "To Christians, the Virgin Mary is the mother of
their One-God." Tykir fisted his hands to prevent himself from throttling
the fool. "I know who the Virgin Mary is." "Well, as I was saying...that's when Lady Alinor put her
curse on Anlaf, threatening, `Curse you, heathen! May your
manparts fall off if you do this evil deed.' Well, his
manparts didn't fall off...leastways, not yet...but they
took a turn to the right." Bjold took a deep breath after
that long explanation. "And?" Tykir prodded. "What has that to do with me?" "The king wants you to bring the witch back to Trondelag,
with her magic veil, to remove the bloody curse." "Is that all?" Tykir remarked. But what he thought was, A
Saxon. Anlaf expects me to stop in the midst of my trading
voyage, go all the way to Britain to get the wench, who
will no doubt be unwilling, take her back to Norway, by way
of Hedeby where I must needs drop off the last of my
trading goods, then make my way home to Dragonstead. And
all this afore the winter ice sets in. Hah! Anlaf ever was
an overbearing lout, even when we were boys. But he goes
too far this time. "Nay." "Nay? Do you say your liege lord nay? Where is your Norse
loyalty?" Tykir stiffened with affront. "Hah! Anlaf is no more my
liege lord than the Wessex King Edred. You know well and
good that Northmen pledge allegiance to a particular
leader, not a nation. My uncle, Haakon, is all-king of
Norway and to him alone do I pay homage. Further, 'twas
Haakon--then fostering in King Athelstan's court in Britain
and having seen only fifteen winters--who went back to
Norway on King Harald Fairhair's death and returned to all
bonders the odal-rights to their land. My title to
Dragonstead stems from Haakon and will remain free and
clear in my family name for posterity." Tykir felt a aching tug in the region of his heart at the
mere thought of Dragonstead. If he were being truthful with
himself, he would have to admit that Dragonstead mattered
more to him than anything. And that was dangerous. Bjold's face flamed with the heat of embarrassment, but
still he blundered on, "The king thought you might be
reluctant." "Oh, he did, did he?" "He said to tell you that you could have `Fierce One' for a
boon if you wouldst do him this favor." Tykir sat up straighter. "Anlaf would grant me his prized
stallion...the one gifted to him by that Saracen chieftain?" "Yea." Bjold nodded emphatically. "The black devil with the
white markings on his hooves. That be the one." "Hmmm," Tykir said, despite his misgivings. Still, he
resisted. "Nay. I have too much to do afore retreating to
Dragonstead for the winter." "In that case, King Analf directed me to offer the slave
girl, Samirah, as well. The one with the tiny silver bells
on her ankles, and the two silver bells dangling from the
pierced rings in her..." He cupped two hands in front of
his chest to indicate Samirah's most noted endowments. "Hmmm," Tykir said again, but not because of the slave
girl, enticing as he knew her to be. Truth be told, the
horse held more appeal. In the end, though, he repeated his
earlier refusal. "Nay, I have no time." Bjold wrung his hands nervously. "I had not wanted to tell
you this, but before I do...well, uh, tell me one thing.
You are not the type of man who is wont to kill the
messenger with bad tidings, are you?" Tykir drew himself up alertly. "Speak, wretch, or I will
slice your tongue from your mouth and send it to Anlaf on a
bread trencher." Bjold's face went even brighter. "'Tis Adam the Healer," he
squeaked out. "Anlaf holds him as friendly hostage till you
deliver the witch." "What?" he roared. "How did Adam end up in Trondelag? I
thought he was in the Arab lands. And what in bloody hell
is a `friendly hostage'?" Adam was a young man of no more
than twenty years who had been studying medicine these past
five years or so in the Arab lands, where the most noted
healers practiced their arts. He was the adopted son of
Tykir's halfsister, Rain, and her husband Selik, who
resided in Jorvik. Adam was like family to him...a "nephew"
by adoption. "Friendly hostage means Adam will come to no harm. He just
cannot leave Anlaf's court." Tykir made a low rumbling growl of outrage in his throat. Bjold shriveled under his obvious wrath and concluded in a
rush, "It all comes back to the witch and your mission to
capture her." Standing abruptly, Tykir leaned across the table and
grabbed Bjold by the front of his surcoat, lifting him off
his bench and half-leaning over the table toward him,
knocking horns of ale hither and yon. The boy looked as if
he might soil his braies, so afeared was he. "Start from
the beginning," Tykir said icily, "and leave naught out." He settled back for what he hoped was not an overlong tale.
Especially since his head was pounding like Thor's mighty
hammer, Mjolnir. Especially since he was in dire need of a
bath house to rid himself of the fleas that infested his
skin and clothing after a long sea voyage. Especially since
his good friend Rurik raised his equally mead-sodden head
from the table next to him and grinned, silently mouthing
the words, "A witchhunt?" Rurik had good reason to relish the prospect of a
witchhunt. Being godly handsome (second only to Tykir, in
Tykir's not so humble opinion), Rurik wore his long black
hair, as well as his beard, in intricate braids. His
mustache was a daily-clipped work of art. But Rurik's
overblown vanity had been dealt a blow two years past...by
a witch, no less...a Scottish witch, who'd dyed a zagged
line down the middle of Rurik's face, whilst he slept, from
hairline to chin, with the blue woad of the Scottish
warriors. Thus far, Rurik had been unable to wash the color
from his skin, or find the wily witch. Yea, Rurik would be encouraging him to undertake Anlaf's
witchly mission. Then things got worse. Bjold had stepped outside for a moment to relieve himself,
but he returned now. Before he could begin to talk, though,
Bolthor the Giant, Tykir's own personal skald--May Odin
have mercy!--slid onto the bench next to him. Tykir could
not suppress the groan which escaped from his lips. He
needed a skald almost as much as he needed a witch,
especially a skald as tall as a small tree. But what was a
man to do when a fellow warrior saved his life in battle?
When said life-friend lost an eye at the Battle of Ripon
five years past, Tykir had felt compelled to offer work to
the despondent knight. Thus far, Bolthor had tried, and
failed, as cook, blacksmith and armorer on Tykir's northern
homestead. Finally, Tykir's household had revolted at the
unpalatable food, burned-down smithy and broken swords. Tykir gave Bolthor a passing sideways glance, then looked
again. Uh-oh! Too late he realized that Bolthor had that
certain dreamy expression on his face which foreboded the
verse-mood coming upon him. Too late to escape now. "Hear one and all, this is the saga of Tykir the Great,"
Bolthor began. It was the manner in which all of Bolthor's sagas began.
They didn't get any better than that opening line,
unfortunately. Rurik's lips curved upward with mirth. With
a hand over his mouth, he murmured to Tykir under his
breath, "Hver fugl synger med sitt nebb." "Humph!" Tykir said in reply. "Every bird may very well
sing with its own voice, but Bolthor's birdsong is the most
unmelodious I have ever heard." Unaware of their opinions, Bolthor adjusted the black patch
over his one eyeless socket and took a stylus into his huge
hand. Squinting through his good eye, he began to
painstakingly press runic symbols onto the wax tablet he
had set on the table in front of him. 'Twas not the norm
for skalds to write down the sagas, but Bolthor's head was
thick, and he often forgot the words to the tales he had
composed. "Methinks a good title for this one would be `Tykir and the
Crooked Cock.' Let me see, how shall I start? Hmmm." "In the land of the Saxons,
An evil witch did fly.
To Anlaf's proud duckling,
She set her evil eye.
Now, alas and alack,
His furry pet can no longer
Quack...
Nor with his mate
Fly straight." Bolthor paused. "How does that sound thus far?" he asked
hopefully. "Magnificent," Tykir said, patting Bolthor on the shoulder.
Horrible. Tykir barely stifled a grimace of distaste. I
hope my brother Eirik never hears of this one. He will fall
over laughing, almost as much as he did over the "Tykir and
the Reluctant Maiden" saga Bolthor concocted last winter.
Somehow, Bolthor's overlong tales almost always end with me
looking the fool. And best that Anlaf does not hear of
Bolthor enhancing his wordfame by referring to his manpart
as a duckling or there will be sword-dew spilled aplenty. Tykir scratched his unshaven face and wondered idly if he
smelled as bad as his companions. Vikings were renowned for
their fastidious nature, unlike those piggish Saxon and
Frankish men, who bathed but once a season. Lifting one
arm, he sniffed under his armpit...and flinched. "How do you spell duckling," Bolthor whispered in an aside. "C-O-C-K," Tykir responded dryly. Let Bolthor figure how to
translate the word into the futhark alphabet. That should
take a goodly amount of time. He turned to Bjold. "Proceed," he directed him with a wave
of his hand. "I doubt me I will like your report from King
Anlaf, but spare me not even the smallest detail." When Bjold finished, at last, a good hour later, a sudden
realization came to Tykir...one which drew a wide smile to
his face, overshadowing the anger which lingered beneath
the surface over Anlaf's treatment of Adam. I am no longer
bored. He looked at Rurik, then Bolthor, before announcing, "It
would seem we are going a-witching." ***** North Yorkshire
six sennights later "The Vikings are coming. The Vikings are coming." "Baaa. Baaa. Baaa. Baaa." "Bleat. Bleat. Bleat. Bleat." "Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff!" "The Vikings are coming. The Vikings are coming." Whether it be her crying sheep, or her barking sheep dog,
or her shrieking, sheeplike maid, Elswyth, with her frizzy
gray hair who was approaching with the dire warning of yet
another Northman sighting, Lady Alinor had more than enough
problems for one day. A most unladylike phrase escaped her
lips--something to do with an unmentionable exercise the
Vikings, the sheep and the dog could do to themselves, or
to each other, for all she cared. 'Twas an expression she'd
heard her hesirs use on more than one occasion when they
were ready to explode with ill-temper. And Alinor's temper
was very ill, and explosive, at the moment. Hanging onto a tree root by one hand, Alinor was dangling
into a shallow gully infested with briars, trying to
extricate one of her ewes, Bathsheba, from the sharp thorns
with the crook of her long staff. Her mangy sheep dog,
inappropriately named Beauty, was yipping off in the
distance as it attempted to steer a small flock of straying
sheep back to the stone-fenced pastures of the lower dales. Continuing to bleat his yearnings, non-stop, off to the
side was David, a lusty, overanxious ram of a curly-horned
breed almost non-existent outside Córdoba--a bride gift
from her last marriage. Ironically, Sheba was in heat, and
she yearned mightily for the mating which would produce new
lambs for Alinor's thriving flock come spring, but still
the dumb female had felt the need to play games of catch-me-
if-you-will with the curly-horned David. That's when the
coy Sheba had landed herself in the briar patch. Not all that different from human males and females in the
mating rituals, she supposed. "The Vikings are coming. The Vikings are coming." "Baaa. Baaa. Baaa. Baaa." "Bleat. Bleat. Bleat. Bleat." "Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff!" Alinor paused in the act of cutting away the branches
caught in Sheba's matted fur, glanced over her shoulder,
and groaned at sight of her kitchen maid rushing toward her
over the heather- blanketed flatlands, headrail flapping in
the wind and brown homespun kirtle hiked practically to her
knobby knees. Elswyth always thought the Vikings were
coming, no matter if it were mere wayfarers approaching
Graycote Manor from the old Roman road, or stray cows from
the pastures of Castle Bellard, three miles to the east. In truth, fighting men from the North had been coming into
Britain in droves this past year as news spread of Eric
Bloodaxe's campaign to expel King Olaf Sigtryggsson and
regain the crown of Northumbria. Recently he had achieved
that goal, thanks to the efforts of Archbishop Wulfstan and
members of the Norse nobility residing in northern Britain. Elswyth's fears had started a year past when she had
accompanied Alinor to the nunnery at St. Beatrice's Abbey.
Whilst there, they'd had the misfortune to witness a
thwarted Viking attack on the good nuns. Alinor had been
hiding out at the convent from her twin brothers Egbert and
Hebert, who had come up with yet another marriage prospect
for her...Ecgfrith of upper Mercia, a doddering old Lord
with one foot in the grave. Actually, Ecgfrith had passed
away before Egbert and Hebert even found Alinor at the
nunnery. What a birching she'd received for her
willfulness! Three times Alinor had wed and been widowed
since her fifteenth birthday, and her only having seen
twenty-five winters, all to serve the greedy needs of her
brothers. And it would seem her problems were unending for just
yestermorn she'd received a missive from her wool agent in
Jorvik, informing her that Egbert and Hebert had been
boasting in the market town of a new marriage contract that
carried the seal of their third cousin, King Edred...a
contract for matrimony between their sister, Lady Alinor of
Graycote Manor, and Lord Cedric of Wessex. The sickly king
had been plagued by troubles since his reign began six
years past. If the Vikings weren't stirring unrest in the
north, his own noblemen were constantly nagging at him for
favors...not least of all her own brothers. It mattered not to her brothers that the short, corpulent
Cedric was as wide as he was tall. He weighed as much as a
horse and was old enough to be her great-grandsire. The
important thing to Egbert and Hebert would be the estates
Cedric owned which would cede to a wife, and therefore to
them as guardians, upon his death. Well, Alinor could not refuse the king's command, but if
she never actually received the royal command of her weak-
sapped sovereign, how could she be deemed lacking in proper
loyalty? Therefore, she intended to be long gone, into a
new temporary hiding place, before Egbert and Hebert's
arrival which she estimated to be two days hence, giving
Alinor temporary respite from her brothers' machinations. "Come, Elswyth," she entreated, now that the maid drew
near. "Help me free Sheba." "But...but...," Elswyth protested breathlessly, "the
Vikings are coming." "And if they are? What is it to us? We have no riches for
them to pillage--apparent ones, leastways." Alinor had
willingly given up all the estates deeded to her by three
dead husbands, except for this one measly manor in the far
north of Britain, precisely so that she would garner no
attention from her only remaining family. The fact that she
prospered with her thriving wool trade went unnoticed by
her brothers since she plowed all the profits back into the
sheep folds and hidden chests of gold. Her greatest dream
was that one day she would just be left alone. "But they could ravish us," Elswyth cried in a horrified
whisper. Alinor had to laugh at that. They would have to be sorry
Vikings indeed to feel the inclination to toss the aging
Elswyth's robes over her head. And Alinor had known well
and good from an early age that she was not comely to men.
With hair of a most garish shade of red and with freckles
covering her entire body, which was too tall and too thin
by half, Alinor held no appeal for the average man...and
Vikings, renowned for their good looks, were reputed to be
most particular. "Elswyth," she said in a kindly tone, "we are in more
danger of being raped by David, than any Viking, if we do
not soon extricate his lady-love from these brambles." Grumbling, Elswyth reached forward to assist Alinor, but
under her breath she mumbled that famous Anglo-Saxon
refrain, "Oh, Lord, from the fury of the Northmen please
protect us." ***** Tykir was furious. It had taken him two sennights to complete his trading
ventures in Birka, along with some ship repairs, before
sailing for British soil. Now, for the past four sennights--
twenty-eight wasted, bloody days--he and Rurik and Bolthor
had been riding from one end of the British isle to the
other, searching for the elusive witch. Vikings were meant
to sail the seas, not travel long, bumpy distances on land,
atop horses, till their arses were bruised and their moods
riled. And it was all the fault of the Lady Alinor. Rather, the
Lady Witch, he corrected himself. An interesting lady, as
it turned out. The thrice-widowed sorceress -- And didn't
that happenstance of three, conveniently dead spouses
provoke a thinking man's suspicion? -- owned a dozen
wealthy estates across this hellish land, all managed by
her brothers, the bumbling twins Bjold had referred to. But
she chose to live in a poor holding in this bleak, far
northern holding in Northumbria, almost up to the Scottish
borders...no doubt to practice her pagan rites in privacy. Well, the quest was almost over. When they'd stopped at
Graycote Manor a short time ago, her castellan informed
Tykir that the Lady Alinor was up in the fells tending to
her sheep. Tending? Was she engaged in some black rite
involving animal sacrifice or such? The odd thing was the timber and stone keep, with its
crumbling ramparts and stockades, was kept neat, but sorely
out of date. At the same time, vast fields of cut hay lay
drying for winter feed. A dozen cows lowed in a nearby byre
waiting to be milked. Piles of harvested turnips, carrots,
cabbages and other food items rolled by in heavy carts. It
was an ill-kept estate, overflowing with provender. How
peculiar! Well, be that as it may. He cared not if the witch was rich
or poor. Soon, his journey would be over, and the Lady
Alinor would pay good and well for all the trouble she had
put him to. "We must be careful, Tykir," Rurik warned him. The three of them rode horses side by side up one fell and
down the other, following the castellan's directions. Lady
Alinor's dimwitted castellan--leader of a scraggly band of
hesirs--had not even thought to question his mistress's
safety in sending three Viking warriors after her. "I am loathe to ask you...but why?" "We know not if this witch is a `Solitary' or in a coven." Tykir nodded, though he had no particular knowledge of
witchcraft, solitary or otherwise. He would have to bow to
Rurik's greater wisdom in that regard. "No doubt the witch will take on a most beauteous
countenance to draw us under her spell." "Do you think so?" "Yea, that is what happened to me, I warrant. Why else
would I have let my guard down in a strange country in the
presence of a known witch?" Tykir laughed. "Because the Scottish wench opened her
lissome legs for you, that's why. Because the man-lust is
always upon you. Because you think with the rock betwixt
your legs, instead of the rock betwixt your ears." Rurik lifted his chin with affront, calling attention to
the blue dyed line down the middle of his face--a testament
to his foolish entanglement with a witch. "Since we are so close to Scotland, why do you not go in
search of the witch? Mayhap you can rid yourself of her
mark once and for all." "All of last year I spent searching for the wench, to no
avail. I refuse to spend the winter months in the highlands
freezing my arse in search of her now. Next summer, I will
find her, or be damned." "I for one wouldst like to know if the old tales are true
about witches having a tail which they hide beneath their
robes," Bolthor interjected. "'Tis said that the only way
they can lose the long appendage is by marrying a mortal
man." "See," Rurik argued to Tykir. "I was right about witches
taking on a tempting form. It makes sense that they would
need to do so if they want to snare a man and thus lose
their tails." "You two would believe anything," Tykir hooted. "All I know
is that I want to be the one to light the fire under this
particular witch...once King Anlaf is finished with her,
that is. Then, if I never see English soil, or an English
wench, again, it will be too soon for me." "There she is, there she is," Rurik said excitedly. A long, telling silence followed, in which they all noticed
the same thing. Finally, Tykir snorted with disgust, and
said aloud what they were all thinking, "So much for the
theory of beautiful witches!" "Methinks this calls for a saga." Bolthor was already
pulling his wax tablet from a saddlebag, muttering
something about, "Tykir and the Flame-Haired Witch." Then
he launched into his usual introduction, "Hear one and all,
this is the saga of Tykir the Great." "How would you like a stylus up your arse?" Tykir responded. Bolthor just ignored him and began spouting his verse. "Flames there were
But not of fire.
Wild spume of
Satan's breath
Spilled from
The witch's head
To catch the wary warrior,
Though he be grandson of
The great King Harald Fairhair." "I saw a fruit that color once whilst a-Viking in the
southern climes. 'Twas called an orange, I think." Rurik
spoke with awe on viewing the wench's odd-colored hair. Tykir had seen red hair before, they all had, of course.
Even the great Odin had red hair. But never had Tykir
witnessed hair quite like this. Rurik was wrong about its
orange color, though; it was more like bright rust on a
metal shield. "Oh, for the love of Freyja! Is that the devil's spittle
that adorns her, too?" Bolthor shivered with
distaste. "Hair like the fires of hell and the mark of
Lucifer on her skin...of a certainty, she is a witch." He was right. The woman was covered with freckles, every
part of her exposed skin, and no doubt every other place
beneath her drab robes. Her headrail and wimple, which
would normally cover the hair of a lady of her high birth,
hung ignominiously from a briar thatch just beyond where
the Lady Alinor was chasing a ram which was chasing a baa-
ing sheep. "Dost see her familiars anywhere about?" Bolthor asked in a
hushed voice. "Ofttimes witches use cats as their
familiars." They all scanned the horizon. Not a cat in sight. "Perchance," Rurik said hesitantly, "her familiars are
sheep." "Sheep?" he and Bolthor said as one. All of their jaws dropped open with amazement at this
incredible turn of events. But then Tykir came to his senses. "I have ne'er heard of
anything so ridiculous in all my life." "Me neither," Rurik and Bolthor agreed. But they all looked at each other, unsure. If indeed she
did use sheep as familiars, she must be a powerful witch.
There were dozens of sheep in the area. "And look," Bolthor added. "She carries a staff. Everyone
knows that a witch carries a magic staff. And a bell and
crystal, of course." A tinkling sound came from the neck of the female sheep
being swived by the lusty ram. The fine hairs stood out all
over Tykir's body at that affirmation of at least one of
the witch's tools. They all narrowed their eyes to see if she might be
wearing, or carrying, a crystal. They saw nothing but her
simple, rumpled gown. No doubt, she kept it hidden. "Do you think she dances naked in the forest?" Rurik
wondered. "'Tis a common witch practice." "Did your witch?" Tykir asked with a grin. "Yea, she did," Rurik told him, grinning back. "'Twas
almost worth receiving her cursed mark to see that
exhibition." "I'm not sure there would be so much pleasure in seeing
this witch naked," Tykir said. They all concurred. While they were making these observations, Rurik's dog was
barking wildly, the sheep were bleating, and the nervous
horses were neighing. In the midst of this chaos, a mangy
sheep dog galloped over the fells toward them, a flock of
bleating sheep following behind. Apparently, the sheep dog
had noticed Rurik's wolfhound, Beast, which stood near his
horse's right front leg, trying to appear aloof, but
pissing trickles of excitement. The jaws of Tykir and his
comrades nigh dropped to the ground with this ungodly
spectacle. Just then, the ram finished his rutting, and his sheeply
mate escaped. But apparently the randy ram had other ideas.
He chased after her, then stopped dead in his tracks, did
an about- face, and began chasing Lady Alinor who had been
shouting at the two of them to desist, at once. When the
ram bumped Lady Alinor's rump with his curly horns, she
fell to the ground, rump in the air. And all three men stared, transfixed, at one particular
spot. Did she or didn't she? Have a tail?
What do you think about this review?
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