Page 121 of The Bewitched Viking

And he did.

Twice.

At the end, a well-sated Alinor was heard to murmur, “You’ve got to love a Viking.”

Truer words were never spoken.

Later that night, Bolthor regaled the gathering with one of his poems in the Saga of Tykir the Great.

“There once was a Viking smitten.

By a witch the troll was bitten.

Some say love comes to those

Who need it most.

Some say love comes when

Least expected.

Some say love is a gift

From the gods.

But mayhap ’tis just

A form of bewitching.”

Epilogue

The wedding at Dragonstead of Jarl Tykir Thorksson and Lady Alinor of Graycote was a rip-roaring Viking event.

It was a Friday, or Friggs-day, in commemoration of the goddess of marriage. The heavens reciprocated by smiling down on them with warm weather and bright sunshine.

People came from far and wide, filling the hills and the valley surrounding the lake, where gaily colored tents had been erected. Among the guests were Tykir’s Uncle Haakon, the all-king of Norway, a fair-haired handsome man a few years younger than Tykir. Haakon brought with him his best friend, Sigurd, the jarl of Lade. Only slighter in size than Haakon’s royal entourage was that of King Anlaf and his many wives and concubines, not to mention his ebullient daughter Signe, who was trailed by a perpetually grinning husband, Torgunn, and his sister Gudny, who cared not if anyone noticed the jingling noises beneath her gunna as she held on tightly to her bewildered husband, Alfrigg, walking beside her.

Alinor was a sight to behold in her soft wool gown and surcoat, tailored to hide her slight stomach, both of a cream color embroidered with Byzantine gold thread. At her neck was a magnificent neck ring of amber teardrops. Atop her flaming rust-colored hair, left loose in the Norse bridal fashion, was a garland of Dragonstead’s own lilies of the valley, mixed with tiny rosebuds.

So beautiful was she that some said rusty hair and freckles became a favored attribute for women of the North that day.

People generally accepted now that Alinor was not a witch, but they took no chances. Many of the men were seen in her presence with their shields placed casually in front of their manparts…most obviously, King Anlaf. And more than a few spectators were seen checking the back hem of Alinor’s gown, just in case a tail was seen falling off now that she’d wed-locked a mortal man.

Besotted was the only way to describe Tykir as he gazed at his beloved approaching the bridal canopy on the arm of Bolthor. Eirik, standing at his side, squeezed his arm, and the two brothers exchanged a look of understanding. Both knew the profound effect the women in their lives had on them and how hard in coming that knowledge had been.

Tykir was dressed all in black, from leather ankle boots to braies and tunic. The starkness of his rich attire was broken only by a thick gold-looped belt at his waist and his usual star-shaped amber pendant. As always he wore at his one ear, exposed by blond hair left loose, but braided on that side only, his father’s silver thunderbolt earring.

After the Christian marriage vows performed by Father Caedmon, they proceeded to the Viking wedding rituals.

“Who accepts the mundr, or bride-price, on behalf of Alinor of Graycote?” King Haakon’s lawspeaker, Ketel, asked.”

“I do,” Bolthor said, stepping forth to take in hand a chest of magnificent jewels from Tykir. ’Twas a task Alinor’s father, or other family members, would have undertaken if they were about, which, thank God, they were not.

Rumor was that Tykir’s Morgen-gifu for Alinor—the “morning gift” to be presented the next day, following that night’s consummation—was to be a strangely shaped piece of polished amber that seemed warm to the touch and pulsed. What an odd Morgen-gifu that would be! one and all proclaimed in hushed whispers, and wondered at its purported erotic purpose.

“And dost thou have a heiman flygia for your husband?” Ketel asked the bride.

“Yea, I do. I give to my husband half-share in a flock of two-dozen prize sheep and a rare curly horned ram.”