Page 67 of The Bewitched Viking

“You overstep yourself,” Anlaf yelled back. “Remember to whom you speak.”

“King you may be, Anlaf, but that does not give you leave to lie, or deceive.”

“It was a misunderstanding, I tell you. We are not foemen, Tykir. Blood kin we be, and comrades. Do not test those bonds with ill-chosen words.”

“It is no small matter to deceive blood kin or comrade, be you king or cotter.”

The lawspeaker held both hands high to halt their argument.

Bjold was called forth then, and he supported the king in a shifty-eyed, stuttering way.

Tykir and Anlaf started hurling accusations back and forth again, while Bjold scurried away. Norsemen within the half-circle of twenty-one, as well as freemen throughout the hall, were muttering amongst themselves.

Finally, the lawspeaker stood and banged his staff against a nearby shield, calling for attention. Quickly, with a rippling effect, quiet descended over the crowd.

“Let the witch come forth,” the lawspeaker said.

Tykir flinched.

Not a good sign, she thought. A moan escaped her lips.

Adam helped her to her feet and whispered in her ear, “Do not go fainthearted now, my lady. Hang firm with the mettle you have shown thus far.”

Alinor’s legs felt wobbly as she walked to the center of the room, where she was directed to stand, facing the assembly. She glanced toward Tykir for encouragement, but he just stared at her, his face angry and unsmiling. Whether he was angry at her, King Anlaf or the whole proceeding, she could not tell.

“You have been accused of witchcraft, Lady Alinor,” the lawspeaker said. “What say you?”

She shook her head. “I’m not a witch.”

“How do you explain the hair of flame and Devil’s spittle?”

She shrugged. “God’s choice, not Satan’s.”

Father Caedmon stiffened, unsure if she were uttering a profanity or not.

“Did you put a curse on King Anlaf’s manroot?”

“Yea,” she answered truthfully, and there was a loud murmur of “Aha!” that resounded through the assembly. “But it was not the curse of a witch. Merely that of an outraged woman upon seeing a man about to rape a nun.”

“I…I…I…never…” Anlaf sputtered.

“Yea, you did, King Anlaf. You and your fellow Vikings entered the abbey of St. Beatrice in Northumbria, where you raped and pillaged the good nuns. When I saw you spread the thighs of Sister Mary Esme, I became outraged. When my efforts to dislodge you proved fruitless, I shouted, ‘By the Virgin’s Veil, may your manpart fall off if you do this evil thing.’ That does not mean I am a witch.”

“She cursed me, and my cock took a turn, halfway down,” Anlaf argued. “I am confirmed a thousand times she is a witch.”

“If I were a witch, why would I not place a curse on this whole bloody assembly and be done with it?” she scoffed. “Then I would not need a Thing to gain my freedom. I would just fly off with the aid of magic arts.”

A number of the men shifted uncomfortably at her reminder that she could conceivably curse their dangly parts, as well. Some of them crossed their legs in protection, and a few reached for nearby shields.

“And is the headrail you wear now the Virgin’s Veil?” the lawspeaker asked.

“Aaarrgh! Are you people listening to me? I am not a witch. There is no curse that could curve a man’s staff, as far as I know. ’Tis said a certain malady can cause such symptoms, which go away of their own accord, in time. But Father Caedmon, or Adam the Healer, would know more of that than I.”

“That is of no significance,” Anlaf contended, examining his fingernails with unconcern.

“Yea, it is. I believe you had a physical ailment, not a magical one.”

“That will be for the Thing to decide,” the lawspeaker said sternly. “Now continue, Lady Alinor.”