Page 73 of The Bewitched Viking

Alinor had to laugh, despite her revulsion.

“Poor Bodil! Methinks she should whack that Jostein on the head with a butter paddle. Mayhap it would knock some sense into his dull brain. ’Tis not too late…not ’til the vows are exchanged. What say you?”

“I have no idea,” Alinor said honestly. But then she brought up a subject that was bothering her more. “How soon do you think it will be afore Tykir is up and about?” she asked.

The barrel-bellied Girta shrugged and divided a new batch of dough into a series of balls, which she plopped onto a floured board. Before she answered Alinor’s question, she began to roll the dough into a number of wide circles, the top and bottom crusts for the first of a series of eel pies that would be baked and served for the evening meal, along with Alinor’s chicken broth. The men were going to be pleasantly surprised by the tasty menu addition.

“I would not expect too much too soon,” Girta said. “The warm bricks you’ve been applying to his thigh have helped…not to mention the chicken broth you’ve been force-feeding him.” She chuckled at that last. Even in his delirium, Tykir had taken to making grunting sounds of “Yeech!” through gritted teeth when she fed him her chicken broth. She’d resorted to pinching his nose till his mouth opened for her spooning.

“I’ve been so frightened,” Alinor confessed. “Never have I encountered a fever so fierce, nor long-lasting.”

“Well, the Master Tykir has had many a year to master his war wounds. He knows well enough not to be abusing the leg when it starts to ache. And, for a certainty, in the past he has always been back here at Dragonstead afore the cold weather set in. I don’t know what the foolish man could have been thinking.”

“His men blame me for all the delays.”

“And are you at fault? Is it guilt that prompts your vigil by his bedside?”

“Nay! The clodpole kidnapped me. ’Twas not my fault it took him so long to find me, nor that delays happened along the way. But he did stay at Anlaf’s court to defend me, and he did bring me here against his wishes. For that, I owe him plenty.”

“Don’t be beating your breast over this, dearie. You’ve spent way too many hours hovering over the man as it is. When did you sleep last? If you’re not careful, Lady Alinor, you’ll be getting sick yourself. And don’t be thinking the master will be thanking you for your ministrations, or your lack of rest on his behalf. The way I hear it, the master is planning some grand punishment for you.”

Alinor felt her face flame. “Adam has been talking.”

“You could say that.” Girta put a floury hand to her mouth and giggled. “But Adam would not give us any details. All he does is waggle his eyebrows and make suggestive remarks to tease everyone. The rascal!”

Alinor put all her broth ingredients into the large cauldron over the fire and added a goodly amount of water. Stirring it with a large copper ladle, she then covered the pot and moved the spider hook to the back of the hearth for slow simmering.

Having finished rolling the first of her crusts, Girta clapped her hand to remove the flour, then wiped her hand on the open-sided Norse apron that covered her from shoulder to ankle. Next Girta took the lid off the eel barrel on the side of the fireplace and reached into the murky water to retrieve a particular long, slimy creature—about the size of a battle pike. With nary a grimace, Girta pressed the squirming eel onto a cutting block and whacked its head off with a cleaver. Alinor flinched at the sight of the headless, still flailing eel, spurting blood.

With an economy of effort, Girta made a slit the length of the snakelike animal and peeled its skin back, all in one clean piece. As she chopped the eel meat into pieces, and dropped it into a bowl of thick cream and wild onions garnished with peas, Alinor was staring at the eel skin on the floor. An outrageous thought had occurred to her.

Do not be ridiculous, Alinor. Stop it right now. You are becoming as wild and unrestrained as these heathen Vikings.

Still, the mischievous thought persisted.

“Do you know where Rurik is?” Alinor asked tentatively.

“In the guard room, sharpening weapons, methinks,” Girta answered distractedly as she worked to crimp together the crusts of the first eel pie.

The blue-faced Viking had been blathering high and low since they’d arrived at Dragonstead. Tykir may have defended her before Anlaf’s court, but Rurik still proclaimed her a witch. At the same time, he was profiting mightily on her magic wordfame, selling wood crosses and holy water. Truly, Rurik was the biggest, most irksome thorn in her side.

Mayhap ’twas time to shake that thorn loose.

Oh, I couldn’t.

Yea, I could.

’Twould be childish.

Yea.

Alinor leaned down to pick up the eel skin gingerly, between a thumb and forefinger. It resembles a…well, tail, she thought and smiled with wicked anticipation.

Before she had a chance to surrender to her more rational misgivings, Alinor hiked up the back hem of her gown and tucked the end of the eel skin into the waistband of her underdrawers. Then she dropped the gown back in place. Peering over her shoulder, she saw the eel skin emerging along the floor, like a tail.

“For the love of Freyja!” Alinor looked up to see a startled Girta watching her, mouth gaping open. Then the cook smiled widely as comprehension dawned.

Alinor sauntered off to the guard room, hips swaying, tail swishing. “Oh, Rur-ik,” she called out.