Page 8 of The Bewitched Viking

She arched an eyebrow at his wording. “That you know of?”

“My family or lack of one is none of your affair,” he said icily and put up a hand to bar any further words. “I have been kind to you thus far, Lady Alinor. We can do this nicely, or not. It matters not to me.”

“But—”

“Gather your belongings, I beseech you. Or I will. One way or another, we must be on our way if we are to make camp at Aynsley afore nightfall.”

“But—”

He refused to allow further argument. “Know this, my lady: I promised to deliver a witch to Anlaf, and a witch I will deliver.”

“I…am…not…a…witch,” she said in evenly spaced words, so the halfwit would understand.

“Prove…it,” he said, mimicking her pacing.

She bristled. Say nothing, Alinor. Keep your wits about you. A clear head has gotten you out of worse situations than this.

“Everyone knows a witch has a tail,” the lout continued.

“Everyone?” she scoffed.

“Thus I’ve been told,” he said defensively. His wonderfully thick, brown lashes fluttered with uncertainty.

“By whom, pray tell?”

Tykir’s whisker-stubbled face reddened as he pointed ruefully to the side where the one-eyed giant, Bolthor—the world’s most unlikely skald—was imbibing great draughts of mead, mumbling something about, “Hear one and all, this is the saga of Tykir the Great, who met a flame-haired witch-shepherdess…”

“Tykir the Great?” Alinor asked, unable to stifle a chuckle.

“To straighten a king’s tail

Did the brave warrior come.

To lose her tail

Did the bold witch aspire.

Which tail will win

In this battle of the tails?”

Tykir shrugged sheepishly and shared a chuckle with her at his own expense. She liked that in a man—or woman—the ability to laugh at oneself.

“But you must recognize that this whole situation is absurd. I’m no more a witch than you’re a…a troll.” Her lips twitched with amusement at that remark. “On the other hand…”

“Why, you impudent wench! Are you implying that I’m a troll?” He squeezed her forearm as punishment, but not very hard. “In truth, I must needs be honest with you, I cannot help but admire your bravery, though it passes all bounds of recklessness. Has no one ever warned you about tweaking the wolf’s tail?”

“Don’t you mean the troll’s tail?” she asked cheekily.

He laughed. “Too bad you are not a more toothsome morsel. I might have enjoyed tasting your charms on the long journey back to Trondelag.”

His dancing eyes assessed her form in its clean gunna of fine forest-green wool, with a matching headrail. Her wild hair was tucked neatly under a white wimple, but she knew she held no appeal for him. It was the freckles, of course. They repelled most men, superstitious fools that they were. And if not superstitious, then overly concerned with the traditional standards of beauty, like milk-white skin. “Dost think I care if you find me lovely as a goddess or homely as a hedgehog? Three husbands have I buried. The next man, wedded spouse or not, who tries to sample my wares will do so over his dead body.”

The Viking’s mouth dropped open with surprise. Then he slapped his free hand on his knee with appreciation. “Thor’s blood! Your tongue does outrun your good sense. Don’t you know I could pull that talksome appendage from your mouth, slice it off with a mere flick of my sword and roast it for dinner?”

Now, that is an image I do not need planted in my head. She decided to try a different tact. “Dost thou honestly believe in witchcraft?”

“Yea. Nay.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Mayhap.”