The Viking's Captive (15 page)

“Rashid!” Adam practically bellowed, opening the door wider.

Rashid jumped, and so did the young woman.

“Out!” he ordered Vana, then slammed the door after her.

“Do you have a death wish?” he asked his assistant, who had the nerve to stare back at him with wide-eyed innocence, not the least bit repentant.

“Nay, but I do have a wish to be happy. Is that too much to ask? That a man may be happy in this lifetime? Allah says—”

“Do not dare quote me a proverb now. I am in no mood. Did I not tell you, over and over, that I do not want a harem?”

“Who said the harem is for you?” Rashid placed a hand flat against his heart as if Adam’s charge had wounded him greatly.

Hah!
Rashid wasn’t fooling him. “And who might this harem be for? The sultan of Baghdad? A desert caliph?”

“Nay, nay, nay! Just for me.”

“Oh, really? And where were you planning on setting up this harem? My weaving shed in Northumbria?”

Rashid raised his chin stubbornly. “You cannot tell me what to do with my free time. And if I want a harem, and have the funds to support it … which I do … then that is precisely what I will do.”

Rashid stormed out then. Adam wasn’t sure if the hasty exit was because he was offended, or if he just wanted to escape his wrath.

I have insulted my best friend.

I have gained a triple shadow of pestsome children.

I might very well have to run for my life if the king should die.

I’ve become involved, despite my best intentions, with a female Viking soldier.

How did my life become such a tangled mess?
he wondered and put his face in his hands.

What else could happen?

The comedy of life just got funnier…

“Your Uncle Tykir is here,” Rashid called out gaily a mere one hour later, as if they had never exchanged harsh words.

But then Rashid’s message sank into Adam’s brain.
Tykir? Here?
Oh, good Lord, what would he make of this mess?
He will laugh at me … that is what he will do.

Adam was in the king’s bedchamber, checking on his condition. Thorvald had not come out of the deep sleep yet … if he ever would. But his breathing was normal, and his body temperature had not elevated. Fever was always a concern.

Closing the door softly, Adam left Father Efrid behind to watch over Thorvald, with instructions to call him immediately if there was a change.

As he walked down the upper corridor, Rashid told him, “They brought the new babe with them. ‘Twould seem they miscalculated the birthing date, and it came six sennights ago. It is a boy … a fourth son for them, I believe. Allah must be well pleased with the father to bless him so.”

Rashid was rambling, as he often did, but Adam suspected he did so now to cover the awkwardness of their parting a short time ago. He put a hand on Rashid’s forearm to halt their progress for a moment. “I apologize for my harsh words.”

Rashid nodded and patted his hand in acceptance. “No apologies are necessary between friends. Just know this, Master Adam, we come from different cultures. Do not be so quick to judge my ways.”

They continued toward the great hall, where Rashid went off to find Rafn. Meanwhile, Adam was greeted immediately by his Uncle Tykir, who lifted him off his feet and hugged him warmly. He and Tykir were of the same height, but Tykir had several stones on him in weight, being a fierce Viking warrior who guarded his home at Dragonstead with an iron hand. Dragonstead was less than a day’s journey by horse and a half day by longboat. They were neighbors by Northern standards.

“How is everything going, boy?” Tykir asked as he drew back. Tykir had seen more than forty winters, but age sat well on him. There were only a few gray hairs in his light brown hair. Already Tykir was leading Adam toward a trestle table where a housecarl was pouring mead for them. “We heard that you were here, and I was worried. Alinor suggested that we come. She was worried, too.”

“I operated on King Thorvald this morn. Thus far he seems to be holding on,” he told his uncle.

Tykir nodded, took a deep draught of mead, then plopped down onto the bench and motioned for Adam to join him. Then he did what Adam had been expecting all along. He grinned.

Adam pretended not to notice and sipped thoughtfully at his ale.

Just then Alinor came up and hugged him from behind. “How fare you, Adam dear?”

He turned in his seat to get a better look at his aunt-by-marriage. He had not seen either of them for several years. Her hair was still rusty-red and her face was covered with freckles. Tykir thought she was nigh gorgeous. Even now, after a full ten years of marriage, it was clear that the man was besotted with his wife, so sappy was the expression on his face when he gazed on her.

“Ah, and this is the new addition to the Tykirsson family, I take it,” he said, peering beneath the swaddling blanket at the newborn babe.

“Yea,” she said with great pride. “Our fourth son. Selik Tykirsson. Is he not beautiful? He looks just like his father.”

Adam had to take a deep breath before he could swallow over the lump in his throat. They had named their babe after his adoptive father, Selik … who had been sort of a stepbrother by marriage to Tykir.

Adam had to smile. “Of course, Selik is beautiful. All babies are. But I do not know about his being beautiful if he takes after his father.” Adam regarded the infant, not knowing whom he would favor as he grew to manhood.

Tykir punched him in the arm, then relieved his wife of her blissful burden, cradling the still sleeping child in the crook of his big arm. Adam noticed that Tykir and Alinor’s firstborn, Thork, was making friends with Alrek, who was of a similar age. Although he was only nine years old, Thork already had a reputation for being wildly mischievous. Adam wondered what domestic disasters would come of Alrek’s association with him.
The Wild and the Clumsy!
Tykir and Alinor’s second son, seven-year-old Starri, and their third son, four-year-old Guthrom, were already chattering away with Alrek’s brother and sisters.

Alinor went to take a sip of her husband’s mead, then frowned at Tykir when she realized the goblet was empty.

Ignoring his wife’s frown, he commented to Adam, “Well, you landed in the middle of it this time, didn’t you?”

“No thanks to you,” Adam answered with a snort of disgust.

“Me?” Tykir inquired, widening his eyes with an innocence he’d never had a day in his life.

“You.
‘Twas you that was responsible for the warrior wench kidnapping me and bringing me to this godforsaken land.”

“She kidnapped you?” Alinor asked.

“Yea, she did. Whacked me over the head with a sword and tossed me over her shoulder.”

Alinor and Tykir tossed their heads back and laughed uproariously. As he’d known they would.

“Tyra actually did that? Carried you off on her shoulder? Like a sack of barley?” Alinor wiped the tears of
merriment from her eyes, but her face was still split with a huge grin.

“You know her?”

“Of course I know her. I have lived in this country for nigh on ten years. She was at my wedding with her father and sisters. You did not meet her there?”

He shook his head, wondering how he could have missed such a … a … wonder.

They all turned as one then to stare across the room to where Tyra stood talking with her sisters. It was easy to pick her out. She was taller by a head than any of the others. And she was the only one wearing
braies.
Adam sensed Tyra’s insecurities, especially in comparison to her sisters and their renowned beauty, but frankly, Adam thought she looked ten times better than any one of them, even in her male attire, even when she did manly things like scratching. Was he looking at her through prejudiced eyes, just as Tykir did when he gazed adoringly at his freckled wife? Now, that was an alarming thought!

“She looks different somehow,” Alinor mused, tilting her head one way, then another as she studied Tyra.

“Yea, she does,” Tykir agreed, a grin twitching his lips.

Aaarrgh! It is starting already, the jesting at my expense.

“Methinks it is her tousled hair and her
—oh, my God!
—her lips.” Alinor exchanged a look with her husband.

“You are right, wife. As usual. If I did not know better, I would think the lady soldier had been kissed good and well. In fact, her lips look rather, well, kiss-swollen.”

Tykir and Alinor turned their attention to Adam.

“Just like yours,” Alinor hooted with glee.

Once again, Alinor and Tykir tossed their heads back and laughed uproariously.

“Kiss-swollen lips, did you say?” It was Rashid who came up to join them. He looked pointedly at Tyra, then directly at Adam’s mouth, and nodded his head with satisfaction. “‘Tis well past time, too. Two years of chastity is more than enough for any one man, I tell you. Allah says—”

“Two years?” Mirth was replaced in Alinor’s voice by shock and something else … probably concern.

“Chastity? You?” Tykir was staring at Adam, his mouth agape with incredulity. He, too, looked a bit concerned.

“Methinks this calls for a saga,” Adam heard a booming voice announce behind him.

“Oh, nay, oh please, God, not this,” Adam prayed even before he turned around and saw the giant Viking with the one eye-patch. “Dear Lord, please, please, please, spare me.”

‘Twas Bolthor, the world’s worst skald.

“This is the saga of Adam the Lesser,” Bolthor began.

Alinor and Tykir smiled their encouragement. Adam just groaned.

But then Adam said, “What is this ‘Lesser’ business? You always say, ‘This is the saga of Tykir the Great,’ or ‘This is the saga of Rurik the Greater.’ Why is it I get no ‘Great’ after my name?”

“Well, Tykir was much chagrined when he found out that I named Rurik the Greater, and—”

“I was not,” Tykir protested.

“Yea, you were,” Alinor disagreed.

“… and he ordered me henceforth to name no one greater than he.”

“Are you really that vain?” Adam asked Tykir.

“He’s lying,” a red-faced Tykir lied.

“Yea, he is that vain,” Alinor said.

“As I was saying, this is the saga of Adam the Lesser.”

Tykir and Alinor declared it the best poem Bolthor had ever created.

“It even rhymed this time,” Alinor cooed. “And it was long, too,” Tykir added, as if that were an asset for a good saga.

Rashid was practically in a swoon and swore that he and the skald would make celestial music by combining
Bolthor’s poetic talents with his own mental stash of proverbs.

Tyra had walked up just as Bolthor began to speak. She was looking rather red, so Adam assumed she had overheard the saga. And, yes, her lips
were
kiss-swollen.

Adam closed his eyes and wished he were back in Northumbria where being a hermit was sounding better by the minute.

A
good day’s work and then … oops!…

The next morning, King Thorvald awakened for a short time and was able to swallow a bit of thin gruel. Adam started his day in a really good mood.

To mark the occasion, he pinched Tyra’s right buttock on the way out of the bedchamber, which caused her to squeal, just like a woman, which she probably hated. Then he winked at her, just to remind her of their bargain, which might very well go in his favor if her father continued to improve. The wink caused her to blush, just like a woman, which she probably also hated.

He was whistling when he entered the great hall. Rashid motioned him over to a table where housecarls were sitting down to break their fast before beginning the day’s work.

“There are already people lining up for your services,” Rashid told him.

He nodded. “I will see a few of them this morn, but not too many. I am still not sure how I feel about returning to medicine. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Rashid said. “Slowly at first. One patient at a time. One day at a time.”

He nodded.

Rashid managed to get a small solar off the great hall assigned to them. It had a long table in it and several
chairs, which served their purposes just fine. By noon, Adam had seen several dozen patients before he announced firmly, “No more today!”

None of the ailments had been critical. A festering ax wound. A recurrent boil on the neck. A poison weed rash on the hands. A debilitating case of morning sickness. A fractured arm that needed splinting.