The Viking's Captive (17 page)

The sly king had plans …

Thorvald awakened in the evening, feeling weak as a newborn babe. But alive! Praise be to the gods!

“Drink,” he said, pointing to his mouth.

Rafn, the only one in the bedchamber, jumped with shock. “You are alive! You are alive!”

Thorvald would have laughed if he were not weak as dragon piss. Instead, he squeaked out, “Of course I am alive, you lackwit. Now give me a drink.”

Rafn raised the king’s head slightly from the pillow, then lifted a goblet of water to his parched lips.
Water! What kind of drink is that for a Viking lord?
But he had not the strength to argue, and in truth the water tasted wonderfully delicious.

He dropped back down to the pillow and choked out, “What happened?”

Rafn told him, “You were hit in the head with a mace ball by that Danish rat, Ivan the Ugly. Your brain apparently swelled up, and you have been unconscious for weeks.”

He still didn’t understand. He raised a trembling hand to his throbbing head, where linen cloths seemed to be covering some wound.

“Adam the Healer was brought here from the Saxon lands. Yestermorn he drilled a hole in your skull to relieve the swelling. ‘Twould seem that it worked.”

Drilled a hole in my head? Amazing!
But then something else Rafn had said jarred him. “Brought him here? Who brought him?”

“Tyra. Whacked him over the head with a broadsword, she did, and carried him off over her shoulder.” Rafn was grinning as he spoke.

Thorvald grinned, too … or tried to.
That’s my Tyra. Just like her father.

“I suppose the healer is hell-bent on killing her now,” he mused.

“Actually, I think Adam rather likes her.”

“He does?” Thorvald’s brain might have been injured, and he might not be thinking as clearly as he should, but he was too crafty not to recognize an opportunity when it stared him in the face. “How does she feel about him?”

Rafn shrugged. “I think she likes him, too. Oh, they exchange word-jabs at every turn. But when she is not looking, he stares at her like a hungry wolf, and when he is not looking, she stares at him like a hungry wolf, too.”

Thorvald couldn’t have been happier. He had given Tyra, his firstborn and most beloved, a free hand in choosing if and when she would marry … to the detriment of her sisters. Was the long wait finally over?

“What of his bloodlines?”

“You remember Selik and Rain … from Jorvik? Adam is their adopted son. Tykir of Dragonstead—who is here now, by the by—and Eirik of Ravenshire are his stepuncles, or foster uncles or some such thing.”

“Good enough!” Thorvald nodded his head, although his eyes were already beginning to close with weariness. “Although I had always wanted her to find a fierce warrior to take over for me when I am gone.”

“My lord!” Rafn said with affront.

“Oh, do not be getting your
braies
all in a knot, Rafn. I know you and Vana will wed the moment Tyra is settled. And I know full well that you want the kingship more than any other. It may very well come to that.”

Rafn’s stiffened shoulders relaxed. “There is a problem, though.”

“When is there not?” Thorvald said through a yawn. He was fighting to stay awake.

“Tyra has decided on a new campaign. She renounces all ties of kinship, and then she will join the Varangian
Guard, thus leaving herself husbandless and her sisters free to marry.”

“The girl always was bullheaded.”
Like her father.
He wasn’t sure if he thought that or Rafn said it. It mattered not.

“She appears to be determined.”

No more determined than I. Cut myself off from my first child? I think not!
“You must do several things for me, Rafn.”

His trusty captain leaned closer to hear his whispered words.

“Do not tell anyone that I awakened, or that we talked.”

Rafn appeared confused, but he nodded.

“And bring me a boar steak, along with a horn of mead … all under cover, of course.”

“My lord?” Rafn was definitely confused.

“I have a plan,” was all Thorvald would say, for he was soon unconscious again.

But the king wasn’t the only one making plans…

“What we need here is a plan.”

Drifa was speaking to three of her sisters, as well as the Lady Alinor, as they helped her sort large bunches of cut flowers and herbs, which would be dried and used in various ways over the winter. Some would be used in potpourris, others crushed into salves, some of the more fragrant ones mixed with rushes to spread about the bedchamber floors. They were in an upper solar of the wood, castle … one of three solars in all, thanks to Breanne’s obsession with building.

“What kind of a plan?” Vana wanted to know. “We were talking about Tyra. What has that to do with … oh, I see.”

“A wedding plan. For Tyra,” Drifa announced. “We
already know that she likes him, and he likes her, though neither would admit to such. The question is how can we make Tyra more desirable to the man? Irresistible, really.”

“Oh, I love it. I love, love, love it!” Alinor said, clapping her hands together with excitement … which caused her infant to blink his eyes, squirm around in his cradle, then nestle back to sleep in the soft furs.

“Hmmmm,” Breanne said and pulled out a piece of parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink. “Let’s make a list.”

“She dresses like a man,” Ingrith complained.

“Well, then, that should be number one,” Drifa suggested. “Write that down, Breanne. Womanly attire.”

For an hour and more they chattered on, suggesting, rejecting, and lauding the various ideas they came up with. In the end, this was their list:

Lady Alinor disagreed vehemently with Number Three. “You’ll turn Tyra into a witless maid, and what attraction is there in that?”

Breanne asked Ingrith, “So, if men are threatened by strong women, exactly how long must women act shy and subservient? Surely not for the rest of their lives.”

Ingrith snickered. “Nay, just till they are wedlocked.”

Ingrith’s statement apparently won Breanne over. Alinor was overruled by a 4-to-1 vote.

They all giggled over Number Six, and wondered where they would learn sex tricks to pass on to Tyra. But they all agreed it was essential.

“Actually, I know a few,” Alinor admitted with a blush … a blush that caused her freckles to stand out like rust splotches on her now pinkish-ivory skin.

“You do?” The sisters were clearly impressed.

“Feathers are involved in one of them … and a silky harem outfit in another, complete with bells … but we can talk about that later.”

The sisters’ shoulders drooped with disappointment. Clearly, talking about sex was a timeless subject of interest to women.

“I think we should take one step at a time. Tyra will be suspicious if we try to make her do too much all at once,” Breanne suggested.

“Yea, and we might not accomplish every part of the plan. That might be too lofty a goal … or is it a lusty goal?” Vana said with a grin. “So, yea, one step at a time.”

“When shall we start?” Drifa asked, rubbing her hands together gleefully.

“No sense waiting,” Ingrith offered.

They all nodded enthusiastically.

“Then we are agreed. Step One first. Womanly attire.”

A man plan … oh, boy!…

“I think you need a plan to seduce the warrior wench,” Tykir opined to Adam, following his eighth goblet of mead.

Adam started to choke and let loose a spray of his drink onto the table where he was sitting with Tykir,
Rafn, Rashid, and Bolthor. It was late at night, and most of the inhabitants of Stoneheim were long abed.

“Best you clean up that spill as soon as possible,” Rafn advised, “or Vana will be here with her wiping rag and broom, which she will whack over your head.” It was clear that Rafn was besotted with the fair Vana.

That was all Adam needed, another bump on his head. “What makes you think I need your help in that regard?” he asked Tykir, speaking of the seduction of Tyra.

“You have been chaste for two years,” Rashid reminded him. “Is that not reason enough?”

“I swear, you Arab dunderhead, if you mention that subject in company again, I will do something to you which will require abstinence on
your
part for two years … or mayhap forever.”

Rashid winced, but not for long. “I know a perfect proverb that fits your situation. ‘The best thing about male chastity is that it doesn’t last long.’”

“This is the saga of Adam the Lesser, also known as Adam the Chaste,” began Bolthor.

Everyone laughed, except Adam, who groaned.

“The reason I think you need our
expert
advice is because you are making no progress with the Lady Tyra,” Tykir resumed, as if Bolthor had not just spouted one of his horrendous poems. Adam suspected that Tykir had been the brunt of so many of Bolthor’s sagas, they no longer fazed him.

Rafn raised a forefinger to get their attention. “Do not forget the kiss. Right here in the great hall, he kissed the lady. On the lips.”

“Are you
drukkinn?”
Tykir asked Rafn.

“Probably,” Rafn answered. “Are you?”

“Probably.”

“That was not really a kiss,” Adam protested. “‘Twas just a fleeting little brush of the lips. It does not count as a real kiss, to my mind.”

“Aaah, but you are forgetting the
other
kiss,” Rashid put in.

“The other kiss?” Tykir, Rafn, and Bolthor asked.

“Yea, Alrek told me all about it. ‘Twould seem that they indulged in more intense kissing on the well bench, and they were in a horizontal position, if you get my meaning.”

Adam wished they would all stop talking over him as if he were not there.

“But kissing, nephew? Is that as far as you’ve progressed? Tsk-tsk! You seem to have lost your knack, my boy.”

“Actually, I wrote a saga once about a Viking man who had lost his knack. I misremember which Norseman it was about. Oh, now I recall,” Bolthor mused, then looked directly at Tykir.

Now it was Tykir’s turn to squirm in his seat.

“What makes you all think that I want to seduce Tyra?” Adam said. “I am not in the market for a wife.”

“Who said anything about a wedding?” Tykir scoffed. “‘Tis a bedding, not a wedding we refer to. And, good Norseman that I am, well, I am always willing to share my secrets.”

“Rashid, grab your parchment and a quill. Let us make a list,” Rafn suggested.

“Can I write a saga about this?” Bolthor wanted to know.

“Nay!”
everyone exclaimed as one.

“Alinor would kill me,” Tykir said with a shiver, then smiled brightly. “Tyra doesn’t stand a chance.”

Adam suspected that it was himself who didn’t stand a chance.

U
h-oh! Why is everyone being so nice? …