The Viking's Captive (33 page)

Bolthor stood and announced, “This is the saga of Adam the Lesser, called ‘Advice to a Dumb Dolt.’”

You could say she was a Viking Anne Landers…

Alinor found Adam the next morning coming from the garderobe, where he had been hurling the contents of his stomach for the past hour. His head felt as if it had been cleaved with a broadax. And he swore there was hair growing on his tongue.

“Not now, Alinor,” he warned. “I cannot take any lectures this morning.”

She reeled back a bit, no doubt from the stench of his breath, not his words.

But then she handed him a goblet and said in a surprisingly kind voice, “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”

He took the goblet from her and sniffed. He recognized some of the herbs that would indeed help alleviate the head pounding and stomach nausea. He downed the drink in one long swallow, then exhaled with a loud belch.

“Come,” she said and led him over to a stone bench. The air was cool and they were both wearing fur-lined cloaks.

He sat beside her, as miserable as he had been before he’d started his drinking bout. “Where’s the babe?”

“Asleep. With his father.” She smiled. “Tykir imbibed a bit too much, too.”

“What a mess I have made of my life!”

“Yea, you have,” she said bluntly. “But that is a good start … admitting your mistake.”

“You’re going to give me advice, aren’t you?” He groaned softly at the prospect.

“Did you tell her how you feel?”

He shook his head, and felt as if there were rocks rolling about inside his skull. “I do not know how I feel.”

“Yea, you do, dearling. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet. As far as I know, the only thing of substance you told her was that you would take her babe away from her … if it should be born.”

He looked at Alinor, then shrugged sheepishly. “That was rather overbearing of me, wasn’t it?”

Alinor nodded. “As Rashid has been saying, ‘Even the strongest team of oxen cannot take back ill-chosen words once spoken.’ In any case, did you ever consider what place she might have in your life, or you in hers?”

“Well, I did have one thought. When I operated on her father, she was a magnificent assistant. She did not blanch at all the blood, or hesitate to handle tools. In truth, she anticipated what I would need before I asked.”

“So you are saying that you two might have made a good healing team?”

“Mayhap.”

“And what did she say when you suggested this to her?” Alinor stared at him for several long moments. Then she grunted with disgust. “Let me guess. You never shared that idea with her.”

Both of them sat in silence then, staring off toward
the harbor where a longship was being prepared for travel.

“Let us cut to the marrow here, you thickheaded fool,” Alinor finally said. “What … do … you … want?”

He did not even hesitate to answer. “Tyra.”

“Well, then,” Alinor said, throwing her hands up in the air, “you have your answer.”

He smiled for the first time in a day and a half and yelled for Rashid, who was walking toward him from the courtyard.

“Yea, master? You called,” Rashid replied dolefully.

“It appears we are going back to the Eastlands, after all.”

“To Arabia?” Rashid asked hopefully.

“Nay, to Byzantium.”

V
iking road trip, or a circus on a longship? …

Adam was living his worst nightmare.

It started the following morning, one full day since he’d ended his drunken binge and decided he wanted Tyra enough to go after her … even to the ends of the earth.

“ ‘Twould seem the longship on which you planned to travel is going to prove unsuitable,” Rafn commented dryly as they stood on the wharf just past dawn, waiting for the crew to assemble.

“Huh?” Adam responded.

“The royal bedstead and those six stallions would never fit on the longship you planned to use. Oh, I see a
knarr
is being brought forth. Yea, one of those deeper, larger trading vessels will serve your purposes better.”

“Huh?” Adam said again, then turned to follow the direction of Rafn’s gaze. “Oh … my … God!”

A large, ornately carved bedstead was being carried by four burly Vikings down the incline from the Stoneheim castle to the harbor. Following in its wake were many servants carrying a thick straw mattress and many chests, even a thronelike chair. Still others led six nervous stallions.

There came also King Thorvald, relying on a long staff for a cane. He was dressed to the gills in regal
attire—a red tunic embroidered with gold thread in a writhing dragon pattern, over black
braies
and high leather boots. A deadly broadsword with a spectacular silver hilt was strapped to his side. Over all was a massive ankle-length cloak of rich black sable pelts. He looked like a Norse god … a Norse god about to take a long journey.

Rafn was grinning at Adam’s shock. Now that Rafn’s future was sealed—his wedding to Vana being a foregone conclusion—he did a large amount of grinning. But Adam did not appreciate the grinning now, at his expense.

“I have directed my men to prepare a
knarr,”
the king told Adam, panting slightly from his exertions. Truly, the man should be resting in his sickbed, not traipsing about, dragging his household furniture with him.

“Wh-what?” Adam stammered, then quickly asserted, “Nay, nay, nay, you are not coming with me.”

Thorvald arched his imperial eyebrows, even as he waved the servants to begin loading his bed and his stallions onto the large vessel. A canopy with leather sideflap curtains had already been erected in the center of the boat, presumably for the bed and other royal trappings.

“Be reasonable,” Adam urged the king. “You have undergone a serious medical procedure. You are supposed to be recuperating. You have a hole in your head, for God’s sake!”

“And your point would be?” The king was already looking weary as he leaned on his staff and watched the provisioning of the
knarr.

“My point is that you need to be in your sickbed.”

“I have brought my sickbed with me. Besides, is it not best that I stay close by my personal physician?”

“I am not your personal physician. Father Efrid is.”

The king swished a hand through the air dismissively. “A man cannot have two physicians?”

Adam made a low growling sound of frustration. “Why can’t you trust me to find Tyra and bring her back? After all, it is not as if she is in any real …” His words trailed off as a thought came unbidden to him. Hesitantly, he asked, “She is not in any real danger, is she?”

“Of course she is in danger. The Byzantine court, like any court, is a cess pit of intrigues. A knife in the back can be more deadly than a battle wound.”

“Oh, this is just wonderful! I really need more things to worry about.” He glowered at the king, who did not even have the grace to look guilty. “What makes you think you would be better able than I to rescue her from such a situation? I have served in various Eastern courts. And just because I am a healer does not mean I cannot fight when the need arises. I can handle a weapon if need be.”

“Mayhap you can, mayhap you cannot. But with your charm and my clout, we will be doubly sure of rescuing her.”

Rescue. The king is being overprotective. Tyra is a warrior. She is perfectly capable of escaping danger. But what if …?
Adam’s shoulders sank with surrender.

Then the next crisis came barreling down the hill toward him with a shrill, wailing cry, “Naaaaaayyyyy!”

It was Kristin. No sooner did his mind register who it was than the little girl hurled herself through the air at him. He had no choice but to open his arms and catch her. Immediately, she latched her arms around his neck and held on tight, sobbing loudly.

“ ‘Twould seem young girls develop attachments to you. First Tyra, now this one. You must have charm oozing from you,” the king remarked.

“It is not just young girls,” Rafn pointed out. “Young
people in general think he is the best thing since honey custard was invented … by Ingrith, no doubt.” He motioned his head toward the newest arrivals.

It was Alrek, huffing and puffing as he tried to simultaneously run and carry the baby, Besji, his sheathed sword slapping at his leg with each stride. His whole side would be bruised by nightfall. Close behind Alrek was the little boy, Tunni. Besji and Tunni, frightened by all the commotion, were crying, their sobs creating a counterpoint to the continuing wails of Kristin, who was spouting a river of tears down Adam’s neck.

Adam had no idea what to do.

“I am going with you,” Alrek declared.

“You are not,” Adam said. And he meant it.

“Me, too,” Kristin blubbered, echoed by, “Me, too. Me, too,” from Tunni and Besji. He hadn’t even been aware that Besji could talk, though he supposed at two years she should be able to.

Aaarrgh! What am I to do?

“I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but I cannot obey your orders this time,” Alrek said. “You told me I must think before I act … start behaving as a man. Well, that is what I am doing. I have thought, and now I am acting. I am going with you to Byz … Byz … that place where Lady Tyra went.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I am not a lord? And, really, Alrek, this is impossible. You cannot bring all these children with you.”

“Actually, we have a perfect solution,” Vana announced brightly. She and the other sisters seemed to appear out of nowhere. “While you are off to Byzantium, taking Alrek with you, we can take the other children back to your home in Britain. Tyra told me what a dirty mess it was. We will prettify it for you … make it a home for you to bring Tyra back to.”

Prettify? She says that as if it is an attribute to be desired.
“We? What
we?
”

“Us. Tyra’s sisters,” Vana answered. “Well, except for Breanne, who wants to go to the ‘Great City’ to study the buildings there.” All four of Tyra’s sisters were staring at him expectantly, as if they’d just offered him a gift for which he should thank them profusely.

“You are not going to Byzantium with us,” King Thorvald told Breanne. “‘Tis too dangerous.”

There it was, that danger business again.

Breanne burst into tears and shouted at her father … something he was clearly unaccustomed to, if his wide eyes were any indication. “‘Tis not fair. Tyra gets to do everything. I am going, I tell you. I am going.” Now she was stamping her foot petulantly.

Adam put a hand to his throbbing forehead … not an easy task with Kristin still clinging to him as if her very life depended on it. Were these people actually suggesting that they all invade his home? The children. The sisters. Probably an army of servants. By the rood! The possibilities were horrifying. At the least, his peace and privacy would be a thing of the past.

He had to pry Kristin’s fingers from his neck in order to disengage himself from her embrace. With much relief, he set her on the ground next to Alrek. Her thumb shot immediately into her mouth as she gazed up at him, reproachfully. He inhaled and exhaled to calm himself. He could not bear to look at the little girl, so he didn’t.

“Now, Vana,” he said, trying for a reasonable tone, hoping he didn’t sound as panicked as he felt. “‘Tis true that I have dirt aplenty in my keep, but it would be asking too much of you to straighten out my household back in Britain. After all, you have much to do here at Stoneheim, preparing for your wedding to Rafn.”

“That is the best part,” she said with much cheeriness. “Rafn will be especially busy protecting Stoneheim while Father is gone, and we must wait till Father’s return for the wedding anyhow.”

“Furthermore,” Thorvald declared wheezily, “‘tis best to keep the prospective bride away from the randy groom afore the wedding, lest I come home to a big-bellied daughter.”

“Faaa-tther!” Vana exclaimed, her white face turning bright red.

Rafn, in true man-fashion, just nodded his head.

“Everyone, be quiet!” Adam practically shouted. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I do not want my castle cleaned. I do not want flowers planted in my moat. I do not want my cook to learn how to prepare myriad menus. This may surprise you all, but I like my home the way it is, rusty drawbridge and all.”

“You have a rusty drawbridge?” Breanne asked with sudden interest. Clearly, she was now pulled in two directions. Should she go to Byzantium and study new building methods? Or should she go to Britain and take on a rebuilding project? “Oh, all right, I will not go to Byzantium this time. But next time I am definitely going.”

“Aaarrgh!” he said with as much brilliance as he could muster.