Tyra's eyes nigh bulged out at the sight of Vana pursing her lips. "What is that supposed to accomplish? You look like a puffy fish."
"Tsk-tsk! Open your mind to suggestions, Tyra. When a woman makes a moue of her mouth this way, men think of kissing."
"Are you sure they do not think of fishes… or that you have eaten a sour apple?"
"And you have got to stop that scratching business. Really, Tyra, what could you be thinking to engage in such a vulgar touching of your female parts?"
"Men do it."
"Aaarrgh! Are you even listening to me? I am trying to make you more womanly, not manly."
"Why?"
"Dost really need to ask that question? So you can seduce the man and get married so the rest of us can have lives of our own."
"In other words, the same old blather."
She could tell that Vana wanted to throw her hands in the air with disgust, but her sister took several deep breaths for patience. "One last thing… and, yea, I know I should not toss too many bits of feminine wisdom your way at once, but, Tyra, you must change your walk."
"My walk? What is wrong with my walk?"
"You swagger, dear. A woman should sway gracefully when she walks." Vana looked left and right, then picked up one of several bricks that Drifa had arranged around a newly planted cherry tree. "Watch this," Vana instructed. Then she placed the brick on her head, held her arms out from her body, and proceeded to walk a straight line, first in one direction, then back again. Vana did, indeed, appear graceful, and, blessed Thor, her hips did sway mightily.
"I could never do that," Tyra asserted.
"Yea, you could," Vana insisted, pushing the brick into Tyra's hand. "Practice."
Tyra had a hard time concentrating on spear throwing the rest of the morning when all she could see in her imagination was herself with a brick on her head. No, that wasn't all she saw. She also saw a too-handsome-to-be-true Saxon doctor with his mouth on her breast.
Could I really learn to flirt? And walk like a longship riding the waves? And purse my lips? Never! Never ever! Well, mayhap once. Nay, never, never, never!
Save me, Odin, she prayed.
But all she heard in her head was Loki laughing.
Adam was headed toward the solar just before noon when he saw Tykir and Bolthor approaching him.
He'd sat with Thorvald for three solid hours, and not once had the king awakened, to Adam's dismay. So now he was off to treat some other patients.
"Adam, I want to give you a few bits of manly advice," Tykir said, walking along with him on the right. Bolthor matched his strides on the left side.
"Go away, Uncle."
"I have had many more years of experience with women than you have, and believe you me, the female animal is a difficult one to understand. You should listen to me," Tykir expounded.
"Go away, Uncle."
"Before Alinor, I had a reputation as a good lover. Even now, I am sure Alinor would vouch for me in that regard… if you catch her on a good day, that is."
"Except for that time you lost your knack," Bolthor reminded Tykir.
"Both of you, go away. I do not want or need your advice."
Tykir totally ignored his protests and blathered on.
"We already know that you have mastered the art of kissing a maid witless, as evidenced by last night. And you already know the importance of catching a wench alone, also based on last night. You must act quickly to seduce the maid, in case her father awakens… in which case I see a forced marriage for compromising his daughter. Actually, whether the king lives or dies, your chances of landing in her bed furs are diminishing by the day."
Thank God they do not know about the pact I've made with Tyra. I will be in her bed furs, for sure. Well, I am fairly sure.
"We have decided that you must give Tyra more hot looks," Bolthor said.
"Who is we?"
Tykir waved a hand airily. "Me, Bolthor, Rafn, Rashid."
"You are all discussing my sex life amongst yourselves? Have you naught else to do with your time?"
"We care about you," Tykir said. And he probably meant it.
"I have written an advice-poem for you," Bolthor added. Already that dreamy expression covered the skald's face which indicated that another awful poem was about to burst from his lips.
Tykir was grinning at Adam's discomfort till Bolthor told him, "You could learn from this, too, Tykir."
Tykir blushed. He actually blushed.
"I call this one 'Manly Rules of Love.' "
"Man is a witless creature
When it comes to women lore.
But the ancients do say
There is a way
To win your woman-prey.
Make her hot.
Kiss her a lot.
Win her with words,
Many compliments poured.
Then tease her with indifference,
Even if 'tis only pretense.
Touch her ofttimes in passing,
Soon her senses will be singing.
If all else fails…
Beg."
"Wait a moment, Tyra."
It was Adam who called out to her. Mortified by her behavior of the previous night, she had been avoiding him. He'd caught her now in the late afternoon as she was about to ride out with her men to survey their southern border where some scurvy Danes had been spotted eyeing a village outpost.
"What is it, Adam? I must make haste." She did not look at him as she spoke. If she did, she knew she would blush.
"Come, sit down here on this bench for a moment. I must needs speak with you about Alrek."
"Alrek?" Now, that was a surprise. She wasn't sure what she had expected Adam to say, but not this. "What has he done now?"
"Nothing. Well, he has done something… most recently, he rearranged all the pottery vials in my medical bag, and now Rashid must go through them all to decide which is which. But that is not why I beckoned you now."
Tyra looked at Adam, and that was a mistake. A big mistake. He was wearing a plain brown tunic today over plain brown braies with a plain brown leather belt, but in truth there was not an inch of this man that was plain. He was just the right height. He had just the right amount of muscle bulging at his arms and legs… and, well, other places she dared not even think about. And his face was a sculpture made by the gods. No man should be so fair of face.
But then she noticed something else. A small bite mark on his neck. From her? Well, who else?
"Alrek has an arrangement with your father whereby he trains to be a Viking and, in return, once a year he is given a silver coin."
"My father agreed to pay him for all his disasters?"
Adam shrugged. "The point is, the time has come for him to be paid. Your father is dead to the world, so to speak. And Alrek is in need of coin to support his family."
"We give him all he needs," she said with affront.
"Apparently not."
"Why did he not come to me?"
Adam shrugged again. "Pride."
"That is a lot of pride for a little boy."
"Pride knows no age, my lady… nor gender." He reached out and flicked a piece of lint off her tunic… which called to her mind other ways in which he had flicked her the night before. She fought it but could not curb the blush that heated her face again. Then, as if unaware that he had befuddled her senses once more, he went on, "I tried to give him a coin, but he would not accept it from me."
"What would you have me do?"
"Find a way to give him the coin without bruising his pride."
She nodded. She could do that. She wanted to do that. "You are a contradictory man, Adam."
"How so?"
"You are clearly annoyed by Alrek and his pestsome brood, and yet here you are, going out of your way on his behalf. You fight your fate mightily in regard to medicine, and yet you spent many hours today serving my people. You are a Saxon, and yet you have the spirit of a Viking."
"You are probably correct,
" he conceded, to her surprise, "but I can think of still other ways that I am riddled with contradictions. I mislike your mannish ways, and yet I like you. I do not want a permanent relationship with you, or any woman, and yet I sniff after you like a randy dog. I try my best to focus on your ill-mannered, masculine characteristics, but all I can see is the woman in you. Can you understand that?"
She could not.
But the woman in her did, and she exulted.
Tyra was walking away from him, and he was enjoying the event immensely.
In her tunic and tight braies, her hips swayed from side to side in the most enticing way. Did females have any idea how sensual their arses could be when viewed by the male from this angle? If they did, they would probably always back away from their men. He couldn't stop gaping.
"Tyra," he called out. "Why are you walking like that?"
She halted and looked back at him over his shoulder. "How?"
"Like… like you have a brick on your head."
"A brick?" she choked out, and turned to face him directly, though she was some distance away. He still sat on the bench. "That's ridiculous. A brick? Ha, ha, ha." Her face bloomed a lovely shade of pink, as if she were guilty of some wrongdoing.
A wrongdoing involving her walk? Nay, that could not be.
"It must be the chain mail I am wearing," she explained, still blushing profusely.
"Chain mail? Why are you wearing chain mail?" he asked, alarm ringing in his voice.
"I am off to check our borders with my men. Some Danish outlaws have been pillaging the area."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Of course it's dangerous."
"Don't go," he urged before he could bite his hasty tongue.
"Don't go? Are you demented? I must go. It is my job as chieftain to lead my soldiers. How could you think otherwise?"
"I don't know." He just knew that he wanted her safe. He did not want to picture her lying on the ground covered with blood. He wanted her close by so that he could help her, if necessary. He wanted her… well, suffice it to say, he wanted her.
"What is that look you are giving me?"
"A look? What look?" He tried to recall what expression might have been on his face.
"A hot look."
He smiled then, especially when he remembered that Tykir and Bolthor and Rafh and Rashid had advised him to give Tyra just that—hot looks.
She was scowling at him, waiting for an answer.
Well, a hell of a lot of good their advice had done. Hot looks, indeed!
"Methinks I will go with you," he announced, again without thinking.
"You… will… not. Besides, what about the people who come to you for your services?"
"They can wait. Father Efirid is here… and Rashid."
"And my father?"
"He is getting better by the hour. Surprisingly better."
"You are not coming with me."
"I just want to protect you." Another hasty, blurted mistake, he realized immediately.
Now her scowling face was replaced with an angry face. "Dost question my competence, Saxon?"
"That is not what I meant." He stood and walked toward her.
"I know what this is about. You think because I showed a woman's weakness last night that suddenly I am less of a warrior. Well, think again." She was backing away from him as he approached. Putting up a hand, she said, "Don't come any closer. No more of your seduction ploys will you use on me."
"Ploys? What ploys?" Now he was offended. "Go! Go play your man-role, if you must. But do not dare get yourself killed, my lady, because… because…" He was so furious, he could not complete his sentence.
She tilted her head in question, and when he refused to finish, she turned and walked stiffly toward the groups of men and horses waiting for her. He noticed that there was not even the tiniest bit of sway to her walk now. Damn it.
Too late, he completed his sentence, but only to himself: "… because I care."
The news was not good.
When Tyra and her troops arrived at the small outpost village of Fagrfjord, the Danish outlaws had already come and gone. Apparently, news of her father's impending death had spread to their enemy camps, and the scurvy lot, led by Ejnar the Evil, had attacked, sensing an opportunity. They'd burned some timber longhouses, stolen cattle and sheep, taken a few women and children who were unable to run to the mountains, and killed a half dozen fighting men.
"Unless my father awakens soon and begins to show his face in public, this will be the first of many such strikes, and not just by Ejnar, either," Tyra told Rafn. "Every malcontent from here to Birka will be on the move, sniffing out any weakness in our flanks."
"You are correct, of course," Rafn said. "But we caught this raid early on. Now that we are forewarned, we will send reinforcements to man all of our vulnerable border lines. And, my lady, do not be fearful about your father's return to leadership. I know that he will recover and resume his overlordship of his land and his troops."
"Is there something you know and have not told me?" she asked, suddenly alert to the tone of his voice.
He shook his head quickly… too quickly… but Tyra had no time to ponder that now.
"Are you not concerned about Dragonstead?" Tyra asked Tykir, who had ridden along with them.
"Nay. Not really. I left two hundred soldiers back on my estate. The likes of Ejnar only attack where they sense weakness."
While Rafn and a small troop rode out in search of the culprits, she and Tykir and the other men-at-arms spent the next few hours putting out fires, setting up guards, feeding the poor cotters who had been under siege for more than a day, and tending to the wounded… some of whom would have to be brought back to Stoneheim for more expert ministrations.
It was late that night when they rode slowly back to Stoneheim, exhausted and somber of mood. Fagrfjord would be safe for now, but there was much to ponder regarding Stoneheim and its vast holdings. Ironically, outlaw Norsemen had no interest in the land itself, not this far north, because it was wild and much too difficult to cultivate, especially for lazy sluggards such as these malcontents. They were more interested in treasure, or animals, or people to trade into slavery, all of which Stoneheim had aplenty.
There was a full moon out tonight, and when the long line of her retinue made its way home, over the drawbridge and into the courtyard, she saw one thing clearly.
Adam.
He was waiting for her.
It was close to midnight when Tyra's troop returned to Stoneheim.
Adam had been standing near the gate for more than three hours. He wasn't sure if he was more worried or angry.
There were wounded, he noticed, slung over saddles or lying in quickly constructed pole litters which trailed behind the horses. None of the men appeared to be Stoneheim warriors, as far as he could tell. More work for him, though, he presumed.
But where was Tyra? His heart beat frantically with panic. Was she left behind, too wounded to be moved? Or dead?
Please, God, not again!
Just then the line of troops parted and Tyra rode forward through the ranks. Tears of relief misted his eyes.
I should not care so much, he told himself. Then, Thank you, God.
When she started to dismount, her knees gave way— no doubt from the exhaustion of the long day—but he was there to catch her in his arms.
"Are you all right?" he whispered against her ear, still holding her upright in his arms. "Have you been hurt?"
She shook her head slowly from side to side, dazed.
"You will never do this to me again, that I swear."
"Do what?" She cocked her head with confusion.
"Leave me behind to worry, like a… like a…"
"Husband?" Tykir offered with a laugh as he rode his horse up next to them.
Adam knew he was acting foolishly, but his emotions were roiling out of control. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he told Tyra, "We will discuss this later," and went off to join
Father Efrid, who was already examining the wounded.
Almost immediately, he turned around, came back, and kissed her soundly on the lips. Then he was off again.
"Has he lost his mind?" he heard Tyra ask Tykir.
"Undoubtedly," Tykir said. "Either that, or his heart."
Even though it was not quite dawn, Alrek was humming a bawdy tune he'd heard some drukkinn soldiers sing one night. He was in the process of carrying a bucket of fresh drinking water into King Thorvald's bedchamber.
"Good day to you, boy," a nimbly voice said.
Alrek almost wet his braies, so frighted was he. Setting the bucket down on a bench, he glanced right and left, searching the room. He was the only person about, aside from the king, who was still in a deep sleep from his head wound.
Tentatively, he approached the bed.
The king's eyes shot wide open, and he winked at Alrek.
Alrek nigh jumped out of his skin.
"Yer highness!" he exclaimed. "Let me go call yer daughters and the physician. Thanks be to Odin, ye are back from the dead."
The king raised a halting hand. "Nay, I want no one to know that I am awake. Come here, boy, and help me."
When Alrek was next to the bed, the king threw the linens back, exposing a trencher made of manchet bread. On it sat two roast chicken legs, several hunks of hard cheese, and some slices of pickled reindeer tongue. Held between his knees was a huge wooden goblet of ale. "Are you as hungry as I am, Alrek?"
Alrek nodded. He was always hungry.
So at the king's bidding, Alrek locked the bedchamber door, then crawled up onto the bed with his king, and they both broke their fast together.
While they ate, the king remarked, "I owe you a coin about now, do I not, boy?"
He shook his head. "Yer daughter Tyra paid me. She denied it, but methinks Adam the Healer reminded her to pay me in yer stead. He is a good fellow, Adam is. Me hero, actually."
The king nodded, even as he chomped away on the ample, tasty fare. "That Ingrith of mine is a mighty fine cook. It will be a sad day when she weds and leaves Stoneheim… not that that will be happening anytime soon, the way Tyra dawdles in the marriage market. But that is going to change, if I have my way." The king was speaking more to himself than Alrek, who was too stunned by his circumstances to speak anyhow.