Page 104 of The Viking’s Captive

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Viking 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.