In THE BLUE VIKING, Sandra Hill tells Rurik's story. Having
been introduced to him in The Bewitched Viking, I am
glad to get to read Rurik's story. For the last three years
he has been on a search for the witch who marked his face.
Yet when he finds Maire the blue mark on his face is the
last thing on his mind. It seems that Maire is in
trouble and he could be just the Viking to help her.
Once again Sandra Hill has written a wonderful book. I
loved the way Rurik starts off as a man full of vanity and
in the end we see him find his heart and dismiss his
vanity. Maire is a wonderful woman as well. She may be
strong and willful but she is not afraid to ask Rurik
for the help that she needs. Rurik and Maire are a cute
couple. They both feel the attraction rekindle from the
start but continue to fight it till they can no longer
resist. Even through all their resistance you can see the
love that they have for each other. No matter what, Rurik
will not leave Maire or her son to the evil MacNabs and
their plot to take her land. Showing that there is more to
this Viking than just his vanity.
This book is full of great characters. Not only do we get
to visit with Rurik but we also get to be entertained by
the likes of Stigand, Bolthor and many other secondary
characters. I enjoyed Bolthor's poems, they certainly had
me chuckling as I read them. As always this author does a
wonderful job of mixing romance and humor. I am always
excited to see another Viking book come out and this one
did not disappoint. The characters in this series are
always full of honor and love always wins in the end.
I enjoyed reading Rurik and Maire's story. It is always
like visiting old friends whenever I pick up one of the
books in the Viking series and this book definitely added
to my enjoyment.
What in the name of Thor could be making this Viking so blue? Eating haggis? Listening to those screechy bagpipes? Searching for an inept witch? Wearing a blue face mark? Traveling through Scotland with the world's worst poet? For Rurik the Viking, life has not been worth living since he left Maire of the Moors. Oh, it's not that he misses her fiery red tresses or kiss-some lips. Nay, it's the embarrassing blue zigzag she put on his face after their one wild night of loving. For a fierce warrior who prides himself on his immense height, his expertise in bedsport, and his well-honed muscles, this blue streak is the last straw. Now he's vowed he'll put his own brand of "mark" on Maire—a man-mark. In the end, he'll bring the witchling to heel, or die trying. Mayhap, he'll even beg her to wed . . . so long as she can promise he'll no longer be . . . the blue viking.
Excerpt
Chapter One Scotland, 955 a.d. "Do witches fall in love?" "Aaarrgh!" Rurik groaned at the halfwit query that had just been directed at him. He would have put his face in his hands if they were not so filthy from his having fallen ignominiously into a peat bog a short while ago. Distastefully picking pieces of musty moss from his wet sleeve, he glared at Jostein, who had asked the barmy question, then snarled, "How in bloody hell would I know if witches fall in love? I'm a Viking, not an expert in the dark arts." "Yea, but you have lain with a witch. One would think you have firsthand knowledge of such things," declared Bolthor the Giant. Bolthor was Rurik's very own personal skald, for the love of Odin! He'd been shoved off on him at the inception of this three-year trip to hell...Scotland, that is...by his good friend, Tykir Thorksson...well, mayhap not such a good friend, if he'd tricked him into taking with him the world's worst poet. Rurik would have glared at Bolthor, too, if he were not the size of a warhorse. Bolthor--a fierce fighting man--did not take kindly to glares. He was oversensitive by half. Jostein, on the other hand, turned blood red in the face and neck and ears at having earned Rurik's disfavor, and Rurik immediately regretted his hasty words. It was not Jostein's fault Rurik was in such an ill-temper. Rurik was well aware that the boy, who had seen only fifteen winters, thought he nigh walked on water. Foolish youthling! "Well, I was just thinking," Jostein stammered, "that mayhap your problem stems from the witch being in love with you." The problem Jostein referred to was the jagged blue mark running down the center of Rurik's face...the permanent blue mark, much like that worn by the Celtic warriors of old...the selfsame mark which was at the heart of his three- year quest to find the damnable witch who'd put it there...actually five years, if one counted those first two years when he'd only searched half-heartedly and spent the winters in Norway and Iceland. Just then he noticed the remnants of reddish-brown water beginning to stain his hands and clothing. 'Twas from the tannin in the bogs. Holy Thor! If he was not careful, he would carry not only the blue mark, but red ones, as well. Could his life get any worse than this? Rubbing his hands briskly on the legs of his braies, he grumbled aloud in belated response to Jostein's question, "Since when do wenches show their love by marking a man for life?" "Couldst be that you hurt the witch's feelings?" Bolthor offered. Bolthor thought he knew a lot about feelings...being a poet and all. "Mayhap Jostein's thinking is not so lackbrained. Mayhap the witch was in love with you, and you hurt her feelings, and she put the mark on you for revenge. What think you of that notion?" "A fool's bolt is soon shot," Rurik mumbled under his breath. "What's that supposed to mean?" Bolthor wanted to know. "Not a thing," Rurik replied with a sigh. "I was just thinking about Scotsmen," he lied. But to himself, he translated, Dumb people don't mind sharing their opinions. "Besides, methinks it matters neither here nor there why Maire the Witch put the mark on me. I just want it removed so I can resume a normal life." "But--" Bolthor started. Rurik put up a hand to halt further words on the subject, but Stigand the Berserk, another of his retainers, was already joining in. "The witch made a laughingstock of you. Everywhere you go, people smirk behind your back and make jokes about you." Rurik frowned. He did not need to hear this. And, really, what could Stigand be thinking...to risk provoking him so? He had known Stigand as a child back in the Norse lands, though he had not met up with him again till a few years past. His trusted friend pushed all bounds by reminding him that people were making jest of him; he knew better than most what a sore point such mockery had been with Rurik then, and still was. "You should let me lop off her head," Stigand suggested gleefully. And he was serious. Was that not like Stigand...ever the protector? Rurik could not help but be touched at the fierce soldier's instinct to shield him from pain. But Rurik was quick to state, "You are not lopping off any more heads." The bloodlust was always high in Stigand and had to be reined in constantly. He had a habit of decapitating his enemies with a single blow of his trusty battleaxe, appropriately named Blood- Lover. Throughout their three-year quest, they'd constantly had to restrain Stigand, lest a sheepherder or unwary wayfarer get in his path when he was in a dark mood. So intense were his berserk rages on occasion that Stigand actually growled like an animal and bit his own shield. In fact, just last sennight, he'd almost decapitated a Scottish princeling who'd winked repeatedly at him. Turned out the young nobleman was not a sodomite, but had suffered from a nervous tic since birth. "Leastways, do not think of lopping off Maire's head till I have the mark removed." "I know, I know--" the twins, Vagn and Toste, said as one. 'Twas eerie betimes the way the two grown men, identical in appearance, right down to the winsome clefts in their chins, would come out with the same thought. Vagn spoke first. "I have an idea. Now, do not be offended when I tell you this, Rurik..." Toste snickered as if he knew what his brother was about to say. Rurik was sure he was going to be offended. "You always had a certain word-fame for woman-luck, but perchance you lost the knack," Vagn elaborated, "and that is what caused the witch to mark you. 'Twas frustration, pure and simple." "The knack?" Rurik inquired, against his better judgement. "Yea, the ability to bring a woman to pleasure," Vagn explained. "Hopefully, more than once. Wenches like the bed- sport, too, you know. I certainly have that knack." Vagn puffed out his chest for emphasis. "Me, too," chimed in Toste, Bolthor, Stigand...even Jostein in a squeaky not-quite-man voice. Rurik suspected that the twins used his mission as an excuse for carrying their overeager genitals from place to place. New carnal territory to explore. How did I ever gather such a demented retinue? Rurik thought. Which god did I insult to bring on such misfortune? But what he said was, "The only thing I know for a certainty is that witch hunting is becoming one immense pain in the arse." He was not exaggerating when he said that. Truly, a Viking should be on the high seas sailing a longship, not bouncing his rump on the back of a horse for days at a time. Portly Saxons, or dour Scotsmen, might not mind the constant jostling, but Vikings, being physically fitter than the average man and having less fat on those nether regions, were better suited to other modes of transportation, in Rurik's opinion. He had to grin at the egotism of that observation. Mayhap, he should suggest that Bolthor create a saga about it. On the other hand, mayhap not. Based on past experience, it would have a title like, "Viking Men With Hard Arses," or some such nonsense. All five men fixed their gazes on him, and he realized that he had been chuckling to himself, witlessly. With a sigh of despair at his own disintegrating brain, he sank down onto a boulder. Picking up a small knife, he began to scrape peat moss and other unnamed slimy substances--like mud mixed with twigs and grass--from his leather half-boots, which had been made in Cordoba of the softest skins and cost three gold coins. "This witch hunting business is becoming bloody bothersome," Rurik continued in a low grumble, but not before spitting out yet another clump of what tasted like soggy charcoal. They all nodded vigorously in agreement. Bolthor lumbered up and loomed over him, adjusting the black eye patch over the holeless socket of one eye which had been lost in the Battle of Brunanburh many years before. He squinted at him through his good eye, then put a palm over his mouth to hide his smile, as if there was humor in a grown man falling into a peat bog. If the now- grinning wretch dared to start spouting a saga about this episode in their never-ending search for Maire, he would give him a bog bath, though he would no doubt strain his back in the process. "You know, Rurik, the Scots poets have a practice of writing odes, unlike us Norsemen who prefer a good saga. Dost think I could put together an ode or two...just for practice? How about `Ode to a Peat Bog'?" Everyone guffawed with mirth, except Rurik. "How about `Ode to a One-Eyed Dead Skald'?" Rurik inquired wryly. "It does not have the same ring to it," Bolthor said. I would like to give you a ring, you dumb dolt. More like a ringing in the ears from a sound whack aside the head with a broadsword. Then Bolthor added, more soberly, "Methinks 'tis time to put an end to this fruitless venture and admit defeat." "A Viking never admits defeat," Rurik reminded him. Bolthor shook his head in disagreement. "Vikings never admit that they admit defeat." That was the kind of daft logic Bolthor came up with all the time. "I say we behead every Scotsman and Scotswoman we come across," Stigand interjected. "That will flush the witch out of her lair, I predict." Everyone looked at Stigand with horror. It was one thing to spill sword-dew in the midst of battle, but to kill innocent people...even if they were scurvy Scots? 'Twas unthinkable. Vikings had their ethics, despite what the English monk- historians in their scriptoriums liked to say about Norsemen as rapers and pillagers. Hah! Every good Viking knew that the Church amassed so much gold and silver in its chalices and what-nots just to tempt Norsemen. Besides, it was a well-known fact that Vikings invigorated the races of all those Christian countries they conquered. And didn't they embrace their Christianity...even it it was only a token embrace? But, back to Stigand. Rurik knew about the horrors that a young Stigand had suffered...horrors which had caused his mind to nigh split...but what had happened to him over the years to make the adult man so hard? Fortunately, Rurik did not have to respond to Stigand's suggestion because one of the twins, Toste, spoke up. "I have grown accustomed to the blue mark on your face, Rurik. Really, 'tis not so bad. If that is the only reason for continuing this quest...well, perchance you should reconsider." "The wenches seem to have no problem with it, either," Vagn added. "Yestereve that farmsteader's daughter picked you for swiving above all of us, and I'll have you know that I am renowned for my good looks. Godly handsome is how the wenches describe me." "I did not swive--" Rurik started to demur, then gave up, throwing his hands in the air with disgust. But then he added drolly, "I thought it was your knack the women coveted." "That, too," Vagn said with a grin. "I'm more handsome than you are," Toste challenged his brother. "Nay, I am more handsome than all of you," Bolthor proclaimed, which was so ridiculous it did not even bear comment. "I think Rurik is the most handsome," Jostein piped in. Jostein was suffering a severe case of hero worship and had been since Rurik rescued him when he was a mere ten from a Saracen slave trader with a proclivity for male children. "Bugger all of you," Stigand said with a mild roar. "I am the most handsome and anyone who disagrees can taste the flavor of my blade." He rubbed a calloused forefinger along the sharp edge of Blood-Lover for emphasis. No one disagreed with Stigand, though he resembled a wild boar. Mayhap he was a handsome fellow, but who could tell how he really looked under his unruly beard and mustache which all blended together in a curly mass. He had not shaved in the past few years. "I have three more months left," Rurik told them with a weary sigh. "Theta gave me two years to have the blue mark removed afore she would wed me...and that time does not end till autumn...three months from now. I do not intend to give up till then." "Three months! Twelve more sennights!" Vagn griped. "It may as well be a year. Remember one thing, Rurik. Friends are like lute strings; they must not be strung too tight, and we all in your troop are overstrung, believe you me." "Lute strings? Lute strings?" Rurik sputtered. "Precisely," Vagn said. "I am sick to death of moors and Highlands and Lowlands...and quarrelsome Scotsmen." Stigand tilted his head to the side, as if thinking hard. "I rather like the quarrelsome Scotsmen. They give me an excuse to hone my fighting skills." He ducked his head sheepishly and added, "They remind me a bit of us Vikings." Everyone gawked at him as if he had gone senseless...which he probably had...long ago...after his first hundred or so kills. Perhaps even long before that. "'Tis true," Stigand insisted. "They are proud, and independent, and good fighters. And they hate the Saxons the same as we do. So, we have something in common." "They hate Vikings, too," Rurik pointed out. That contradiction went right over Stigand's head. Seeing their lack of accord with him, Stigand continued, "Even their practice of constant reaving--stealing shamelessly from their neighbors--is not unlike us Men of the North who enjoy a-Viking on occasion." They all shook their heads at Stigand's thinking, even though it had a ring of validity to it. "What I hate most about Scotland is the haggis," Jostein said, gagging as he spoke. "I swear, 'tis a concoction the Scots devised to poison us Norsemen. 'Tis worse than gammelost, and that smelly cheese is very bad." Rurik nodded in agreement. Once he had been on a sea voyage in which their food stores had been pared down to gammelost. By the time their longship had finally arrived back in Norway, all the seamen's breaths reeked like the back end of a goat. "Well, I for one think Theta was being unfair to give you such an ultimatum. Methinks you should have tossed her into the bed furs then and there," Toste opined. He was tipping a skin of mead to his mouth between words, which probably gave him the courage to speak to his leader so. "Without her maidenhead, her father would have had no choice but to force Theta to exchange vows with you." He belched loudly at the end of his discourse. "Her father is Anlaf of Lade, a most powerful Norse chieftain," Rurik told Toste, as if he did not already know. "And Theta, even being a fifth daughter, is a most willful wench. She would not come to my bed furs without the vows, and I had no inclination to waste long hours seducing her to change her mind." In truth, Rurik had been thinking on that very subject of late. Sometimes, he wondered if he really wanted to wed the woman who'd made such demands on him. For a certainty, he was not in love with her...nor had he ever been with any woman. At the time, it had seemed the right thing to do. His good friends Erik and Tykir Thorksson had settled happily into their own marriages. So, he'd purchased a large farmstead on a Norse-inhabited island in the Orkneys. Rurik had never had a real home of his own. He was twenty- eight years old...well past the age for settling in and raising a family. What it all boiled down to was that he'd made a decision to wed simply because it had seemed the right thing to do. After these long intermittent years of scouring the Scottish countryside for an elusive witch, Rurik had changed. For one thing, he'd become a sullen, brooding man. His sense of humor had nigh disappeared. He'd lost his dreams. Bloody hell, he could not even remember what they had been. Too much time for thinking and pondering was causing him to doubt all that he'd thought he wanted. Still, he felt the need to finish what he'd started...whether it be capture of a Scottish witch, or marriage with a Norse princess. "Actually, 'tis not uncommon for highborn women to make such demands." Bolthor had been speaking while Rurik's mind had been wandering. "Remember Gyda, daughter of King Eric of Hordaland. She refused to wed with Harald till he defeated all his enemies and united all Norway. And Harald did it, too, but not afore making a vow to never bathe or cut his hair till he completed his mission. Thereafter, he was known as Harald Fairhair." Everyone knew the story of King Harald, and each sat or stood about contemplating Bolthor's words. Moments later, one by one, they turned to gape at Rurik, as if wondering why he had not made such a vow. But then, they knew that Rurik was prideful of his personal appearance, and was known to wear only the best crafted fabrics for his tunics and overmantles, adorned with embroidery and precious brooches of gold or silver. Colored beads were often intertwined in the war braids at the sides of his long hair. Never would he go for an extended period without washing the silky black tresses. They did not call him Rurik the Vain for naught...a title which he disdained, but had earned. "Methinks 'tis time for a saga," Bolthor announced. Everyone groaned...softly, so they would not offend the gentle giant. "What happened to your idea for embarking on odes?" Rurik made the mistake of asking. Everyone except Bolthor scowled at his lackwittedness, as if they at least knew not to encourage the fellow's less- than- artistic efforts. "Sagas, odes, poems, eddas, ballads...I am willing to try all of them," Bolthor answered optimistically. Oh, God! "This is the saga of Rurik the Great," Bolthor commenced. "I thought Tykir was the one you called `great' in your sagas," Rurik said. "You were always saying, `This is the saga of Tykir the Great.'" Bolthor waved a hand airily. "There can be more than one great Viking." Rurik did groan aloud then. "Well, if you insist." Bolthor apparently decided to change his opening because now he started, "This is the saga of Rurik the Greater." "Greater than what?" someone mumbled sarcastically. Rurik was about to throw a wad of peat moss at whoever it was who had spoken, but everyone stared at him with seeming innocence. Bolthor had that dreamy look on his face that he always got when he was inspired to create a new poem. Then he began: "Rurik was a winsome Viking, Many the maid will attest. With long black hair And flashing teeth, All the wenches were obsessed. Through many a land And betwixt many a thigh, Rurik the Vain wielded His seductive moves so spry. But, lo and behold, Came a Scottish witch, Her name was Maire the Fair Because of her beauty rich, But also because of her Fairness pitch. No mere Viking would use her so, Boast of his conquest, Then walk away, no impairment to show. Thus befell the witch's curse so dark And the painted face mark. Now the fierce Norse lackbrain Is no longer vain. He is known as Rurik the Blue. Or sometimes Rurik the Greater... This is true." Disgusted, Rurik tossed his knife to the ground, giving up on removing the peat sludge from his boots and wool braies. Instead, he stood and stomped off to a nearby lake...or what the Scots referred to as a loch. It was a strange land, Scotland was. At times, its barren, mountainous, stone cairn laden landscape could appear soul-rending bleak, and at others, beautiful, almost in a spiritual sense. Not unlike his own harsh-climated Norway. The weather was often dreary and dismal. A mist, which the Norse referred to as haar, poured from the North Sea, out over the still, cold waters, even on warm, clear days, like today. Hearing a loud screeching noise, he glanced upward to see a large golden eagle soaring lazily over the moors, a young red deer in its powerful talons. No doubt, it would make a tasty meal for the birdlings left in some lofty aerie. At times like this, he missed his dog, Beast, a wolfhound which he had left behind at Ravenshire in Northumbria to breed with one of his friend Erik's bitches. Yea, there was a beauty of sorts in this stark land he had come to hate so much. Rurik waded, garments and all, into the icy water. Then, with a teeth-chattering exclamation of "Brrrrr!" and a full- body shiver, he dove underwater and swam till the water cleansed him. When he finally came up and out of the water, he heard Bolthor call out to him, "Dost think it wise to go into the lake without a weapon? The Scottish legends speak of huge monsters which reside in the depths of their lochs...monsters which resemble a combination fish and dragon. Hmmm. I recall one of their epics which relates the story of Each uisage, which means something like water horse, and..." Rurik didn't wait for more. He dove underwater once again. He would rather risk fierce water dragons, or freezing some precious body part, than another of Bolthor's horrible sagas. But Rurik did wonder as he swam. Would his quest ever end? Was he doomed to wear the blue face mark for life? Why had the witch cursed him so? And where was Maire hiding? Hah! She was no doubt living the soft life in some Highland castle chamber, uncaring of all the havoc she wreaked. And she was fully aware of his endless search for her, he would warrant, and laughing joyously about the idiocy of it all. ***** The same day, nearby at Beinne Breigha... Maire was living in a wooden cage...a cage, for the love of St. Colomba! And she was so miserable she felt like weeping. "Puir lassie! The old laird mus' be rolling over in his grave at yer sorry state. Tsk-tsk," Nessa, her maid and companion, said to her. Sorry state didn't begin to describe Maire's predicament. She was locked inside a wooden cage which hung suspended high in the air from a long plank which extended out from the parapet, above the courtyard. Far below, a large pit had been dug and filled with snakes, the top covered with a huge woven mat. If she jostled her cage too much, or someone tried to rescue her, there was always the danger of falling into the pit, cage and all. Thus far, she'd been in the cage for five days, and would remain there till she agreed to betray all that was precious to the Campbell clan...something she would never do. All her people--crofters and fighting men alike--had fled to the woods, at her orders, taking her son with them. Other than the MacNab guard stationed about her keep, the only ones left were a few servants and those too old or frail to leave their homes. Duncan showed up periodically to shout at her and issue threats. Maire didn't even look up from where she sat now, her back pressed against the wooden bars of her "prison," as Nessa clucked and tutted at her while she leaned out over the parapet, passing her a bowl containing her one meal of the day--boiled neeps and flat bread. By her doleful tone, you'd think that Nessa was an elderly servant and not a young widow a bare few years older than Maire's twenty-five years. "Well, my father has rolled more than once over my problems these many years he's been gone." "Doona be disrespectin' the dead. Yer father was a good man, despite the troubles that seem to flock yer way," Nessa chided, the sympathetic tenderness on her face belying her reprimand. Maire was not in the mood for arguing. In fact, she was not in the mood for anything other than a hot bath and a soft bed. But she had work to do...Magick, if you will...if she was going to reverse the bad luck which had befallen her people. "What? What are ye about, Maire?" Nessa asked curiously. Maire was standing in her cage now, facing east, and was preparing to center herself with legs shoulder-width apart and two hands wrapped around one of the wooden bars. She wished she had her staff with her, but the wooden bar would have to do. "Ooooh! Doona tell me...yer gonna try the witchly rites again, I wager. One thing is for certain...if ye try that whirling dance nonsense, yer gonna land yerself in a snake pit. I swear, my heart canna take much more of...Blessed Lord, why are ye lookin' cross-eyed? Is it the evil eye come over ye?" "Shhh! I need to focus if I want to bend my bars so that I can escape." "The last time ye focused--two days past--it was on the MacNab guards below. Ye said yer spell would cause 'em to run off. Instead, ye gave them a bad case of the running bowels. Not that some of us did not find humor in that mistake. And then there was the other spell what was gonna give the MacNabs flight, right off Campbell lands. Bless the Saints! We had two dozen roosters and hens a-squawkin' and a-flappin' their wings. None of the hens would lay today, by the by." Maire sniffed at Nessa for her interruption. "Sometimes, I don't concentrate hard enough, or I get the spells a little mixed up." "A little mixed up! Lassie, when ye tried that wind-riding bizness the first day the MacNabs took ye captive, ye promised ye would end up on the other side of the glen come mornin'. The only one ridin' the wind was Grizelle, and I swear she will ne'er forgive ye fer that affair...her falling off the parapet like an eagle about to take flight, with her gown blowing in the wind, exposing her bare rump. Good thing that young MacNab lad caught her, though he was laughing so hard they both fell to the ground." It was true. Maire was not a very competent witch. In truth, she probably wasn't a witch at all, despite having studied with the old crone, Cailleach, when she was a young lass. But Cailleach was long gone now. What choice did she have? There was no one else to rely on. She had to try. "Either be still, or go away, so that I can concentrate. You're not helping at all. At least I'm trying. What else would you have me do?" "Pray," Nessa offered with dry humor. She shifted from foot to foot, still not leaving. "Well, what else did you want to say? I can tell you have something on your mind." "Aye, that I do. I hates to burden ye with more troubles when yer up ta yer oxters in troubles as 'tis, but there be darkness on the horizon...again. The Viking is back." "Let him come," Maire said with a sigh of surrender. She knew, without questioning, which Viking Nessa referred to. That scoundrel, Rurik, had been scouring all of Scotland for her these past few years. Little did he know that the clans, which fought each other over the littlest dispute, stood together when a hated Norseman was involved. They'd been more than willing to hide the location of her Campbell clanstead, Beinne Breagha, or Beautiful Mountain, which was located high in the hills, and enjoyed leading the Vikings on a merry chase, in full circles at times. Until recently, that is. When she'd engaged the wrath of Duncan MacNab--her brother- by-marriage--the most evil man who'd ever walked the Highlands, Maire and her clan had developed a whole new set of problems. There was no longer any time for worries about irate Vikings or frivolous hiding games. Their very future at Beinne Breagha was at stake now. "Let him come? Let him come?" Nessa practically squealed. "After all these years, we should invite him in like an invited guest?" Maire shrugged, then waved a hand at her surroundings. "You ask why I no longer resist meeting up with the Viking? What can he do to me now?" Immediately, Nessa's countenance softened. "Och, sorry I am to have raised me voice. Ye be a good girl, despite all that dabblin' in the witchly arts. I don' mean to hurt yer feelings, Maire, but ye are the sorriest witch the Highlands ever saw. Ye are no Cailleach. Mayhap ye really should take up prayer. Have ye e'er considered a nunnery?" Maire lifted her chin with affront. "Oh, girl, doona be gettin' yer feathers ruffled jest 'cause ye can't get a spell right. If ye want to be upset, be upset over the sad scrape we are in...the worst of all the Campbell bad times. 'Tis not fitting that ye should be the one to suffer most. That Duncan MacNab is Lucifer's brother, that I warrant." She was staring woefully at the horrible cage as she spoke. "Who but the devil hisself would do such a wicked thing to a woman?" "Who indeed?" But wait. Here they were blathering when a more important worry assailed Maire. "How is Wee-Jamie?" she inquired anxiously. Her four-year-old son's well-being was of highest concern. And not just because of her maternal love. If the MacNab got his hands on her wee-un, she would be forced to give all he demanded. And that would spell doom for what remained of her clan. Nessa's worried brow relaxed. "The boy is fine. Old John and the others have hidden him well in a cave in the forests. The MacNab willna set his filthy paws on Jamie, even if there be only one Campbell left standing." Maire nodded. "I ken you have other dilemmas, dearie, but ye mus' be careful. And doona be discountin' the danger posed by the Viking. He is closer than he's ever been afore," Nessa pointed out. "He'll ne'er give up till he finds ye." Maire shrugged, though inside she was not so calm as she pretended to be. It wasn't that she didn't feel justified in putting the blue mark on Rurik's face that time she'd been visiting her cousins in Glennfinnan five years past. He'd taken her maidenhead, then spoken blithely of going off the next day to his homeland, as if she had not just given him a woman's most precious possession. But that was not the main reason for her taking such drastic action. She'd asked him to take her with him, foolish wench that she had been. At the time, she'd had good reason to want to be absent from her homeland...for awhile, at least. But what did the brute do when she'd asked? He'd laughed at her. Well, she'd gotten the last laugh. But she was not laughing now. "Mayhap 'tis time to face the Viking. Mayhap my marking him was the start of all our troubles. Mayhap I need to remove the mark in order to reverse the curse which seems to have struck us Campbells these past three years." "Hmmm," Nessa pondered. "But what if he...the Viking...hurts ye?" Nessa asked. "He won't," Maire answered. For some reason, she did not think he would do her physical harm. Nessa arched her eyebrows skeptically. "He's a Viking." "Aye." "Vikings be a bloodthirsty lot." "I am acquainted with a few Scotsmen who are bloodthirsty, too. Like Duncan MacNab, for instance." "Duncan resents Kenneth not gaining the land rights from ye through marriage. Duncan means to have ye, Maire. And King Indulf has given his permission, in exchange fer ill-gained favors. Time is not on yer hands anymore." "I know," Maire said on a sigh. "'Tis not me he wants, though. It always comes back to the land. Nevermind that he is old enough to be my father. Nevermind that I've refused his proposals more times than I can count. Nevermind that his men stand guard below in my courtyard as we speak and won't leave till I cooperate. Nevermind that the MacNab will beat me mightily once he has the marriage rights." Maire rubbed her cheek where Duncan had slapped her hard the day before for refusing to accede to her wishes. "In truth, I predict my accidental death within days of my wedding, if I should ever be so foolish as to wed with that bastard." And God only knew what would happen to Wee-Jamie under Duncan's guardianship. "But how much longer can we hold out?" Nessa wailed, rubbing her hands together anxiously. "I do not know. I am so tired of fighting this battle alone. If only father were still alive, or Donald, or Angus." Her father, Malcolm Campbell, had died at Brunanburh eighteen years past, along with the son of Constantine, king of the Scots. Her brothers had died in various other battles since then. Her husband of five years, Kenneth MacNab, Duncan's much younger brother, had died mere months ago, but little good he had been to her while alive. 'Twas he who had banished Cailleach from her lands. Only a straggly band of Campbells was left of her clan and only Maire to hold them together against the constant outside forces. It was a heavy load for a woman of only twenty and five years to carry. Unfortunately, there was no one else...for now. "What you need, me bonnie lass, is a brave knight in shining armor to champion your cause...like the Saxon ballads proclaim." "Hah!" Maire scoffed. "All my life I've had only myself to depend on, and that's the way it's always going to be." "Many women say the same...but only till their true love comes along. Yea, what you need is a true love." "A true love?" Maire burst out laughing. "I thought you said I needed a knight in shining armor." "And who be sayin' ye can't have both?" Nessa sliced her a condemning glare. Then, she put a fingertip to her chin, pondering. "Dost think there be any way ye could get the Viking to help in this fight?" Nessa asked tentatively. "Nay!" Maire exclaimed vehemently. Blessed Lord! The woman can't possibly be putting Rurik in the category of a brave knight. Or--may the saints rise from their graves--a true love. "I want no help from the likes of that man. And one thing is certain. He must never, ever, know..." Her words trailed off as she bit her bottom lip to hold off tears. "...my secret." "Now, now, lassie, ye are not to fear. Old John has come up with a plan." "A plan?" Maire squeaked out. Old John was the head of her guardsmen, such as they were these days. Even Old John, once a strong fighting man, had only one arm now and was nigh crippled with pain from all his battle injuries over the years. "Why is this the first I'm hearing of this? He should discuss any plans with me." The shrillness of her voice rang out, and several of the MacNab sentry glanced her way. Nessa slanted her a rueful look. "Old John could hardly come here to talk with ye. There be MacNabs all about the keep." Pulling back from the parapet, Nessa prepared to leave. "Doona be worryin' none. 'Tis in God's hands now...and Old John's." Now, Maire was really worried.
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