Rurik groaned aloud. He could just predict what Bolthor would say next, and apparently so could everyone else, because they were grinning from ear to ear.
"This is the saga of Rurik the Greater," Bolthor began.
"Hey," Tykir protested.
"If you knew what was good for you, you would stop right there," Rurik advised Tykir in an undertone.
But Tykir blundered on, "I thought I was supposed to be the great one. Remember, Bolthor, you always used to say, 'This is the saga of Tykir the Great'?"
Rurik shoved his cup to the side and pressed his face to the table. He wished he could just fall asleep and waken when this whole nightmare was over.
"Ah, you are correct in that, Tykir," Bolthor explained, "but Rurik reminded me that 'Great' was your title; so, we changed his title to 'Greater.' "
"Except when he lost his knack," Toste interjected with a chuckle. "Hoo-eee! He was not so much greater then."
"His knack?" Tykir, Eirik, and Selik all inquired.
Rurik moaned against the tabletop, where his forehead still rested.
"Yea, he forgot how to or-gaz a woman in the bed furs, but not to fear," Toste blathered on, "he got his knack back eventually."
Tykir put his lips near Rurik's ear and whispered, "Does or-gaz mean what I think it means?"
"It does. And I swear, Tykir, if you do not take your skald home with you to the Northlands, I am going to take away your ability to or-gaz."
Tykir and everyone else at the table were laughing hysterically.
Bolthor was already launching into his latest saga, to Rurik's mortification. Good thing no one could see his telling blush… for certainly then they would be teasing him about being a blushing Viking, and Bolthor would be telling a poem about it for all posterity to recall.
Once was a Viking warrior
Who loved the glory of war,
But came he to Scotland
Where folks came to understand
That here was a figure
Who was more than soldier.
He was a hero,
Through and through.
That is why he is now called
Rurik, the Scots Viking.
A stunned silence followed Bolthor's saga, which was the usual response. Finally, Tykir cleared his throat, then remarked, "You have refined your rhyming skills, Bolthor."
Forsaking modesty, Bolthor nodded in agreement. "I must tell you, though, Tykir, Rurik has given me much more fodder for sagas than you ever did. There is: 'Rurik the Vain,' 'The Viking Who Lost His Knack,' 'Rurik the Blind Viking,' 'Rurik the Scots Viking,' 'Sex and the Single Viking,' 'Vikings Who Name Their Cocks," "The Blue-Balled Viking," and ever so many others."
Rurik turned his face so his cheek was resting on the table top. Then he cracked open one eye. Sure enough, everyone was staring at him, openmouthed with incredulity. It took a lot to turn a Viking warrior incredulous. But he had. And it was no great achievement.
"Of course, I am thinking that Toste and Vagn might be good topics for some of my upcoming sagas," Bolthor continued.
Toste and Vagn could not have appeared more horrified if he'd suggested they cut off their manparts.
"Yea, I can see all the twin possibilities. 'Sex With a Wily Witch.' 'Vikings With Extra-Ordinary Endowments.' 'What Twin Vikings Can Do In the Bed Furs and Others Cannot.' "
It was Rurik's turn to grin widely. Mayhap there was hope for him yet. Mayhap Bolthor would decide to latch on to the twins and devote his poetic life to their escapades.
But then Selik tilted his head to the side and asked, "Why do all the men here have yarn bows tied on their middle fingers?"
"Well, actually, I can answer that," offered Stigand, who had been quiet thus far.
Rurik stood abruptly, not even waiting for the lengthy reply that Stigand was sure to give… one which would somehow make him look even more foolish.
"Where are you off to?" Eirik asked with a knowing smile.
"The garderobe."
But what he was thinking was he'd like to find Maire's hiding place and hole up with her there for a day or so… or a sennight.
Tykir was waiting for him in the corridor outside the garderobe. Not a good sign. Nor was it a good sign that Tykir wore a serious expression on his usually mischievous face.
"I am worried about you, Rurik," Tykir said right off.
"Why?"
"You are not yourself."
Hah! That is an understatement! "It will take some getting accustomed to fatherhood, that is all."
Tykir smiled. " 'Tis a wondrous thing, is it not… being a father?"
Rurik smiled back. "Yea, 'tis. I ne'er thought to be a father… I am not sure why. Nor did I crave the passing of my blood on to another. But I find myself grinning in the most ridiculous fashion whene'er I gaze upon the child."
Tykir nodded in understanding. Then he brought up the topic that Rurik had been avoiding. "About Maire?"
"What about Maire?"
"Do you love her?"
Rurik refused to answer. He was not being deliberately rude. In truth, he did not know the answer.
To his dismay, Tykir began to laugh uproariously.
"I cannot imagine why it should be so funny that I might conceivably be in love with a Scottish witch." He looked at his friend, who was so much like him, then admitted, "Well, all right, 'tis rather funny. A joke on me. In fact, the supreme joke from the gods in a lifetime of jests at my expense."
Tykir shook his head at him, tears of mirth rimming his eyes, "On the other hand, perchance it is a gift from the gods."
Now there was a thought.
Chapter Eighteen
It was evening, and they were celebrating another feast… this time in honor of their guests. Good thing there was lots of food left over from the night before.
Rurik sat beside Maire, dressed in richly embroidered garments that would do a prince proud. She had managed to drag out an old arisaid of the softest emerald green wool with gold braiding that predated her wedding… a perfectly suitable garment… but she hated the fact that Rurik was more beauteous than she was, both in form and apparel. Her hair was a mass of red curls since she'd been unable to dress it properly after her impromptu bath in the loch.
Tykir, Rurik's friend from the Northlands, had taken the liberty a short time ago of tugging on a lock of Maire's hair and watching with a bemused expression on his face as it sprang back into a tight coil. He'd glanced at his wife's red hair, then back to her, before he'd commented to Rurik, "Another flame-haired goddess!"
Rurik—the oaf—had muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "Redheaded women… God's plague on man."
She'd elbowed Rurik in the ribs, hard, at that insult, but it had barely fazed him. Not only was he thickheaded, but he was apparently thick-skinned as well.
Rurik's friends had seemed to find her actions vastly amusing.
She would like to wring Rurik's neck… not just for forcing her out of seclusion but for sitting at the high table with her now as if everything between them was just fine and jolly, when he knew as well as she did that everything was a shambles. Oh, she'd managed to seduce him in the loch, but look how that had turned out. And, truly, she didn't think she had many more seductions under her belt… so to speak.
Under ordinary circumstances, she would have enjoyed herself. A person couldn't help but like Rurik's friends. They were attractive and charming and full of teasing mirth.
Even the older couple, Selik and Rain, who had to have seen close to fifty winters, were surprisingly fit and pleasing to the eye. Rain, who was allegedly a famous healer in Britain, equaled her husband in great height, and their blond hair matched as well, even to the sprinkling of gray strands. They'd brought four of their eight natural children with them, between the ages of ten and seventeen. They'd left behind the other four, plus many foster children, in an orphanage they operated outside the trading city of Jorvik in Northumbria, under the care of a young woman named Adela and an elderl
y man named Ubbi.
Already Rain had taken Maire aside and asked whether there might be a place here at Beinne Breagha for some of the young people searching for trades. Maire had readily agreed, especially since so many men and boys had lost their lives the past few years to wars or feuds with the MacNabs. They had a need for new blood in the Campbell clan.
Then there was the darkly handsome Eirik, Lord of Ravenshire in Northumbria, who must have seen close to forty winters. Not as handsome as Rurik, of course, but then no one was that handsome. The half-Viking, half-Saxon man brought with him his wife Eadyth, who had to be the most beautiful woman Maire had ever seen, with silver blond hair and violet eyes. Over a silk headrail, she wore the Norse kran-sen, a gilt circlet with embossed lilies on it. Though in her mid-thirties, Eadyth's creamy skin showed no sign of aging. This couple had brought with them Eadyth's illegitimate son, John, a sixteen-year-old boy who was already causing Scottish lasses from miles around to swoon. He had been adopted by Eirik, of course, as had Eirik's two illegitimate daughters, seventeen-year-old Larise and fifteen-year-old Emma. John and Jostein had apparently become great friends, and both of them had eyes on two of Selik and Rain's daughters. In addition to those three children, Eirik and Eadyth had also brought four they had had together, all boys, and all full of rambunctiousness.
Jamie was having the time of his life with all this young company. Beast and Rose were enjoying themselves, too, if all the yipping and meowing were any indication.
Maire was amazed that this noble couple openly acknowledged the illegitimacy of some of their children, but she was equally amazed when she was told that Eadyth was an accomplished businesswoman who sold the products of her beehives in the markets of Jorvik—mead, honeycombs, and timekeeping candles.
Finally, there was Tykir, Eirik's half brother and Rurik's best friend in all the world. Oh, what a wicked-eyed, mischievous fellow was Tykir, despite being of middle years… about thirty-five or so. As vain as Rurik, he had his hair plaited on one side only, where a thunderbolt earring dangled from his ear.
He was constantly fondling his red-haired, freckle-faced wife, who was less than thirty, or gazing at her with open adoration… when he wasn't pinching her buttocks, that is… or she wasn't pinching his. Alinor had their squirming two-year-old son, Thork, sitting on her lap right now, and she was breeding again… due to drop that winter.
Rurik's three friends had taken to wearing red bows of a largish size on their middle fingers. When Alinor had inquired about their purpose, Tykir had told her, in blunt terms. She'd swatted him on the shoulders, and chided, "What lies have you been telling, fool?"
"Just a precaution, wife," he'd chortled.
Eadyth had grinned at her husband's bow and remarked, "A bit of an embellishment, wouldn't you say?"
"Not big enough," Eirik had disagreed.
Alinor addressed Rurik now. "Will you be leaving with us two days hence? Tykir and I plan to spend several sennights at Greycote and then Ravenshire, afore returning to the Northlands for the winter. We would love your company."
"More like you would love having me to tease, Alinor. I swear, 'tis your greatest pasttime," Rurik countered dryly.
Alinor stuck her tongue out at Rurik, which Maire thought was a most scandalous thing for a fine lady to do. Rurik and Tykir laughed at her antics, though, and her son, Thork, thought it was a great trick, and did it repeatedly himself.
"But, nay," Rurik replied, "I will not be leaving Scotland… not that soon, leastways."
Maire's heart skipped a beat. What did he mean? Was he staying longer because of Jamie? Or had her seduction managed to melt the wall of unforgiveness that had surrounded him? Did they have a future? Or was this a temporary reprieve?
Leaning forward, she tried to get a better look at Rurik's face. That was when the amber pendant slipped forward, out of the confines of her gown.
Alinor's eyes immediately latched on to the necklet. "Oh, my goodness! The bride gift!" With a chuckle, she turned on Rurik and berated him with a wagging forefinger, "Why, you rogue, you! You did not tell us that this precious piece you selected for a bride gift was intended for your Scottish witch."
Rurik made a choked, gurgling sound deep in his throat, and his skin paled. "Alinor, lock thy tongue!"
It was Tykir who spoke next. "But I thought the necklet was intended for Theta… as a bride gift… once you have the blue mark removed and she has wed with you… in the Hebrides… where you purchased land and…" Tykir's words came out slow and halting, then stopped suddenly as he realized their import.
Maire came to the same realization, just moments later. Her skin went instantly clammy, and her throat closed as she speared Rurik with a wounded expression.
The knave looked guilty as sin. "Maire, I can explain…"
Explain? What is there to explain? Rurik is betrothed to another woman. He gave me a necklet intended for his bride. I am the most foolish, pathetic woman in all Scotland… nay, in the entire world.
"Oh, my God!" Alinor said. "You didn't, Rurik? Tell me that you didn't do such a lackwitted thing."
But shock yielded to fury and Maire was already standing, unclasping the necklet. Throwing it to the table in front of Rurik, she declared in an icy voice, "I expect you to be gone afore morn."
"Now, just wait a minute," Rurik protested.
"I hate you," she seethed, throwing the words at him like stones.
"You can't hate me. You told me that you loved me."
All the women at the table exclaimed, "She did?" as if it were of great import.
Maire bared her teeth in a snarl. "I take it back."
"You can't take it back. Uh-uh. Especially not in two days. You love me, and that's that."
"You are the most infuriating, insensitive, lecherous, traitorous, half-brained, two-legged animal ever to walk the earth."
"What's your point?"
"Oooooh! I'll show you my point, you clodpole."
She took a huge cup of uisge-beatha and tossed it into his stunned face.
Then she walked proudly from the now silent hall. Once she reached her bedchamber, though, she sank to her knees and cried fiercely for all she had lost that day.
All that evening, and all the next morning, Rurik pounded on Maire's door, but she refused to respond. He could hear her crying, though, and that nigh broke his heart and brought tears to his own eyes.
"I can explain. Really," he'd said at first.
Then, "Alinor and Eadyth and Rain have convinced me… I am a loathsome, lackwitted lout."
Another time, "I want you to have the necklet, Maire. It was meant for you… I mean, I think that deep down I always intended it for you, not Theta."
"About Theta…" he'd tried to explain, "I never loved her, or anything like that. 'Twas just that all my friends had settled down happily and it seemed the right thing to do. I was already regretting my decision long afore I entered Scotland."
"I've sent all the witches away," he apprised her by midmorning. "At great risk to myself, I might add. Several of them cast worrisome spells on me, but I told them I had my own personal witch to remove the spells. That would be you… not Cailleach, who refuses to depart, by the by. She won't stop laughing at me, or cackling. Why do you suppose that is? I think she gave me the evil eye. Either that, or her one eye has developed a twitch."
"Jamie has taken to kicking my shins. And he put slugs in my morning ale. Best you come out and reprimand him, Maire. Actually, it was milk, not ale. Ugh! The dairy cow still won't stop giving milk, and some of the cats look as if they are going to explode. Who ever heard of a Viking drinking milk? Bolthor has already created a saga about it."
"I'm hungry. Cook won't give me anything to break my fast," he said at noon. "Aren't you hungry, Maire? You will wither away to nothing, and then where will you be? I may have to resort to eating the leftover haggis. Ha, ha, ha."
Over and over, he kept coming back to repeat his different pleas.
"I'm lonely. No one wil
l speak to me, not even Stigand, or Bolthor, or Toste, or Vagn, or Jostein. Bolthor made up a new saga, in addition to the milk one. 'Tis called 'Rurik the Dumb-Arse Viking.' What think you of that?"
"Guess what? Someone has finally spoken to me. Stigand. And you would not believe it if you saw him. He is clean-shaven and his hair trimmed. I swear, he is actually handsome… not as handsome as me, of course, but more than passable. That is not the most unbelievable part. Stigand is in love. With Nessa. They are going to marry and settle here in the Highlands. Do you think you will be coming out by then?"
Another time, "Answer me, witchling, or I am going to order Bolthor to come play bagpipes outside your door."
Then, "Lance misses you."
"If you don't come out soon, I'm going to go play with my chain mail… alone."
"I'm bored. If you're not coming out, I may have to go find a war to fight."
"You'll be sorry."
Over and over, Rurik trekked up and down the stairwell and down the corridor to Maire's door, to no avail. He was developing some really fine muscles in his calves and thighs from all that climbing… not that they weren't already fine.
Old John remarked in passing him one time, "The cracked bell needs no mending." When Rurik just frowned at him, he translated, "Some things cannot be fixed."
Rurik refused to believe that, even when Nessa added her opinion, "All yer talkin' shakes no barley."
Finally, Alinor took pity on him and took him aside. She was the most meddlesome person, but she was a woman. She must know things… things that he, a lowly man, did not. Not that he would ever refer to himself as lowly in her presence. "I have the answer," she announced without preamble. "Tell her that you love her."
"That's it? That's your great advice? Pfff! Incidentally, I think you have grown more freckles whilst I've been gone from Dragonstead. Devil's Spittle, that is what I always heard them called. Has Satan been spitting on you of late? Ouch! Why did you hit me?"
"Do it," she ordered. Hands on hips, her belly sticking out as if she'd swallowed a small boulder, she resembled a pregnant virago… which she was.