by Sandra Hill
"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' crosseyed? 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. "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 hate 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. The neighboring clans 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 and 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. The very future of 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 a welcome guest?"
Maire shrugged, then waved a hand at her surroundings. "You ask why I no longer resist meeting 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 in 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, 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 boy, 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. 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 a while, 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 that seems to have struck us Campbells."
"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. Time is not in yer favor anymore."
"I know," Maire said on a sigh. " 'Tis not me he wants, though. It always comes back to the land. Never mind that he is old enough to be my father. Never mind that I've refused his proposals more times than I can count. Never mind that his men stand guard below in my courtyard as we speak and won't leave till I cooperate. Never mind that the MacNab will beat me mightily once he has marriage rights." Maire rubbed her cheek where Duncan had slapped her hard the day before for refusing to accede to his 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 straggling band of Campbells was left of her clan and only Maire to hold them together against the onslaught of outside forces. It was a heavy load for a woman of only twen
ty and five years to carry. Unfortunately, there was no one else… for now.
"What ye need, me bonnie lass, is a brave knight in shining armor to champion your cause."
"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 ye 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. "… 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 a plan? He should discuss his plans with me." The shrillness of her voice rang out, and several of the MacNab sentries 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.
Chapter Two
"Vikings, go home. Ye are not wanted here in the Highlands."
Rurik and his men were on horseback, staring across a wide gully at a dozen Scotsmen, also on horseback, all of them red-haired and florid-faced. Weapons were not drawn on either side, but all of them had their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to fight if the need arose. Even with six against twelve, Rurik did not doubt that his band would win in an honest fight, but a good soldier fought no unnecessary battles; therefore, he held himself in check.
Like many Scotsmen, these wore the traditional léine and brat… the léine being a long, full shert down to the knees, resembling an under-tunic, often of a saffron yellow color, and the brat, oxpladd, being a mere blanket of sorts, which was fastened on the shoulder with a brooch, like a mantle, looped under the sword arm and secured at the waist with a leather belt. Their legs were exposed at times, especially when riding a horse. In fact, many Highlanders dropped their pladds in battle, fighting naked… which was not so unusual; Viking berserkers did the same. The first time Rurik had viewed Stigand in such nonattire, his eyes had almost bulged out. What a sight that had been!
These men were a scurvy bunch, with crafty eyes, though they rode fine steeds, and their claymores and long-bladed dirks were of the best quality. The man who had spoken, the leader, appeared most sinister of them all. He had seen more than fifty winters, and white strands threaded through the bright red hair that hung down to his shoulders. His mane looked as if it hadn't been washed or combed in a sennight. A full red beard encircled his chin. Most conspicuous about him was his eyebrows… or, rather, his eyebrow… for the man had only one bushy brow that extended from one hairline to the other, with no break in between at the bridge of the nose. With this single brow the man appeared frowning and ruthless.
Rurik didn't trust him one bit. "And who might you be?" he asked.
"I be Duncan MacNab," the leader replied in a deep Scottish brogue that made his name sound like, "Dooon-kin." He was clearly annoyed that Rurik did not recognize who he was. "These are me men… MacNabs, all." He waved a hand toward the men who sat astride nervous mounts on either side of him.
"I mean no trouble to you," Rurik offered in a placating tone. "I am looking for the woman called Maire of the Moors. She is of the Campbell clan, I believe."
The Scotsman laughed, a deep-from-the-chest bellow, and his men snickered. "Everyone in the Highlands, and the Lowlands, is aware of yer search for Maire the Witch." The leader put particular emphasis on that last word and exchanged smirking glances with his men, as if they knew something Rurik did not. In Rurik's experience, Scotsmen were great ones for smirks… when they were not frowning, that was.
"Know you where I might find the witch?" Rurik asked through gritted teeth. He had little liking for being the laughingstock of all Scotland, whether they were laughing at him or some secret jest.
"Aye, I do."
"And you know why I am looking for her?"
Duncan laughed again, a nimbly sound, like a bear growling. "I expect ye want to have that 'tattoo' removed from yer pretty face, Viking." He put emphasis on the word Viking, as if it were a foul substance.
Rurik nodded, grinding his teeth at the villain's continuing laughter and the grins of his men. He saw naught of humor in his face mark. Could it be that he still harbored self-doubts, lingering from his childhood? He had come so far, and not so far, after all, he supposed.
He came out of his musing with a snort of self-disgust and snapped at the MacNab, "Why would you care if I get the mark removed, or not, Scotsman?" Mimicking the other man, he put unpleasant emphasis on the word Scotsman.
"I doona care one whit if ye be blue, or red, or purple," Duncan retorted. "I'm here't'day to give ye a bit of advice. Leave this land, or ye'll have more than a blue mark to worry on."
"Oh, and what might that additional worry be?" Rurik asked coolly, while at the same time giving his men a surreptitious hand signal to ready themselves for a fight.
"Loss of blood… broken bones… death," the MacNab answered with equal coolness. "There be naught more a Scotsman enjoys than a Viking bloodbath."
"Is that a threat?" Rurik inquired icily.
"Aye, 'tis a threat. In fact, 'tis a promise, ye bloody barbarian," Duncan replied with equal iciness. Then, without warning, he let loose with a well-known Highland war cry, "Stuagh ghairm!"
In the blink of an eyelid, all eighteen men were at arms. Soon the flat-bottomed gully, the width of several longships, rang with the clang of metal hitting metal, the slap of leather from body-to-body contact, the frightened neighing of horses, the whistling of arrows, and the ominous crunching sound made by a hand ax splitting flesh and bones. At that last noise, all eyes turned to Stigand, who was wiping off his broadsword on a clump of heather, the whole time searching the arena for his next victim. His broadsword was aptly named Bone-Cracker… boon companion to his battle-ax, Blood-Lover, which was in his other hand. At his feet lay one of the MacNabs, his skull halved from crown to nape.
Several of the MacNab men made retching sounds, then leaped onto their horses and prepared to leave the scene. Rurik wished Beast were with him now. The wolfhound was a great asset after battle, especially talented at rounding up straggling enemy soldiers, like cattle. Quickly scanning the miniature battlefield, Rurik noted that Jostein appeared to have a broken arm and Bolthor had an arrow sticking out of his thigh. He, personally, had been sliced from elbow to wrist by a sharp dirk; it was a shallow gash that could use some stitching in better circumstances. Others in his troop were marked with bruises and bloody noses and cuts, but that was all. On the MacNab side, however, five lay dead, and two men appeared sorely wounded and had to be assisted onto their horses before galloping off.
Among the survivors was the MacNab himself, who bore no visible wounds. When his horse reached the top of a small rise a short distance away, he called out to Rurik, "Begone, Viking! Leave Scotland at once, ye whoreson whelp of a cod-sucking pagan, lest we meet again. And the results will be far different then, that I promise."
"Your promises mean naught," Rurik answered loudly with a boastful laugh, pointing to the dead MacNabs scattered about. He ch
ose his battles wisely and decided not to react to Duncan's personal insults… just yet.
"Doona dare touch the witch," Duncan added, still having the audacity to issue him orders.
Rurik raised his eyebrows at that particular order. "Why?"
"I want the witch."
"Well, isn't that a coincidence? So do I."
The Scotsman shook his head. "Nay, you want her only to remove the cursed mark, whereas I—"
Rurik barely held his temper in check as the vile man let his words hang in the air for long moments. Finally, he prodded, "Whereas, you want what?"
"—whereas I want the bitch as bride."
No sooner had Rurik and his men tended their wounds than another band of Scotsmen rode up. And this was the sorriest bunch of fighting men Rurik had ever seen.
At least twenty men came over the hill toward them. They all wore belted pladds, but the wide swaths of fabric were worn and faded, unlike those of the more prosperous MacNabs.
An older man of at least forty years appeared to be the chieftain, or leader. He was missing one arm. A somewhat younger man of about thirty was obviously blind in one eye, which stared sightlessly ahead.
One rider had his nose bashed in, was minus one ear, and appeared to have no front teeth. The world's ugliest warrior? Rurik wondered wryly. Well, actually, he knew a few Norse warriors who could compete in that contest.
Still another had a nervous twitch that caused his head to jerk incessantly. No doubt he had sustained a blow to the crown in some battle or other. Rurik had seen a similar condition in an old fighting comrade, Asolf the Dim, whose head jerked so much that he looked as if he was motioning someone toward the right all the time. Not a good trait to have in the midst of battle.
Another man was muttering under his breath, but no one was paying any attention to him. Rurik figured that malady was due to a blow to the brain, as well.
The sharp rap of a broadsword against the skull could cause such damage.
