The Blue Viking

by Sandra Hill

  Truth to tell, Rurik suspected he was falling in love with the witch. Not that he knew from experience how that would feel. But if it was, indeed, true, then he would have to find a way to stop it right now. Falling in love did not fit in with his plans. Nay, not at all.

  There were many reasons why he could not allow himself to love a woman, but three important ones came immediately to mind:

  First, he was a warrior, pure and simple. He had no other identity than that. Being arse-over-shoulders in love with a woman—especially one with the talent for turning certain body parts blue and others rock hard—would make him weak and vulnerable… something he could not countenance. He'd had love-struck soldiers under his command in the past. They soon lost their focus. Many were brought down swifter than a Saxon arrow, usually by tripping over their own feet.

  Second, there was no future in loving a Scottish witch. Rurik hated the land of Alba with a passion and could scarce wait to leave its boundaries. Besides, he was betrothed to a Norse princess, and it had been a pledge made in honor, which must be upheld.

  Third, Maire was his foe, and he should not forget that fact. 'Twas she who'd marked his face and subjected him to years of ridicule.

  Well, at least he now knew what he must do. He had a new goal to go along with the removal of his blue tattoo. Do not love Maire.

  It was late afternoon. He and Maire had been making love off and on—mostly on—since dawn, and still he could not get enough of her. Even now, as she slept in his arms, he could not tear himself away, though his belly rumbled with hunger, his body was growing rank from all the sweaty exercise, and the bed linens were uncomfortably damp. So, following his new "Do not love Maire" motto, Rurik called upon his years of discipline to avoid noticing Maire's allure as he carefully disengaged himself from her billowing red hair and clinging limbs.

  Actually, he had his eyes scrunched tight. That worked, too.

  He was congratulating himself a short time later when he emerged from the bedchamber without awakening Maire. Closing the door quietly behind him, he nigh jumped out of his skin when the first thing he saw was Toste and Vagn leaning against the facing wall, arms folded over their broad chests and ankles crossed. They were smirking at him.

  "What are you two doing here?"

  "Guarding the mistress," Toste answered.

  "As you ordered," Vagn pointed out.

  "I did not ask you to guard her when I was with her," he grumbled. "Besides, why was it necessary for two of you to stand guard?"

  'Toste is the guard. I'm just keeping him company," Vagn said.

  Both of them were still grinning.

  "So, did you or-gaz the wench?" Toste and Vagn both asked him at the same time.

  "Would everybody please stop using that ridiculous word? Furthermore, 'tis none of your concern whether I did or did not."

  "Well, you certainly look as if you've been or-gaz-ed… good and proper," Toste said, ducking when Rurik swung a punch at his laughing mouth.

  "Yea," Vagn agreed. "Methinks he is still suffering after-tremors, too… from his fit. Perchance he has or-gaz pains. Mayhap I should go check on the witch's condition."

  "You stay away from Maire," Rurik ordered, too quickly and too gruffly.

  Both men stared at him with arched eyebrows.

  "Uh-oh!" Toste said.

  "Uh-oh!" Vagn said.

  "I'll give you both reason to say uh-oh if you don't stop flapping your tongues."

  Rurik noticed something else. Each of the twins had a piece of scarlet yarn tied in a bow about his middle finger. "What is that?" he asked, pointing at one, then the other adornment.

  "A measuring yarn," Toste replied, his face turning bright red. Rurik could not recall a time, ever, when Toste had blushed, even when he'd done some mighty embarrassing things.

  "For our cocks," Vagn explained, and his face was red, too. "I mean, for measuring our cocks."

  "Holy Thor! Did you two dimwits believe that outrageous tale about Viking lies and shrinking man-parts?"

  "We did not precisely believe it, but we wanted a measuring standard, just in case," Toste said defensively. "You never know with a sorceress, Rurik. Really, one can't be too careful."

  "Not that we are prone to mistruths, mind you. But a wee fib might slip out on occasion." Vagn was blinking his eyes at him with innocence. Vagn glanced at his brother, who nodded enthusiastically in concurrence.

  "And what would you do if there was some… shrinkage?"

  The twins exchanged alarmed looks.

  "Mayhap the witch knows a spell for… stretchage?" Toste inquired hopefully.

  Actually, she does, but I'll be damned if I'll let her work her magic on either of these two.

  "Yea, that would do the trick," Vagn said.

  "Methinks I have landed in a barmy bin," Rurik concluded, grabbing Toste by the upper arm and pulling him toward the stairwell. "Come with me, and tell me what's been happening. Vagn, you stay and guard Maire."

  They had reached the bottom of the stairs and were about to enter the great hall when Toste held him back. "There is some news you should be aware of." When Rurik stopped, Toste informed him of a series of events that had transpired during the night involving three cattle and four sheep. That in itself should have been of no concern. Scotsmen loved reiving, and it was a part of their lifestyle to steal from each other routinely. He told Toste so.

  Toste shook his head. "This was different. Not only were the animals killed and their carcasses left to rot, but the creatures had been tortured beforehand and mutilated. Heads lopped off. Eyes gouged out. A ram's testicles stuck in its own mouth."

  Rurik tasted bile rising up to his throat. "A warning, then. The MacNabs are leaving a warning… not just that they can enter Campbell lands, undeterred, but that they are prepared to inflict torture on innocent parties."

  "That is my opinion on the matter, and Stigand's and Bolthor's, too."

  "Why didst you not call for me as soon as you heard?"

  Toste shrugged. "We only discovered the perfidy within the hour. Actually, that was why I was in the hallway outside your bedchamber. I had just come up to get you."

  "I do not like this waiting, like a sitting boar inviting the hunter's lance. Every good soldier knows 'tis better to be on the offense than the defense."

  "That is something we need to discuss. Everyone is waiting for you below."

  "Is the castle secure for now?"

  "Yea, 'tis."

  A sudden thought occurred to Rurik, and he gasped. "The boy… Maire's son… go immediately and bring him into the castle. I care not what his mother says…'tis not safe for him out in the forests when the MacNabs can move about so freely. Take one of the Campbell men with you and direct him to tell you where this hidden cave is located."

  "I had not considered that possibility, but you are correct. The boy must be brought under the protection of your shield. The MacNabs would not be above torturing a child," Toste said.

  "Or the mother, if the child were used for ransom." Rurik's blood ran cold at the prospect of Maire being so endangered. After all, a man who would place a woman in a cage would not be above other unspeakable acts.

  "Uh, Rurik, there is one other thing."

  Rurik tilted his head in question.

  "There's a bite imprint on your neck." Toste's lips twitched with mirth.

  Rurik put a hand to the right side of his neck. He did not doubt there was a mark. In truth, he could recall in detail the circumstances under which Maire had cried out in passion and nipped him there. Still, Toste pushed the bounds of friendship by commenting on such.

  "Surely you want to be told these things, Rurik," Toste said, noticing his displeasure. "After all, a Viking never lies."

  He reached out to swat the laughing rogue aside the head, but Toste danced away out of reach. As they entered the hall, Toste, still laughing, motioned for Young John to come forward. After a brief explanation, the two of them were off and out the front door of the keep. Rurik
began to make his way through the hall then, and toward the kitchen. Rain still pounded incessantly on the rooftops; many of Maire's housecarls and cotters were indoors… cleaning and honing weapons; weaving and mending. All of them sat in strategic places to avoid the leaks from the roof, which had not yet been repaired.

  All eyes turned to Rurik. It was the first the clan had seen of him since the night before. He noticed, wariness and questioning looks on the faces of some of Maire's people; not surprising, since he'd been holed up in a bedchamber with their mistress for a full day. But then he caught the eye of Old John, who winked at him. Why were Maire's people not outraged on her behalf, or fretting over their mistress's fate at the lusty hands of her Viking captor? Instead, they seemed to approve. He should be worried about that fact, Rurik decided, but he had enough other worries for now… like the MacNabs. He would save that particular worry for later.

  He saw Stigand at one of the lower tables, where he was showing Murdoc and several of the boys how to whittle arrows out of a slab of hardwood. The first thing out of Stigand's mouth was, "Did you or-gaz her?"

  "Aaarrgh!"

  "Do not be grousing at me. You're the one that failed in the bed arts with the maid. 'Twas a logical question, if you ask me. I was only concerned about you, after all." The mirth in Stigand's dancing eyes belied his great concern. "And why are you holding your neck?"

  "A cramp?" Rurik mumbled, sitting down.

  Stigand's gaze shot to Rurik's crotch as if he expected some instant shrinkage for the lie. "A cramp, eh? Excessive bedsport will do that to a man betimes. One time I got a cramp in my cock. Talk about pain!"

  Rurik put his face on the table and groaned.

  That was when Bolthor walked up. "Did you or-gaz her?"

  Rurik lifted his head and glared at his skald. "If one more person uses that ridiculous word, I am going to cut off said person's tongue. Is that clear?"

  Bolthor stared at him for a long moment, as if unsure whether it was clear or not. Then, he pointed out irrelevantly, "Your lips are swollen."

  "He's got a cramp in his neck, too," Stigand told Bolthor, as if that had some importance.

  Bolthor nodded. "I wondered why he kept his hand there. I thought he might be trying to hide somethin'."

  Stigand and Bolthor exchanged looks, then glanced down to check on the condition of his staff. This lying-shriveling nonsense had gone too far.

  Rurik was about to swear… a famous Norse expletive… when he saw that all the males who were gathering about the table, no doubt to discuss the battle plans for the MacNabs, were wearing scarlet bows on their forefingers, including the Scotsmen and boys. Even more ludicrous, the size of the bows on Stigand and Bolthor's fingers would do a dragon proud.

  He shook his head at the entire group. Lackwits, all.

  The next hour was spent in developing some offensive actions to take against the MacNabs. This was Rurik's area of expertise, and he relished the drawing of maps and discussion of strategies. In the end, they came up with a plan that just might work, utilizing their undermanned troops to the best advantage.

  Standing up and stretching, Rurik asked one of the housecarls to bring a tub and hot water up to Maire's bedchamber, along with toweling cloths and clean bed linens. Then he asked Nessa, who had just approached and was putting a hand familiarly on Stigand's shoulder, if she could prepare a tray for him with a goodly amount of food.

  "How much food is goodly?" Nessa asked.

  Rurik smiled then… a slow, lazy smile of anticipation. "Enough to last a good long while."

  Rurik wasn't smiling for long. As he departed from the hall with his heavily laden tray, following in the footsteps of the housecarls with buckets of water, he heard Bolthor announce, "This is the saga of Rurik the Greater."

  Once there was a Viking

  Who lost his knack,

  But soon a Scottish witch,

  Taught him how to…

  Get his knack back.

  Now, in his bedsport,

  There is no longer a lack.

  Maire had just donned her chemise and was about to step out from behind the screen when Rurik came through the door.

  "Wake up, sleepling," he said cheerily, then observed her in the corner. "Oh, you are already up and about." Then he added in a disappointed, accusatory voice, "You got dressed."

  "Of course, I got dressed. Did you expect me to lie about naked for another whole day?"

  "I had hoped," he remarked. And he was serious. The dolt! Not that Maire hadn't given him reason to hope. Blessed St. Boniface! Maire hardly knew the wanton who had inhabited her bedchamber this past day. Well, she had regained her senses now. Or, leastways, she hoped she was back to normal.

  Just then, she noticed the men standing behind Rurik with buckets of water, all of them grinning. With a little shriek, she jumped back behind the screen. "You could have warned me that you brought others with you. I am not properly attired."

  He glanced around, then shrugged sheepishly as he realized his mistake.

  Soon, everyone had left, and Maire was soaking in a large copper tub filled with hot, lavender-scented water. While she lay back, basking in this unprecedented luxury, Rurik amazed her even further by lighting candles about the room and remaking the bed with clean linens. If he had removed all his garments and jumped into the tub with her, flashing his usual grin, she would not have considered it out of the ordinary for his character.

  But that was the worst thing about Rurik, or mayhap the best. He was always surprising her.

  Instead of attempting further sexual inroads with her, Rurik pulled a low stool over to the side of the tub. With his elbows resting on his knees and his chin bracketed in his palms, Rurik amused her with stories of his past… both his childhood spent on a pigstead, the grueling adolescent years learning to be a soldier, a stint with the Varangian Guard in Byzantium, battle stories of fighting under one Norse chieftain or another against the hated Saxons, and poignant tales of his friendship with two brothers, Eirik of Ravenshire in Northumbria, and Tykir of Dragonstead in Norway. All the time, he fed her, and himself, bits of cold smoked venison, hard cheese, oat cake, and bannock, even tart cherries, all washed down with cold ale.

  When the water began to cool, Rurik did not insist on helping her wash, as she'd expected, but he did make the strangest request. "Can I lather your hair?"

  Who knew that a man's fingers massaging a woman's scalp could be so… well, erotic!

  If this was part of a plan of seduction, Rurik truly was a master. Maire was finding it harder and harder to maintain the control she had promised herself a short time ago.

  When she was done and wearing a clean shift, Rurik placed her on the low stool and combed all the tangles out of her long hair. Long after the snarls were smoothed out of the tresses, which tended to curl if left untended, he braided the strands with an expertise one wouldn't usually expect from a man. But then, Maire recalled that Rurik was a man prideful of his personal appearance. He must often braid his own hair.

  When he was done, he kissed her on the neck and stood back to remove his own garments.

  Now it comes, Maire thought. Now he will take the offense. Now I will have to gird myself against his renewed sexual assaults.

  Once again, Rurik surprised her. Sinking into the now cool water, he said, "Maire, would you do me a favor?"

  Her head jerked up with alertness. She had been picking up the wet drying cloths and stacking them near the door with the dirty bed linens. Uh-oh! What scandalous thing does he want me to do now? Wash his male parts? Get in the tub with him? Dance naked for his entertainment?

  "It would give me great pleasure," he said in a voice smoky with some strong emotion, "if you would work on your tapestry whilst I soak in the tub." He put up a halting hand as she prepared to protest. "Do not tell me it is too dark in here. You can light more candles."

  "I cannot afford to waste so many candles… or the time. I have other, more important things to do."

  He
shook his head. "Creating such beauty can never be a waste of time or money. You are going nowhere anyhow… not till morning. In the meantime, I will buy you new candles, if that is truly of concern to you."

  "Why is it so important to you?"

  An astonishing flush bloomed on his cheeks and he confided, "When I was a boy, I always imagined my mother, if she had lived, sitting afore a loom or tapestry, working silently with me at her feet. A fey notion, I know. But there was so much turmoil in my life that the idea of a mother who was serene and gentle in her ladylike pursuits held inordinate appeal."

  Maire could not speak over the lump in her throat. There was so much of the little boy still in Rurik, and long-suppressed emotions roiled inside him, though he would never admit to such "weaknesses." She tried to lighten the air of somberness that invaded the room. "So, you think of me like a mother?"

  He laughed at that, and his beautiful blue eyes twinkled with sudden merriment. "Hardly that, m'lady. Come here, and I will show you."

  She just smiled… on the outside. Inside, her heart grew heavy and light at the same time. Heavy, because she felt as if she were standing in a dangerous peat bog, her feet sinking in the mud at the bottom, like quicksand. And light, because she knew there would be such joy in doing something—anything—to please this man. Even if it was just needlework.

  How could she refuse him such a simple favor? Rurik was a dolt some of the time. Arrogant all of the time. But she was beginning to see a side of him that was, at times, loveable. So, for the first time in more than a year—mayhap two—Maire sat down before her tapestry frame and began to lay out the threads she would use. Rurik had been right. She should not have ignored this work for so long. It brought a calmness she sorely needed now whilst storms swirled about her. She swept her fingertips over the fabric—a sensuous gesture of appreciation. Truly, the scene… this labor of creative love… was like an old friend. And old friends should not be neglected too long.