by Sandra Hill
While she sewed, Rurik enjoyed his bath. Then he dried himself off, combed his hair and clubbed it back at the neck with a leather thong, and finally lay naked on her bed with his head propped on one elbow. All the time, he watched her work.
Occasionally, he would ask a question, like, "Do you create a scene in some sequence? Background first; figures second? Or do you work by color? Or some other method?"
"It varies, usually depending on my mood. Some days I am inclined to work on people or animals. Another day I may have come across an unusual color of dye by experimenting with different plants, and I will be anxious to see how it looks. One time," she related with excitement, recalling an incident she hadn't thought of for years, "… one time I was on the moors with Jamie, and I saw a rowan tree. From a distance, its leaves had a shredded, feathery aspect. I experimented and found a way to feather the edges of my yarn on the tapestry to get' the same effect. Like this." She pointed to an example in the foreground.
Rurik nodded in understanding, saying nothing more.
"It's odd, really, how you begin to look at things differently as an artist." Maire paused as the realization hit her suddenly that she did, in fact, consider herself an artist. 'Twas strange when she'd thought of herself for such a long time as a witch… and an inept one at that. She smiled to herself at the glow of pride that swept through her. I am an artist. A good artist. But then she continued her discussion with Rurik. "Sometimes appearances can be deceptive. What appears to be one thing from a distance is something else altogether up close. These sheep, for example. From where you view my tapestry, they are clearly wooly-haired sheep, I warrant, but from my vantage point, they are just clumps of undyed yarn."
Rurik chuckled at her enthusiasm over her craft, then waved a hand for her to resume her work when she stopped to glare at him.
Another time, he commented, "Is that unfinished male figure your husband?"
"No. The people in this tapestry don't represent anyone in particular," Maire lied.
Rurik thought for a moment and said, "Maire the man's hair black then… black as a raven's wing. And be certain to use silk thread to denote its silky texture." He waggled his eyebrows at her as he touched his own hair.
Maire's heart raced at his words, but then she realized that he was just teasing… He did not suspect that the man really was supposed to be him… that the woman was she… and the boy, their son, Jamie. That was probably why she'd never been able to complete the tapestry… because it was not real. She would have been better off picking fantasy characters.
"In fact," he continued, "when I am old and no longer so comely… or when I am dead, it would please me immensely to know that I have left something of beauty behind. Well, leastways, that I contributed in some small way to the creation of a more permanent form of splendor. A legacy of beauty."
Oh, Rurik, if you only knew, you create beauty in your own way… not just in how you look. And your greatest legacy is a boy with hair black as a raven's wing and silken to the touch.
Still another time, Rurik remarked, "You seem happy when you sew. Nay, happy is not the correct word. You seem peaceful."
"Hmmm. I suppose I do feel peaceful."
"Methinks I will carry this image into future battles with me. In the midst of all the blood and carnage, I will call up a mind-picture to soothe me—'Maire at Peace.' "
Maire's heart skipped a beat at the prospect of Rurik being at war, surrounded by imminent peril, possibly injured or killed. It was silly of her to mind so. After all, it was Rurik's occupation to be a fighting man. And yet Maire hated to think of him endangered.
Mostly, there were silences while she sewed on her tapestry… easy, comfortable silences. Once, Maire looked up to see Rurik just staring at her. Their eyes connected, and he smiled, softly. She smiled back. It was such a precious moment that tears welled in her eyes, and she had to resume her work quickly before Rurik could notice and think her a foolish, smitten maid.
Then Maire became absorbed in her work, pausing only when she heard a commotion coming from belowstairs and realized that her people were making for bed. She must have been working for many hours.
Glancing over to the bed, she saw that Rurik had fallen asleep. She set aside her threads and placed the precious needles in their special silver case, which had been passed down through generations of Campbell women. Walking over to the bed, she looked down at the insufferable rogue. At rest, he was handsome in an altogether different way. His black lashes lay against his skin like fans. His mouth was full and sensual, but not in a threatening way. The blue mark stood out, of course, but, truth to tell, Maire liked it. Without it, his features were too perfect.
With a sigh, Maire slipped her chemise over her head and eased herself into the bed. Resting her face against his warm chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart.
Still sleeping, Rurik wrapped one arm around Maire's bare shoulder and tucked her more tightly against his form.
During the night Rurik awakened her in the best possible way—making sweet love to her. It was a silent, gentle loving… as powerful and bone-melting as his more aggressive, blood-pounding bedplay had been earlier.
Words were not necessary.
They both knew they were falling in love.
And they both knew how utterly impossible such a love would be.
Sometimes destiny was not all the bards claimed it to be. Sometimes fate dealt the harshest blows by planting love where there was no chance for the seedlings to grow. Sometimes Maire wished she really were a witch so that she could make wishes come true with a mere swish of her magic staff.
Chapter Twelve
"Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!"
"What was that?" Rurik asked as he bolted upright in bed, awakened from a sound sleep mere minutes past dawn.
"Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!" "Holy Thor! It sounds like a herd of elephants farting."
Maire sat up beside him, rubbing her eyes sleepily with one hand, and holding on to a sheet tucked about her breasts with the other. "I know you have traveled a great amount, Rurik, but have you actually encountered a herd of elephants… breaking wind?" she inquired incredulously.
"Nay. Not precisely."
"Tsk-tsk!" she chided playfully. "Best you watch your lying, Rurik. You know what they say about Vikings that misstate the truth."
"Well, I have seen elephants, but not…" He stopped abruptly. "That is not the issue. What is that ungodly racket?"
"Murdoc is probably teaching Bolthor how to play the bagpipes."
"At dawn."
"They will be busy with more crucial duties the rest of the day. This would be the only time."
Rurik put his face in his hands. "I have survived a childhood of abuse in a pigstead. I have survived near-mortal wounds in battle. I have survived five years of ridicule over my blue face mark. But I doubt that I can survive both Bolthor's sagas and his playing the pipes." All the time he spoke, the most ungodly noise was rising up from the courtyard below their windows… rather like a lusty mead fart, or the blowing sound of mockery made by children with outthrust tongues, except that this sound was louder. Much louder.
"Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!"
"Mayhap we should send Bolthor and a set of bagpipes onto the MacNab lands. That would be enough to make them surrender, methinks."
Maire put fingertips to her lips to stifle a giggle.
"Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!"
He jumped out of bed and began to don his braies. "I will put a stop to this nonsense, that I swear." Even though he was in a rush, after he was fully dressed he took the time to comb his hair and put a narrow braid on either side of his face, interlaced with colored beads. And he shaved, as well. Old habits died hard.
Maire was still watching him with a bemused expression on her face when he was done.
"Well? Are you going to stay abed all day? I ne'er took you for a slug-a-bed." He walked over to the bedstead and couldn't help smiling at the alluring pictu
re she made. The bed linen still covered her bare form, but it revealed as much as it concealed. With her slumber-mussed hair and sex-flushed cheeks and kiss-pouty mouth, the witch looked like naught more than a wench who had been well tupped, but to Rurik she resembled a goddess. He would be a fool to attempt to discount as mere lust all that had passed between him and Maire this past day and night.
"A slug-a-bed?" Maire exclaimed with mock affront. "Does that mean I am to be released from my bed prison… finally?"
He shrugged. "For now."
Disappointment passed over her face, which she immediately replaced with a look of intense relief. Quicker than he could say, "The Saxons are coming!" she was up and about, her bed linen draped about her modestly, like a Roman senator in his toga, already searching for daytime apparel.
"Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!"
"Oh," he said, suddenly remembering something he'd intended yestereve. He went over to his leather saddlebag, which sat in one corner. He finally found what he was searching for… an object wrapped in soft black velvet. Handing it to her, he said gruffly, "This is for you."
She'd already pulled on a clean, well-worn chemise while his back was turned. For some reason, the condition of her chemise tugged at his conscience. He had noticed on more than one occasion that his garments were of much finer quality than hers, even though her station in society was higher.
Her eyes went wide with surprise that he would offer her a gift, and Rurik found immense pleasure then, not only in the gifting—a practice all Norsemen enjoyed—but in the anticipation of her delight. "You have a gift for me? No one has ever given me a gift that I can recall."
No one has ever given her a gift? How can that be? Rurik's blood boiled with rage at all the men in her life who had so neglected this woman… her father, her brothers, her husband.
"Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!"
I swear, I am going to kill Bolthor. This latest endeavor pushes the bounds of friendship. Hell, it would push a foe to the brink, as well.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Maire began to unravel the cloth, uncovering the oval gemstone pendant suspended from a delicate gold chain. Although the jewel resembled a hazy emerald, it was actually a rare green amber he'd discovered last year when amber hunting with Tykir in the Baltics. One of Tykir's jewelry makers in the trading town of Birka had set the stone for him.
But, wait, Maire did not appear pleased. In fact, a small sob escaped her lips, and she began to weep, but not before attempting to hand the jewelry back to him.
"What? You do not like it? Look, Maire, it matches your eyes exactly. Truly, this pendant was meant for you. Let me help you put it on."
She shook her head. "Oh, Rurik, how could you?"
"What? How could I what?"
"Pay me… for services rendered… that's what. Just because I behaved as a… a harlot does not mean I deserve to be treated as one."
At first, her words didn't penetrate his puzzled brain, overwhelmed as it was by the cacophony of sound coming from Bolthor's unmusical mouth. When they did, he felt a sense of outrage that she would think such of him.
But her pain outweighed any insult he suffered. Dropping to one knee beside her, he pressed the pendant back into her hand. "Maire, I give you this gift in payment, but not for bedplay. When Old John told me how you suffered for having lost your maidenhead, I knew it was my fault. I treated you shamefully, and for that I am sorry. It was after my conversation with Old John that I decided to make reparation to you in some small way, and then I recalled this pendant that I'd actually discovered myself in the sandy shores off the Baltic seas. Most amber is the shade of tree sap or yellowish gold. Almost never is it green. The same day, Tykir found a hunk of golden amber the size of a man's head. So, it was a lucky day for both of us." Rurik realized that he was rambling with nervousness. Never had he expected her to decline his gift.
"Old John told you about… Kenneth?" Her body tensed, almost as if in fear.
"Just that he mistreated you after the wedding, and that some speculated the reason might have been that his bride was no longer a virgin. I assume that is why you asked to go with me, for protection."
" 'Twould seem my faithful retainer has a loose tongue." She shook her head sadly.
"No doubt," Rurik agreed, "but he has your best interests at heart. He was not gossip-mongering."
She accepted his explanation. Unfolding her clenched fist, she gazed, longingly, at the necklet that had been grasped in her palm.
"Here, let me put it on you," Rurik suggested.
She stood and allowed him to do so. The ornament looked beautiful on her, even in the dowdy undergarment. The jewel itself hung low, just above the swell of her breasts.
Turning her head to glance back at him over her shoulder, she said, "Thank you."
" 'Twas my pleasure, m'lady." He had just leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her lips when they heard a commotion out in the hall.
"Lemme go, you cod-suckin' Viking bastard!"
"Ouch! Kick me again, you smelly whelp, and your backside's gonna wear a blister the size of my hand."
"Jamie," Maire said.
"Toste," Rurik said.
They both rushed to the door, and, to their amazement, they found the little boy lying flat on his back on the corridor floor, practically spitting fire. Sitting on the boy's stomach, panting heavily, was Toste, who had a bruise above his right eye, scratch marks on his face, and a rip in his tunic.
Off to the side was the scraggly pet cat, Rose, whose back was arched, its teeth bared as it hissed its displeasure. The animal's fur was caked with mud and bits of grass and twigs. In some places, there were bald or thinning spots on its pelt.
"Go back to whate'er you were doing," Toste suggested with a grin. "I have the situation under control."
The "situation" said a word so foul Rurik blanched and Maire gasped.
"Nice amber," Toste commented irrelevantly, his gaze snagged on the gift Rurik had just given Maire.
Maire squealed with embarrassment and placed crossed palms over the exposed skin above her chemise bodice.
"I thought it was supposed to be a bride gift," Toste added with a grin at Rurik.
Rurik felt his face heat up at Toste's carelessly tossed remark. It had been a gift he'd planned to give to his betrothed on the morning after their wedding, to show his pleasure in her, but a man could change his mind. Couldn't he?
Quickly, he glanced at Maire to see if she'd heard Toste's words. Her face was bright red, but that might still be the result of Toste ogling her breasts. He hoped so.
"What are you doing up and about so early?" Rurik inquired of Toste and Jamie, wanting—nay, needing—to change the subject.
Toste sliced him a disbelieving scowl. "Are you daft, man? Everyone from here to Northumbria is awake from all that caterwauling Bolthor is producing."
Rurik had to grin at that.
But Maire was not grinning. Forgetting momentarily that she wore only her chemise, she placed a hand on each hip and demanded, "What are you doing in the keep, Jamie? And don't think you are going to escape punishment for that word I just heard come from your mouth."
"He made me come here," Jamie spat out. The boy, still flat on his back, imprisoned by Toste's greater weight, looked directly at Rurik as he spoke.
"You?" Maire inquired of him, incredulously.
"Aye, the bloody damn Viking what's been swivin' me own mother, that's who," Jamie answered for him.
"Jamie, stop it! Halt that midden talk right now!" Maire told her son. Then she directed her attention back to Rurik, "How could you, Rurik? I told you how important it was to keep Jamie hidden away, protected from the MacNabs."
"Yea, you did, but some things happened yesterday, whilst we were otherwise occupied. I made a decision, as chieftains are often called upon to do, that will better protect the boy." His chin rose in defiance, daring her to disagree with his expertise.
"What things? What have the MacNabs done no
w? And why was I not told afore this?" Her green eyes grew cloudy with anger, and her cheeks flushed with the strong emotion roiling through her. Despite all that, the only thing Rurik could focus on was her heaving chest, highlighted by the amber pendant.
"See, mother, he's just a bloody Viking. See how he gawks at your tits like a lackwit calf."
"That's it," Rurik declared with an exclamation of disgust. Shoving Toste aside, he picked up the now squirming and squealing Jamie and tossed him over his shoulder. "This boy has been begging for a battle with me since first we met. So be it."
"Nay!" Maire shrieked with alarm. "Jamie is my son, and mine to correct when he has done wrong."
"You're wrong, Maire. This is between me and the boy. I think the first thing we will start with is a bath. You stink to high Asgard, boy."
"Doona be callin' me 'boy.' I am James, High Laird of the Campbell Clan." The boy sounded pathetic, his head bobbing against Rurik's back as he spoke upside down.
"Hah! Right now you are more like the High Laird of Stench. Methinks Bolthor should create a saga about you."
As if on cue, Bolthor, somewhere in the distance, let loose with another, "Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!"
Still addressing the boy, Rurik sniffed in an exaggerated fashion and asked, "Have you been rolling in a sheep pen?" When Jamie merely gurgled in response, he added, "Yea, first a bath, then we will have a man-to-man talk and set some terms."
"Rurik… please…" Maire begged, genuine alarm ringing in her voice. Really, she protected the child overmuch if she thought contact with a Norseman would contaminate him in any way, but that was precisely how she acted. "We need to talk." This last was said in a weaker voice of surrender.
"Yea, we do, when I get back," Rurik was already stomping off toward the stairs, intending to dump the flailing child into the nearest loch. "Send Toste after me with clean garments for the whelp, along with soap, drying cloths, a comb, and scissors. And tell Toste to bring that damn cat with him, too. Rose is not smelling much like a rose these days and needs a good dunking, too, I be thinking."
