The Blue Viking

by Sandra Hill

  Maire was disconcerted to see that he wore the flexible chain mail underneath. "Even if I accepted your explanation regarding the necklet," she said, "there is still the matter of your betrothal." She hated the fact that tears rose in her eyes; she had thought the well had run dry with all her sobbing.

  He waved a hand airily. "The betrothal is no longer an issue. I have decided that the best course is for you and me to wed." Rurik appeared dumbfounded at his own words, as if they had just slipped out of their own accord.

  She stared at him, insulted by his halfhearted proposal. "Bigamy now? You would practice bigamy?"

  "Bigamy?" he repeated dumbly. "Oh, you mean the more danico. Nay, I will not indulge in that Norse practice of multiple wives."

  "Speak plainly, Viking." She narrowed her eyes at him.

  "Theta agreed to wed with me only if I would have the blue mark removed. Since that is no longer an option, the betrothal is invalid. I will inform Theta of that fact by courier… Jostein and John, to be specific."

  "Why is removal of the blue mark no longer an option?" She was beginning to feel as thickheaded as the doublespeaking Norseman standing before her.

  He gave her a look that said she should already know the answer. "Because Cailleach offered me a deal. She would remove the blue mark if I would give you up and leave Scotland forever. And I said nay."

  "You said nay?" She backed up and hit her shoulders against the bedpost, overcome with amazement. Rurik had chosen her, over his own renowned vanity? How could that be?

  "Of course. What else did you think I would say?" he asked, affronted. He had all the armor off now. "There is another thing, Maire. Cailleach told me that you are not carrying my child… you know, from our mating in the loch. I'm sorry. I mean, I'm sorry if you're sorry."

  He's not leaving Scotland?

  He's choosing me over his vanity?

  He's sorry that I'm not pregnant?

  Just then, Rurik noticed that her tapestry was finished. He walked over to examine it more closely. For a second, Maire could have sworn she saw an expression of intense yearning in his eyes as he touched the cloth, reverently. "Maire, dost think that the fantasy could become reality?"

  She put a hand to her mouth, afraid to believe what he was saying, afraid not to believe, as well. "Rurik, stop speaking in riddles. What is it you are trying to say?"

  He mumbled something under his breath, and Maire could scarce breathe for what she thought she heard. His face was flushed and he seemed unable to meet her questioning gaze, even as he walked back to her.

  "Wh-what did you say?"

  He raised his head and made direct eye contact with her. He looked so bleak and unsure of himself. Rurik? Unsure of himself? That, in itself, was an amazing happenstance.

  "I love you."

  Three simple words. That's all. But they were everything to Maire, who began to weep in earnest now.

  "You're crying? I knew it! I knew it! They were the wrong words to say."

  "Oh, Rurik…" She put her face in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably. "They were the right words to say. The perfect words."

  "But you are weeping," he protested, coming up and putting his hands on her shoulders, drawing her into his embrace. And, oh, it felt so good to be in his arms once again.

  "Happiness," she blubbered out.

  "Aaaahh," he said dubiously. "Tears of happiness."

  "Do you think you could say it again?" she asked, drawing back to stare up at his face.

  "Well, I don't know." He pretended to consider. "They were a long time in coming, and I do not know if I can manage them twice."

  She smacked him on the shoulder with an open palm.

  He winced, though he probably didn't even feel her smack. "If you insist," he said, and his face went suddenly serious. "I love you, dearling. Witch of my heart. Sweet Maire of the Moors."

  Maire nigh swooned at his charmingly expressed sentiments.

  "Dost think you could say the words back to me?" he inquired in an oddly vulnerable voice. He looked so adorable as he made the request.

  "I love you, heartling. Viking of my dreams. Fierce Rurik of the Beloved Blue Mark."

  Her words must have pleased him, too, because Rurik kissed her then, and it was a kiss like no other… a kiss for all time.

  Later, after they'd sealed their love in other ways amidst Rurik's bed furs, he mentioned something about bringing out the chain mail. But Maire had other ideas. She asked him, softly, as she nuzzled against his chest, "Ah, Rurik, I don't suppose you know where to get an array of… uhm… feathers?"

  And that is the story of how Rurik the Vain became known as Rurik the Scots Viking. In fact, to no one's surprise, Bolthor composed a saga about it, which he recited to one and all at the wild Viking/Scottish wedding held at Beinne Breagha a few short days later:

  Love is a fiercesome weapon,

  Stronger than lance or bow,

  It can bring a man low,

  And raise him on high,

  All in a single blow.

  Rurik was the strongest warrior,

  Feared and lauded by all,

  But when it came to it,

  A mere Scottish witch

  Was his downfall.

  The gods have a sense of humor,

  On that everyone is agreed,

  Why else would they have created

  Man's love of woman

  Save that they needed a joke on high?

  * * *

  Author's Note

  There is nothing more compelling than a Viking… unless it's a Scottish Viking. And, yes, there were Vikings in Scotland as early as the tenth century.

  The first Norsemen came to Scotland before the ninth century… at first, as plunderers, later as settlers, seeking new lands to cultivate since their native Scandinavia was becoming overcrowded and rife with politics. The primary sites they homed in on were the Hebrides, and the Orkney and Shetland islands, because they could be easily reached by sea from their homeland. When they settled on the mainland, it was primarily in narrow coastal areas, unlike the broad regions they terrorized and settled in Britain.

  Although I have written six other Viking novels, this is my first venture into Scotland. If I thought writing early medieval novels about Vikings in Britain or Norway was difficult, I was stunned by all the complications that cropped up in this Highlands setting. I love Scottish novels, but, believe me, Scotland has a totally different language, culture, geography, and people, despite being next-door neighbor to Britain.

  With that in mind, and for the sake of my modern readers, I have taken some literary and historical licenses and provide these disclaimers:

  (1) Scotland. There is disagreement as to when Scotland first took on that name, rather than Pictland. I have sided with those historians who claim the kingdom began to be called Scotland by the end of the term of Constantine, who died in 952.

  (2) Campbells. In Gaelic, Clan Campbell followers were called Clann ua Duibhne, after Duncan mac Duibhne, and the name did not actually change to Campbell till the thirteenth century. Campbells generally settled in Argyll in western Scotland. I have placed this small fictional subgroup of the Campbell clan earlier in history and in another geographical area.

  (3) Language. Just as modern readers would be unable to understand the Medieval English spoken in Britain at that time, they would be equally unable to understand Gaelic, which was the primary language of Scotland during the tenth century, not the Scots language, which is really a lowland form of twelfth-century English—actually several regional dialects evolving out of twelfth-century English.

  (4) Clans. Clan names, per se, were not used in the tenth century. There were groups of people similar to clans, and the word clan/clann was used during this period, and earlier, since it means child or children, but it wasn't used as part of a proper name. Actually, if I were going to be strictly correct (which I choose not to be) the "mac" should be dropped as being redundant; therefore, a person would not say Clan MacGregor or
Clan MacNab, but instead Clan Gregor or Clan Nab.

  (5) Names. In Gaelic oral tradition, a man was better known by his father's and grandfather's name than by his place of origin or other descriptions. Modern readers would get a headache with these often lengthy, hard-to-pronounce Gaelic designations, which changed with each generation and with women who often took on their husband's name. For example, Alasdair Maclain MhicCaluim was Alexander, son of John, grandson of Calum. ("The Evolution of the Clans": )

  In Scotland, as in many other countries of that time, people were just given a single descriptive name, such as John Black-teeth, Robert of Red-hair, Rurik the Warrior, Mary the Dairymaid, or Kenneth the Blacksmith. You can see how cumbersome this could become in a novel, especially if there were more than one John or Robert or Rurik or Mary or Kenneth.

  Also a man's name might be different depending on whom he was addressing. For example, the same person might be John Duncanson to Scots, and Eroin mac Donnchaidh in the isles, or Johannes filius when speaking or writing Latin.

  Confused enough yet?

  It goes against my journalistic background to have to provide these disclaimers. Historical accuracy is extremely important to me in my work. But then I have to remind myself, these are romance novels. In all my Viking novels, I have created a fantasy Norse world against a historical backdrop, and in each of them the most important elements are the romance, the humor, and the sizzle (in that order).

  In essence, The Blue Viking represents the way I imagine history could have been lived, not necessarily the way that it was.

  A special thanks goes out to fellow Dorchester author, Melanie Jackson, who was gracious in helping me with some of the Gaelic and Scottish history.

  As always, I am interested in knowing what you readers think of my Vikings. I can be reached at:

  Sandra Hill

  PO Box 604

  State College, PA 16804

  shill733@aol.com

  http://www.sff.net/people/shill