But, wait, here came the tail end of the procession. Four of the young housecarls were carrying a makeshift tray made out of a small discarded door. On top of it sat what was a rarity in many Scottish homes—a roast suckling pig.
“Aaaaaaahhhhh!” was the communal sigh of pleasure heard round the hall at the sight and smell of this preeminent treat. But suddenly there was a loud roar.
Everybody turned as one to gaze at Stigand, who was staring at the roast pig as if it were one of his children who’d been put into the oven. He was pulling at his hair like a wild man, his eyes were rolling up in his head and a bellow like that of an enraged bear was coming from his wide-open mouth.
“Do not put your beard in a blaze, my friend,” Old John cautioned, his forehead furrowed with puzzlement.
Rurik ran up to his comrade and tried to calm him with strange words, “Go easy, my friend. Go easy. ’Tis not Thumb-Biter. Go easy.”
But Stigand was not to be placated. With one last glance of agony toward the roast pig, he ran from the great hall and out into the bailey. In the distance, his cries could be heard as one long, continuing wail.
“Shall we go to him?” Bolthor and Toste inquired of Rurik.
He shook his head. “Nay. He must be by himself. His rages are short-lived. Soon, he will return, on his own.”
“What was that about?” Maire asked Rurik finally, after everyone had sat back down and started eating.
Rurik wolfed down a good amount of food… none of it haggis … before he gave her his full attention. He smiled … a slow, sex-laden exercise … and reached over to finger the ends of her hair that had unfortunately dried into a mass of unfashionable curls. She should have pulled it back into a braid or a knot at her nape while it was still wet. “Like silk, it is,” he murmured, pulling one strand straight, then smiling when it coiled right back up.
She swatted his sinful fingers away. “Didst hear me? I asked what’s amiss with Stigand?”
His mischievous face went immediately gloomy, and he told her a condensed tale of the childhood he and Stigand had shared on some pigstead in Norway.
“I thought you said … or I had heard… that you were of noble birth.”
He shrugged, and told an equally preposterous story of being abandoned at birth because he had been born weak and undersized.
“You?”
“Me.”
A small tic worked in his taut jaw.
“Aha! You made this whole story up to win my sympathy. Well, I am not so easily fooled.”
“I take exception to your slander. Think you that I want your pity?” The tic was working even more rapidly now, and his eyes blazed blue ice at her.
“I think you would do anything to get me into your bed, Viking.”
He grinned at her. “That I own.”
“And keep a rein on your roving hands, or you may lose a finger or two to my dirk.” She tugged his palm off her upper thigh, where it had somehow crept, and pointed to the small knife sheathed on her belt.
“Oh, you will be in my bed furs, enticed or not. That is a fact, m’lady. Your pride is great, but my determination is greater.”
“Are all Norsemen as deluded as you?”
“No doubt.” With that, he tugged on the tasseled end of her belt and pulled her closer to him… so close she could smell the soap he’d used to bathe and the sprig of mint he’d chewed. “It’s the third best thing about us Vikings. Our delusions.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her, as if having delusions were a wonderful attribute.
The man was half-barmy.
“Dost know what your son did to me this eve?”
“What?” Alarm crossed Maire’s face… too extreme a reaction for his simple remark.
“He put dead tadpoles in my half boots. I discovered them after my bath in the loch.”
“The same boots that the cat relieved herself on?”
“Nay, another pair. I threw the soiled boots out in the midden.”
“You discarded a perfectly good pair of boots just because …” Maire was stunned at the waste, but she decided to keep her thoughts to herself and changed the subject. “Tadpoles, hmmm? Wee-Jamie did that? How do you know ’twas he?”
“Because there was cat fur all about… mangy black cat fur. Wherever your son goes, that cat is close by.”
Instead of making excuses for her boy, or claiming it could have been anyone, Maire promised, “I will make sure there is no repeat.”
He nodded. “By the by, where did that suckling pig come from anyhow? I did not see any pigsties about your keep. Plenty of sheep, but no pigs.”
“Oh, ’tis a MacNab pig.”
Startled, he choked on a piece of manchet bread. She clapped him hard on the back. Finally, he asked, “You stole from MacNab? With all the animosity that already exists betwixt your clans, you provoked him even more with thievery?”
“ ’Twas not thievery,” she said, as if he’d dealt her a great insult. “My clansmen were merely reaving, and the MacNabs have forty-eight acorn hogs to spare. All Scotsmen engage in a little reaving now and again. ’Tis a part of our way of life. We expect it of each other.”
“Like a Norseman going a-Viking?” She pursed her lips in disapproval of his comparison.
“I love your lips,” he said of a sudden.
She had been nibbling on a piece of haggis and a slice of oat cake when he threw out that bit of seduction. She started to choke and had to take a drink of uisge-beatha to stop. “What is there to love about lips? They merely hold the teeth in the mouth and keep the tongue from lolling out.” Maire was quite pleased with that saucy rejoinder of hers, but not for long.
“Maire, Maire, Maire,” Rurik said in a sinfully husky voice. “The best thing about a woman’s mouth … about your mouth … is the way it yields and gives back good kisses to a man, or the way it presses against a lover’s ears and whispers erotic encouragements …” He mentioned a few that had her sputtering and reaching for her drink again—things so perverted she nigh swooned. “Or the way they skim over that vee of hair from a man’s chest down past his navel, or the way they take into their mouth that…” What he said then was so far beyond the range of Maire’s experience and imagination that she just gaped at him, speechless and slack-jawed.
With a laugh, he put a forefinger under her chin, and closed her mouth for her, but not before pressing a quick kiss there.
“I would never do that.”
He arched a brow at her. “We shall see.”
“Never!”
“We shall see,” he repeated. Then, “But as to Stigand, I tell you true, we were raised by a pig herder and his wife, Hervor, the meanest hag this side of Hel. Stigand was my only friend, and Thumb-Biter was his only friend … till that evil Hervor discovered him playing with the piglet one morning. The next day, we were served Thumb-Biter for our evening meal… the first meat we’d had in many a month. After he’d finished retching up the entire contents of his stomach, Stigand ran away, and I ne’er saw him again till three years ago when he joined my troop.”
Maire’s heart nigh broke at this image of two misfit orphan boys. There was a lot to be mulled over in what Rurik had disclosed to her, and in what he hadn’t said as well. She would have to talk to Stigand later to glean more of the missing details. Her heart went out to the little boy that Rurik had been.
Before she could say anything, though, there was a gasp behind her, and she realized that Nessa had been eavesdropping on their conversation. She dropped the dirty trenchers she’d been gathering and exclaimed, “Oh, that poor, poor man. The wee laddie mus’ have suffered so.” Maire believed she was referring to Rurik and prepared herself for his angry reaction to any sign of pity. But it soon became clear that it was not Rurik, but Stigand, who’d touched Nessa, for she was already making her way across the hall, clucking and tsk-ing, and out into the bailey to comfort the berserker.
Rurik looked at her.
She looked at him.
Then they both burst out lau
ghing.
“God help poor Nessa if she tries to approach Stigand in one of his rages. He’s liable to lop off her head. Should I go help her?”
Maire shook her head. The Viking did not know Nessa when her inner sensibilities had been outraged. “God help the berserker.”
Chapter Seven
“Did ya know that a pig’s orgasm lasts half an hour?” Stigand’s question was followed by a loud belch as he grinned at those around him.
Maire was pleased that Nessa had been able to lure Stigand back into the great hall, but his comment now had her wondering how wise that decision had been.
Everyone at the head table burst out laughing at the berserker, who, since he’d returned to the hall, had imbibed a vast amount of ale, after Nessa had cut off his supply of uisge-beatha, and that on top of enough food to fill a bear’s stomach before winter hibernation. At the urging of Nessa, who hovered about him like a mother hen—or a devoted lover—he’d even eaten some haggis, and he didn’t vomit, either.
“Blindfuller!” Rurik remarked with a rueful grimace at his friend. “Drunk as a lord!”
But even Rurik could not stop himself from joining in the mirth that burst out around them. Everyone was laughing. Except Maire. “What’s an or-gaz-him?”
As one, every male at the table leaned forward, turning right and left, to stare at Maire. Slow grins crept over all their lips, and their eyes then turned to Rurik to provide the answer.
“You did not or-gaz her?” Stigand asked Rurik incredulously. “But you always gave the impression of being a great lover.”
Maire had no idea what or-gaz-ing was, but apparently all of Rurik’s men knew that he had lain with her that one time.
“Or-gaz? Or-gaz? What kind of word is that?” Rurik stammered.
“ ’Tis what talented Viking men do to bring their women to orgasm,” Toste explained to Rurik as if he were a dimwit. His lips twitched with a suppressed smile as he spoke.
Rurik reached across Bolthor and swatted Toste. The fool just laughed. Then Rurik turned to her. “You did not have an orgasm?” Rurik asked her in a little-boy, wounded voice.
“How would I know? I don’t even know what an or-gaz-him is.”
Rurik did not seem to hear her as he rubbed the nape of his neck thoughtfully. You’d think she had accused him of some great wrong. “Mayhap I imbibed too much mead that night,” he suggested.
Stigand made a snorting sound of disagreement. “On the other hand, mayhap there was a full moon, or a chill in the air.”
“Or a dog barking to distract him,” Vagn chortled. “Yea, Rurik’s dog, Beast, was no doubt barking because he had to go outdoors to piss and Rurik lost his concentration. In essence, a dog’s bladder was to blame.”
Toste was bent over with belly laughter. “Perchance his braies were too tight. That’s as good an excuse as any. I recall one time Olf the Fat claimed his wick went limp due to a too-short haircut.”
“Nay, nay, nay! I know what it was. The spell that marked Rurik’s face moved a mite lower,” Bolthor offered. “Are you sure your lily’s not blue, Rurik?”
Lily? What lily?
The whole time Rurik’s friends teased him, the frown on his forehead deepened and deepened.
“ ’Twould seem, in some things, Rurik the Greater is not so great,” Bolthor remarked with a chuckle.
Rurik reached across Maire and now it was Bolthor that he swatted, but, like Toste, the giant dolt just laughed. Now Rurik’s deep frown was accompanied by a continuous growl of irritation.
“Would someone please tell me what an or-gaz-him is?” Maire practically shouted over Rurik’s grumbles and his friends’ laughter.
“What manner of question is that?” Rurik sputtered, finally seeming to hear her. “ ’Tis not a subject for dinner talk, and certainly not for a lady’s ears.”
“All I asked was … what’s an or-gaz-him?”
“Uhm, uh, orgasm refers to the ecstasy period during the sex act.” Rurik nodded his head as if well satisfied with the reply he’d come up with. When he looked to his companions, they nodded as well. Rurik wiped his brow with a forearm and added, “Whew!”
Well, he might be relieved, but she was still confused. “Ecstasy? What ecstasy? Dost mean like the religious ecstasy when zealots go into a fit and their eyes roll back in their heads?”
“You could say that,” Toste said. “Betimes my eyes do tend to roll.” His lips twitched with deviltry as he spoke.
“And my limbs have been known to go into tremors,” Vagn added, holding his belly to relieve the peals of laughter that emanated from him.
“But there’s naught religious about what either of you do,” Bolthor pointed out to the twins. He was also laughing.
“The ecstasy period,” Rurik explained to her in a strangled voice, “is the same as peaking.”
“Peaking?” She frowned. “Like a mountain peak?”
“Nay, not like a mountain peak.” He shook his head with disbelief, as if she were a thickheaded child. “Well, in a way ’tis like climbing a mountain, reaching the peak, then tumbling deliciously over the top and down, down, down.”
Each of Rurik’s Viking friends, and Old John, too, gave him smart salutes at his presumably brilliant explanation.
“And, to your mind, there is ecstasy in falling off a mountain? And pigs do this falling for half an hour?” She puzzled over that nonsense for only half a second before pronouncing, “Methinks all men must be barmy if they follow this logic.”
Bright color started to flood Rurik’s face. Although she had lain with Rurik only once, he must be embarrassed that she hadn’t experienced this falling-off-a-mountain business with him.
Suddenly, she understood. “Oh, you mean that time when a man grants and pants and says, ‘Sweet Jesus, it’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming’?”
“That would be the time,” Rurik remarked dryly.
“There are times I thank God I’m not a man.”
“Women have orgasms, too,” Rurik said defensively, in a low voice.
“They … never … do,” she retorted hotly.
“Yea, they do, Maire,” he told her, and the smoldering look in his eyes held promise for her future. Maire was almost certain he was giving her a silent pledge—or was it a warning?—that she, too, would be falling off a mountain. And soon. He would be as hell-bent on that task as a knight on a quest.
“This is the saga of Rurik the Greater,” Bolthor began.
A communal groaning sounded up and down the high table.
“Its title is ‘Viking Men and Randy Pigs.’” He beamed, and everyone went still with interest. Except Rurik.
“Don’t you dare compose a saga that attaches my name to pigs and sex,” Rurik ordered with a snarl. “Or you may very well find yourself beaten into a pulp of pig slop.”
Bolthor did not cower, but, to his credit, he seemed to be contemplating Rurik’s warning. Then he started his saga over again, “This is the story of Stigand the Berserk…”
With a deep-from-the-belly roar, Stigand stood, picked up Bolthor and raised him high overhead with big hands braced on his chest and groin—not a small feat, considering they were of equal giant size—then tossed him to the rushes below the dais. As Bolthor stood, laughing and unhurt, he adjusted his eye patch and brushed straw off his trews. He barely paid heed to Stigand, who was still storming, “You will not link me with pig sex, either, you lackwit skald. Why don’t you speak of wars and such noble enterprises, and leave good men alone?”
After everyone stopped laughing, Maire brought Rurik back to the issue they had been discussing before they’d been interrupted by Bolthor’s poetic efforts. “Back to that ecstasy drivel, if you’re envisioning me having fits for you, you’re more daft than I originally thought.”
He smiled at her. “Not only am I going to cause you to have ‘fits,’ you just might have multiple ‘fits.’ ”
That was an image that would not leave her the rest of the evening.
Another hour had passed, and the Campbell clan was still celebrating.
Maire yawned widely and wished she could be off to her bed. It had been a long day, topped off most recently with a lute performance by Inghinn, the sheepherder’s daughter, a bawdy song rendered by the twins, Vagn and Toste, a playing of the bagpipes by Murdoc that brought tears to the eyes of many in the hall, and two sagas delivered by Bolthor, one about the Battle of Brunanburh, where Maire’s father had died years ago, and one a hugely funny story about Rurik and a fake witch who’d put an eel skin up her gown to scare him into believing she had a tail. Had Rurik really made a fortune at one time selling wood crosses and holy water to ward off witches?
Banging on the table with her cup for attention, Maire announced, “ ’Tis time to end the feast. I know that tomorrow is the Sabbath, and your workload is not so great, but some of us are falling asleep on our feet.”
“Nay, nay, nay!” the crowd yelled in disagreement. “One more entertainment.”
Maire slumped to her seat in surrender. She was outnumbered by a clan that had been too long deprived of merriment. Ah, well! Let them have one more performance then.
People were looking here and there to discover who would provide the next talent exhibition, but no one volunteered. Someone from the back of the hall shouted, “How about one of our lady’s witchly feats? A lévitation, perchance?”
Maire’s shoulders, which had been slumped with exhaustion, went immediately straight. “Nay, I will not be part of your entertainment. That’s not what witches do.” Actually, lévitations were one of the few witchly rituals she was able to perform on occasion.
“Ye made Lacklan’s bull rise in the air when it kept tryin’ ta mate with Fenella’s cow, and we were all watchin’ then,” the same man called out. It was Dougal, the blacksmith.
“Nay! Find someone else. I am too tired.”
Rurik stood up beside her and looped an arm over her shoulder, as if in companionship, but there was naught companionable about the twinkling blue eyes of the rogue. She shrugged his arm off, then listened with amazement while he told the crowd, “Have pity on your lady and let her be off to bed. Can you not see that she has been up since dawn and must needs he down on her bed furs?”
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