“Wh-what?”
“The seed ye spilled inside Maire when makin’ love in the loch … it did not take. Ye are free of that burden.”
So, Maire was not pregnant. He didn’t even bother to ask how Cailleach would know such a thing and so soon. Lackwit that he was becoming, though, he accepted that the old witch had such talents. Rurik should have been relieved that Maire was not increasing, but, oddly, he was not.
“Go away, Cailleach. I am not in the mood for your witchly games.”
“Are you in the mood for having the blue mark removed?”
That got his attention. He sat up straighten “Can you remove the mark?”
“I can … if I want to.”
“And what would make you want to?” Rurik suspected that he was not going to like the answer.
“A deal. You agree to leave Scotland, alone, and I will remove the blue mark.”
He’d been right. He didn’t like the answer. “You dislike me that much?”
“I do not dislike you at all. In truth, I rather like you. But you would not be a good man for Maire.”
Rurik was insulted. He wasn’t so sure he would make a good mate, either, but it was not for an old hag to tell him so.
“Oh, do not be gettin’ yer bowels in an uproar,” Cailleach advised. “Maire needs a stable person in her life. Someone who will stay put… be there for her and the boy, not only in a crisis, but for the everyday. Not a very exciting life, is it? Not like ?-Viking, leastways.”
Rurik wasn’t so sure about that. Adventuring did not hold the great appeal it once had. And he had enjoyed the everyday humdrum of living at Beinne Breagha the short time he’d been here. Would it wax dull after a while? But, nay, thinking back on Maire’s tapestry and how he’d felt viewing the scene, he suspected that boredom would not be a problem.
“And a man who is incapable of love … well, what kind of relationship would that be for Maire?”
“Love, love, love! I am sick to my gizzard of folks telling me that I must be in love with Maire.”
Cailleach’s grizzled gray eyebrows went up at his vehement response. “Who has been telling you that?”
“Tykir … Alinor … Eirik … Selik … Jamie … everyone!”
Cailleach smiled widely at him then, as if he’d given the right answer, and Rurik didn’t even know what the question was.
“Down to the bone here, laddie,” Cailleach said then, reaching out to shake his hand in their potential agreement. “How much do ye hate the blue mark?”
“Immensely.”
“Will ye be leaving Scotland… in return for removal of the blue mark?”
He didn’t even hesitate before pulling his hand from her bony grip. “Nay!”
“Nay?”
“Nay!” Rurik had no idea what his answer meant. He just knew that he was not trading Maire for a perfect face, and that was what Cailleach’s offer meant. He didn’t think he would actually stay at Beinne Breagha, but in the future he wanted no one to say he’d sold his integrity for the price of vanity.
The witch rose from her seat then with a secretive smile, not as unhappy as Rurik would have expected. “I hope you know what this all means. You’ve just given yourself the key to unlock your dilemma.”
Huh? What key? What dilemma? He mulled over in his mind what the witch had been hinting at, and then he brightened with understanding. How could he have overlooked such a simple fact?
He gazed at Cailleach, who nodded at him, and murmured as she walked out, “Not as dumb as I thought he was … fer a Viking, that is.”
* * *
In the end, Rurik decided to resolve the impasse in the way of all Viking men. By brute force.
Maire had implied at one time that she’d like a knight in shining armor. Well, she was bloody well going to get one. The only difficulty was, the plated suit of armor he’d found in the castle guard room was not all that shiny; in fact, it was a mite rusty in spots.
But, damn, he felt good for the first time in what seemed an eternity … though it had only been less than a day. As a soldier, he was accustomed to aggressive action, not sitting back waiting for something to happen. Furthermore, he did not much like the mewling, pleading creature he’d become.
Yea, brute force was the best strategy. Actually, men throughout time had been resolving their dilemmas with women in much the same way. Hell, Adam had probably had to take Eve in hand a time or two also, before she got them kicked out of the Garden of Eden. Wasn’t that just like a woman, by the by?
Rurik was striding from the courtyard, through the great hall, with Stigand’s battle-ax over his shoulder. Who knew the damn thing was so heavy! Best he be careful of slipping or he might very well be minus a limb.
Hot springs of hell! but he was in a fine mood now that he’d resolved to settle this silly squabble with Maire. He didn’t even mind that people were stopping right and left to gape at him as he clanked and creaked on his way.
Jamie halted him in his path, however, looking weepy-eyed and little boyish.
He hunkered down to the boy’s level, almost whacking himself aside the head with the flat blade of the ax. Hunkering in a suit of armor was not very easy, he discovered, and he almost fell over. Adjusting the weapon to stand like a brace on the floor, he put one hand to Jamie’s drooping chin and lifted it. “What is it, son?”
“Are ye… are ye gonna chop off me mother’s head?”
Rurik almost laughed aloud at that, except that he could tell that the boy was serious. “Of course not. I would ne’er harm yer mother… I told you that afore.”
“Yer not?” Jamie blinked at him hopefully.
“Nay,” Rurik said, straightening and patting the boy, “I’m just going to chop down her door.”
Maire had just completed the tapestry and was putting away the needles and spare threads when she heard a loud—very loud—cracking noise at her locked door, followed immediately by another. In her surprise, she almost knocked over the entire tapestry frame.
There was a third cracking noise, which caused the door to shake on its hinges. She glanced over and saw the tip of a metal blade sticking through the wood, which immediately disappeared… on the backswing, she presumed.
Rurik is chopping down my door, was her first thought.
Her second was, The man is losing his mind.
“Rurik, are you losing your mind?” she screamed over the racket.
There was blessed silence for a moment.
“Are you talking to me, Maire?” Rurik asked, followed by a muttered “Praise be to the gods!”
“Aye, I’m talking to you, dunderhead,” she said, unlocking and flinging open the door before he had a chance to swing the ax again. And it was a mighty big battle-ax, she noted.
But that wasn’t the most astonishing thing.
Rurik was standing before her in an old suit of armor that must have belonged to her father or one of her grandsires … booty stolen from some raid on Saxon or Norman lands, because Scots soldiers did not wear metal armor. He smiled at her tentatively, as if testing the waters. The visor on his metal helmet kept slipping down, though. Finally, he flipped the helmet off with exasperation and tossed it out into the corridor, where she heard it roll, then bang down the stone stairway.
She returned his smile with a frown.
Which immediately caused his smile to turn to a frown, too. “What? You don’t like knights in shining armor now? Well, how was I to know that? I’m coming in.”
“You’d better, unless you want an audience for your stupidity.” She pointed to the corridor and stairwell, where dozens of people were crammed, trying to get a firsthand glimpse of the Viking idiot in action.
He tossed the battle-ax in their direction and everyone scampered out of the way. Then he stepped through the broken door and locked it behind him. He didn’t just walk in, though. He lumbered in … creakily.
“There is no need to lock the door,” she said.
“Yea, there is,” he said, adva
ncing on her. He stopped when he was a hairbreadth away. To her dismay … or perhaps not to her dismay … she noted the sensual flicker in his stormy blue eyes. “ ’Tis past time for us to end this silly squabble.” He was already beginning to peel off the armor, starting with the arm pieces.
“Silly squabble? Silly squabble?” she squeaked out, shoving his immovable metal chest. He didn’t budge one speck. “This ‘silly squabble’ involves your betrothal to another woman … and your giving me the bride gift that was intended for her.”
“I already told you that the amber necklet must have been intended for you. It would not have suited Theta, at all. Her eyes are brown, not green, and she much prefers crystal stones, as I recall.” He stopped talking when he realized he was not helping his cause. So, he began to remove more of his armor.
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 supped 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 dánico. 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 thi
rteenth 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).
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