The Blue Viking Page 4

  The only hale and hearty ones in the bunch were the boys, who could be good fighters with the proper training. Several of these boys appeared to be around Jostein's age, but if they fought the way they rode their horses, Jostein could beat them in a trice, and Jostein was not yet an accomplished soldier.

  Once again, he was reminded, reluctantly, of his past. This time, it was a mental image of a skinny, underdeveloped halfling. Thank the gods he'd been fortunate enough to have a friend who could teach him those survival skills. Who would instruct these half-men? The one-armed warrior? Or the half-blind one?

  Who were these ragtag warriors? What did they want of him?

  Ah, well, 'tis none of my concern. He shook his head to rid himself of unwelcome thoughts.

  "Are you Rurik the Viking?"

  Rurik stood and pulled his sword from its scabbard, just in case. "Yea. Who is it that asks?"

  "I be John. Old John," the leader said. "And this be Young John." He motioned with his head toward the half-blind man beside him. "And Murdoc," he added, pointing to the homely one; "Callum," the twitcher; "and Rob," the mutterer.

  Oh, good Lord!

  "We are of the Campbell clan," Old John said, concluding his introductions.

  "Campbells?" Rurik spat out.

  "Aye, Lady Maire is our mistress."

  He was suddenly alert with interest. "Is this the selfsame person as Maire the Witch?"

  Old John's eyes went wide; then he exchanged amused glances with his comrades. Their reaction to his calling Maire a witch was the same as the MacNab's. Hmmm. But Rurik had no time to study on the matter more, for Old John was speaking again.

  Smiling crookedly, Old John asked, "Wouldst like to locate the witch's lair?"

  Now that was a lackwit question… after five years of bearing the witch's mark, three years of which had been wasted searching for her. He put one fist on a hip, trying to appear casual. "And if I do?"

  "Mayhap we can help ye."

  "Why would you help us? We have firsthand knowledge of how much you Scotsmen love us Vikings." Rurik looked pointedly at the bodies that still lay strewn about the gully.

  "Might those be MacNabs?" Old John inquired hopefully as he leaned forward to get a better look. Young John squinted his good eye to see better, too. Murdoc scratched his missing ear as he contemplated the question. Callum kept jerking his head toward the dead soldiers. And Rob muttered over and over, something about "dead-as-dung MacNabs."

  "Do dragons roar and Saxons stink?" Rurik answered.

  Old John smiled widely then. If there was one thing the Scots and Vikings had in common, it was dislike of the Saxons. "Praise God! Ye mus' be the answers to our prayers."

  "Me? Me? The answer to someone's prayers?" Rurik was not amused. "I think not."

  "Ah, but mayhap you will change your mind. We come to offer you a proposition, Viking."

  "A proposition? From a Highlander? Hah! I must inform you that I mistrust Scotsmen mightily."

  "Then we are on even ground, because I mistrust Norsemen as well."

  Rurik cocked his head to the side in confusion. "Then why would you offer me a… what did you call it… proposition?"

  Old John shrugged. "Desperation."

  Rurik had to give the man credit for honesty.

  "Lead our clan to victory, Viking. That is all we ask. Deliver us from the pestilence that has overtaken our Campbell lands. If ye will pledge us that, we will deliver ye forthwith to our mistress, Maire of the Moors."

  Rurik arched an eyebrow at that unexpected offer. "And might that pestilence bear the name MacNab?"

  "It might," Old John admitted.

  Rurik frowned with confusion as he recalled the MacNab's last words to him… something about wanting to marry Maire. As far as he knew, Maire had been wed these past five years. "Why does Maire's husband not protect her clan?"

  "Kenneth MacNab died three months ago."

  "MacNab? Maire was married to a MacNab?"

  Old John nodded, his face flushing with anger. "Yea, and a miserable cur he was, too. The youngest brother of Duncan… younger by fifteen years, I would guess."

  Rurik had other questions he'd like to ask, but they could come later. For now, there was one that was foremost in his mind. "Who is your laird, then? Nay, do not tell me it is your mistress, Maire the Witch?" He refused to give her that gentler appellation, Maire of the Moors.

  All the Campbell men burst out laughing.

  "Females cannot be chieftains of our particular clan," Old John explained, "though Lady Maire has done a fine job of holding all together till the laird can take over."

  Rurik was weary of all this vague talk and innuendo. With impatience, he demanded, "Then who in bloody hell is laird?"

  The Campbell horsemen moved aside, right and left, leaving a path through their group. Riding up on a dappled gray mare was a fat monk with tonsured head and an enormous belly. Sitting in front of him on the horse was a filthy, ill-garbed, barefooted boy of little more than four winters. He was black-haired and green-eyed and soon demonstrated that he had the tongue of a seasoned seaman.

  With a compelling bravado for one so young, the child proclaimed in a shrill voice, "I am the bloody hell laird."

  "Bhroinn, rachadh, gleede, chunnaic. Nay, that's not it. Rachadh, gleede, bhroinn, bhroinn." Maire exhaled loudly with frustration. "Why, oh, why can't I remember the words of the spell? If only Cailleach were still here! I would have been out of this cage the first day."

  For the past two hours, ever since Nessa had left, Maire had been trying one witchly device after another… spells, curses, centering, circling, wind riding, visualizing, grounding, even body raising. None of them had worked… not even in the backward way they were wont to do sometimes when she got the rituals wrong.

  Now she was left with her final alternative. Putting her palms together, she looked out at the gray skies. "Dearest God, please help me in my dire need."

  It was then that Maire saw the six Vikings. They were turning the bend at the bottom of the small mountain she called home, Beinne Breagha. Most alarming was the fact that her very own clansmen led the way.

  Could this possibly be the answer to her prayer? If so, she was going to give up her witchly attempts and spend lots more time on her knees.

  She thought of something else. So, this was Old John's plan… the one Nessa had referred to. Her mouth thinned with displeasure. Well, she could not be angry with her loyal retainer. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Old John must have believed there was hope with the Vikings. She had to trust in Old John. What else could she do?

  A quick scan of the approaching group showed that her son was not with them… nor his monk caretaker. Maire breathed a sigh of relief. Thank the heavens that Old John had exercised the good sense to keep young Jamie hidden in the woods, out of danger, and the Viking's presence.

  Even as she noticed the Vikings in the distance, she saw a battered and bloody messenger rush up to the dozen or so MacNab men who'd been left to guard her keep. Almost immediately, the men gathered their weapons and other belongings and, cursing loudly and shaking their fists at her, scattered in the direction of the MacNab lands, like chaff in the wind. Duncan MacNab was a brave man when his opponents were weaker than he. At the least prospect of an equal adversary, however, he would scoot off, waiting for the chance to pounce when a back was turned or chicanery could be practiced.

  She was not deceived by their hasty retreat, though. They would return… in greater numbers.

  But, oh, it grated her pride sorely that it was this man, above all others—Rurik—who came to rescue her from the MacNabs… even if only temporarily. The callous brute had beaten her pride to the ground once before. She would not let him do it again… despite her ignominious position.

  Maire sighed deeply, wondering if her lot would be any better with the Vikings than the MacNabs. She stood and held on to the cage bars, staring out over the Campbell land she loved so much. She tried to imagine seeing
her home through the much-traveled Vikings' eyes.

  There were Campbells in Scotland who were rich and powerful. Maire's family was of the poorer branch. Though built on stone foundations, her keep, which was referred to as a castle, was little more than a rambling, timber hill-fort perched atop a flattened earthen bank. Two concentric rings of walls and ditches surrounded the fortress, pierced by a single gateway. Beyond the "castle" walls was the village of a hundred wooden huts—wattle and daub with conical thatched roofs. Most of them were unoccupied and in a state of decay, but they bespoke a more prosperous time.

  Afternoon was gone and eventide not yet upon them… a time referred to as the gloaming, when a mystical aura lay over the land, highlighting the rugged, stone-dotted land with its luxuriant blanket of lavender-colored heather. Visitors to the Scottish Highlands were wont to comment on what they perceived as its harshness but they were blind. There was so much beauty in this stark land it nigh brought tears to Maire's eyes.

  That was neither here nor there. She must concentrate on the Viking, and how to handle this new dilemma.

  Even from her lofty perch in the cage, she had to admit that these Viking men, expertly guiding their fine horses on the twisted path, were an impressive group. Though several appeared wounded from some recent fight—perhaps with the MacNabs—they all sat tall and proud, never once glancing with fear to the side, where the remnants of her Campbell followers were coming out of hiding, prepared to defend her honor and that of the clan.

  But why should the Vikings be fearful? They were men in their prime… fierce warriors. Whereas all she had left of her clan were the old and the young, thanks to one war after another these past twenty years. Scotsmen were as bad as Vikings. They loved a good fight, and it mattered not if the enemy were Saxon, Viking, Frank, or fellow Scotsman.

  If more women were permitted to be chieftains of the clans, this would not happen, in Maire's opinion. Some clans did allow such, but her particular branch called for the leadership to pass through the males of the family. So all Maire could do was try to hold the clan together till her son could inherit.

  What must these Vikings—some of whom she knew were highborn—think of her crumbling wood-and-stone keep? Or her poor guardsmen? Well, Maire refused to bow her head in shame. If her home was not as grand as it once had been, that was not her fault. As to her followers… ah, she was proud of them, one and all.

  Old John was missing one arm, thanks to a surprise Saxon attack ten years past. Her father, Malcolm, had already been dead by then, but her brothers Donald and Angus had left John in charge whilst they went off fighting in Northumbria. Angus never came home that time and was buried in the cold earth of Northern England. Donald had caused her all kinds of problems since their father's death… most importantly, betrothing her to the youngest of the neighboring MacNab clan, Kenneth MacNab. Donald Campbell had died last year, and her husband, Kenneth, just a few months ago. Maire could not regret either of their deaths, though she had thought she loved Kenneth at one time. Neither of her brothers had left any heirs.

  Old John was leading the entourage, single file, up the pathway to her keep. His one good arm held a claymore at the ready as he glared at the passing countryside, on the alert for MacNab stragglers.

  A short distance behind him rode Young John, who also surveyed the craggy landscape. Young John was only thirty years old, but he was blind in one eye. And he had a problem with dizziness. Often he keeled over without any warning.

  A dozen or so others followed behind them. Another dozen of her "guardsmen" and crofters sprang up at various posts along the way. They had sentry duty along the pathway, as if they could stop the Vikings if they wanted to.

  Her eyes skimmed over the Norsemen as they came closer, their horses clip-clopping over the wooden drawbridge as they passed through the gateway. She'd met some of them before, when she'd first encountered Rurik on a visit to her cousins in Glennfinnan.

  The twins, Toste and Vagn, must be twenty-two now. They'd been a rascally pair of seventeen-year-olds when last she'd seen them in the seaport town. With long blond hair and pale blue eyes and cleft chins, they'd had no trouble attracting women, even then. Now, their bodies had gained a mature musculature. She wondered if they still fooled people by pretending to be each other.

  There was that mean-eyed soldier, Stigand the Berserk, with his wild beard and unkempt mane of reddish blond hair. Hard to tell how he really looked under all that hair, but he had a haughty presence about him that was rather appealing. His eyes were deep brown, like a muddy stream, and bespoke some great pain. He was reputed to be a heartless killer.

  Maire did not recognize the young man, who could not have seen more than fifteen winters, but he carried himself with the same arrogance as all the others. His blond good looks probably gained him much in female regard, even at his young age.

  The huge giant with the black eye patch was no doubt Bolthor the Skald… slightly older than Stigand. She'd never met him, but had heard much of his clumsy sagas. They rarely had visitors these days at Beinne Breagha; so even the words of a bad poet would be a welcome diversion if circumstances were different.

  Lastly came the leader of this Viking retinue… the one from whom Maire had the most to fear. Rurik.

  By the saints, would you look at that mark? Did I really do that? It certainly is… blue.

  Oh, he was uncommonly handsome, still. The jagged blue mark down the center of his face did not detract from his appearance at all, in Maire's opinion. In truth, he resembled the untamed, painted Celtic warriors of old.

  Five years had passed since she'd seen him last. So, he must have seen twenty-eight winters by now. The years had been kind to the knave.

  Though many of the Norsemen had pale hair, Rurik's was midnight black and hung down to his shoulders. The strands were held off his face, on the sides, by thin braids that had been intertwined with gold thread and amber beads. All the men wore slim trews and leather boots, topped by woolen tunics, belted at the waist, and short mantles over their broad shoulders, Rurik's shoulder mantle was of silver fox, held in place by a large golden brooch in the shape of some twisting animal, perchance a dragon. The woad-dyed tunic that hugged his frame had strips of appliqued samite along the neckline, short sleeves, and hem, adorned with vividly colored embroidery. His face was clean shaven and well-sculpted, except for a few small scars… and the blue mark, of course.

  To say he was stunningly virile would be a vast understatement.

  The Vikings stopped their horses in the inner courtyard. Only then did they glance up at her, still standing in her dangling cage. In fact, they stared at her with horror. Was it her rundown keep, or was it she herself who aroused such disgust? While Rurik was adorned in finery fit for a Saxon atheling, she wore a simple undyed wool arisaid—the female pladd, which was little more than a large cloak wrapped artfully about the body and fastened at the center of the chest with a brooch and at the waist with a belt. She had not bathed in days, nor combed her hair. Frankly, she stank, though she misdoubted her body odor would carry down to the courtyard.

  Rurik's upraised eyes met hers. Blue, blue eyes… hard as icy water in the winter lochs. His expression was a mask of stone, unreadable, except that he appeared to be visibly shaken and very, very angry. His tightly coiled power resonated in the air, though he did not move.

  A sudden chill hung in the air, and there was an eerie silence all around. Even the birds had quieted.

  Rurik was stunned by the depravity of this savage land… or rather the depravity of a man who could do such to a woman… put her in a cage, like an animal. It was unconscionable.

  So overcome with fury was he that, for several long moments, he was unable to speak. Fisting his fingers tightly, he slowly brought his temper under control.

  Eventually, he met the green eyes of the witch, who was staring at him without trepidation, even though he favored her with his fiercest glower. She no doubt thought his anger was directed at her. Well, it was…
partly. And she should be fearful, if she had a jot of sense in her body.

  She had changed these past five years; he could see that. His upper lip curled at the sight of her straggly red hair. Rurik had a personal aversion to red hair on a woman. Red-headed women tended to be temperamental and fiery-tongued, in his experience. Not worth the trouble. Like his friend Tykir's wife, Alinor. Trouble, trouble, trouble. He had to concede, though, that, despite the wrinkled, blanketlike robe Maire wore, her beauty was apparent… a more mature beauty than she had exhibited when she was a mere twenty.

  But he refused to be attracted to the witch. Never again!

  "Maire the Witch," Rurik shouted suddenly.

  Maire lurched. "Magdalene's tears! Are you speaking to me?"

  A low, rumbly sound came up from Rurik's chest at her impertinence. "Nay, I'm speaking to that skinny rooster over there."

  "You don't have to be testy with me, Viking," she grumbled.

  Testy? I will give you testy. "Maire, get your arse down here," he roared.

  Chapter Three

  Dumb, dumb, dumb… The man is dumber than a wooly Highland sheep.

  "How would you suggest I do that, Viking?" she asked with seeming pleasantry.

  "You're a witch. Do you not fly?"

  She laughed. She couldn't help herself. The man really was a halfwit. "Not lately."

  He scowled at her mirth-making, and she recalled, of a sudden, how prickly his pride had been at one time. Apparently it still was. Men and their stupid vanities! She could not be bothered.

  "You cannot be a very good witch, if you got yourself in this… this"—his eyes went hot with some inner fury as he gazed upon her cage—"this dilemma. A witch should be able to escape."

  Well, he was correct there. "Are you going to let me hang here, Viking, or are you going to release me?"

  He rested both palms on the horn of his saddle and smiled ferally at her. His eyelids were hooded, like a hawk's. "Hmmm. Methinks there might be great pleasure to be had in keeping you caged… but not nearly enough satisfaction for the grief you have caused me these past years."