Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (12 page)

In fact, he saw her standing in the open doorway of the great hall, staring down the wide steps at the two of them. For once, she had the good sense to hold her tongue and not interfere in men’s talk.

“Aye, the work on the wall meets with my approval,” Duncan conceded with ill grace. “But why overexert yourself to build up the defenses of this keep when I will be the one to benefit from it eventually?”

Rurik’s only answer was a raised eyebrow.

“Listen, man,” Duncan said in a more conciliatory manner, turning his back on Maire and the castle, “I can see that you are striving hard to build up the defenses here. And I would have to be blind not to notice all the Campbell vermin who have crawled out of wood and vale to come back home. But you are far outnumbered. You know it, and I know it. And not just in manpower … in
whole-man
power, not a lot of limbless, half-blind graybeards.”

Rurik bristled, as did some of the Campbell men who overheard the callous remark, including Old John, Young John, Murdoc, Callum, and Rob, whose
faces turned red with humiliation. ’Twas unkind of Duncan to demean their manhood so, but then, Duncan was not known for his kindness.

“Your gall passes all bounds, Duncan MacNab. Do not underestimate the power of any man,” Rurik said defensively. “If you are half the fighting man you claim to be, surely you know that might is not always measured in weight or height or
wholeness
. Betimes, the difference between victory and defeat is measured in the heart of the warrior. And I can tell you this … these men have heart aplenty.”

Rurik saw Old John and the others gape at him with surprise. He did not immediately see Bolthor, but he was certain he would be hearing a saga this eve about this very event, making him sound more heroic than was merited. More important, he would warrant that he’d earned points with Maire, who was equally slack-jawed, though that was not why he’d spoken.

Duncan made a snarling sound of anger, but all that issued from his mouth was a profane expletive.

“What brings you here today, Duncan? Medoubts ’tis to make peace.”

“Hah! Hardly.” Duncan rubbed his mustache with a forefinger, pensively. “I had hoped that we might come to an agreement, soldier to soldier.”

“Such as?”

“I could locate the old crone for you.” A crafty lift appeared in the center of his lone eyebrow.

Now, that offer surprised Rurik. “The old crone? What would I want with some old crone? Do I look as if I need an aged woman for swiving?”

“You misread me, Viking. I refer to Cailleach … the old crone who was mentor to Maire the Witch.”

“You would deliver another witch to me? I can scarce wait. Two witches of my very own.”

“Not just any witch … a powerful witch … one who would surely know how to remove your blue mark.”

“Are you saying that Maire cannot?”

“I’m not saying she canna, but I notice your mark is still there.”

Rurik didn’t need any reminders. But something nagged at his memory. “Didn’t Kenneth banish the witch from Scotland when he took Maire to wife?”

Duncan threw out his hands as if that fact were neither here nor there.

Rurik frowned. “Speak plainly. Know you where the old crone is?”

“Mayhap I do, and mayhap I do not.”

“Aaarrgh! Enough of your games! What is it you want of me?”

“Maire. And her Campbell lands. In return, I give you back your pretty face and safe conduct out of Scotland.”

Rurik pondered for several long minutes. It was a tempting offer. Truly it was. Especially since he had a wife-to-be waiting anxiously for him in the Hebrides. A smart-thinking man would jump at this chance.

But Rurik did not always do the smart thing.

And he did not like the MacNab … not one bit.

And he did not relish jumping to any man’s tune, least of all a scurvy Scot.

And honor was too hard-won for a man to give it up easily.

And the look on the Campbell men’s faces when
he’d defended them had touched a place deep inside of Rurik.

And he had not yet “punished” Maire with long bouts of bedsport.

Still, Rurik surprised even himself when he declined with a curt, “I am not interested.”

It was late before supper was served that night.

Maire and her women had worked hard to clean the hall—the first time in many, many months, apparently—and she’d insisted that everyone bathe before coming inside to eat. So, the men went to one loch and the women to another, where they made quick work of their ablutions in the icy waters.

Although the Scotsmen did a bit of griping, Rurik and his men didn’t mind all that much. Norsemen tended to bathe more often than the average man. Some said that was why women from many lands were attracted to them … not because of their wondrous good looks, but because they were less malodorous than their own menfolk. Rurik preferred to think it was both.

He now leaned back in his chair on the dais where the head table was located, sipping at a cup of
uisgebeatha
.
The amber-colored liquid went down smoothly, and his gullet was becoming accustomed to its bite, but Rurik was cautious about imbibing too much. He had plans for later that would not be enhanced by his having an ale-head. In the meantime, it was rather nice, just sitting in a clean hall, with muscles aching after a day of hard labor, knowing they were safe for a while, and relishing the pleasant scents wafting around them—not just the sweet-scented herbs from the rushes, but the rich aromas of roast meats, soon to come to the table. I
must be getting old, to gain satisfaction from such small things
.

There was another activity bringing enjoyment to Rurik, and that was just watching Maire as she bustled about the hall, ordering maids and housecarls about in the serving of the meal. She’d changed her
arisaid
after bathing, and this one-piece, belted garment that the Scotswomen arranged so artfully into pleats and gathers was just as faded as the one she’d had on this afternoon. Were they all she had? And her a highborn lady, too. Why hadn’t her husband—gone only three months—provided better for her? Oh, Rurik knew the keep was in bad shape, neglected because of other, more dire concerns, but her people raised their own sheep and wove their own cloth.

Hmmm
. There was a puzzle here … one that Rurik promised himself he would solve later.

Besides, she looked good to him, even in the loose garment. A braided belt called attention to a slim waist and the turn of hips and high breasts. She would hate it if she knew how all her movements pulled the loose fabric this way and that, but mostly taut against her feminine parts, including the sweet, sweet curve
of her buttocks. She would also hate it if she knew that she kept touching, reflexively, the love mark he’d put on her neck, and each time she did so, he felt a jolt in his nether regions. Lance—the ridiculous name he was now giving to his man part, thanks to Maire—was nigh gleesome with anticipation.

Her hair was still damp from her bath and curled about her face since she’d not had time to dry it properly. He remembered suddenly how her luxuriant hair had felt in his fingers that afternoon.

And how her lips had felt under his lips. Oh, Holy Thor! He would never forget that. No other woman had such a sensual mouth. He should tell Bolthor to concoct a praise-poem to her lips. “Ode To a Woman’s Lips.” That idea caused his own lips to curl up at the edges in a slight grin. He could only imagine her consternation.

She glanced up suddenly, and her eyes connected with his. In that moment, when time stood still for a mere second, he saw awareness in her gaze. He would wager a king’s treasure that she was remembering, too.

A burst of laughter somewhere in the hall caused them both to blink and glance away, as if they’d committed some forbidden act. He forced himself to take several deep breaths and concentrate on other activities.

At the far end of the hall, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Wee-Jamie, followed by Rose, the mangy cat, followed by the huffing and puffing monk, Father Baldwin, who grabbed both boy and feline by the scruffs of their necks and dragged them back outside. The boy appeared to be still filthy and the only one
in the entire clan who hadn’t taken a bath. If Rurik didn’t know better, he would swear the priest was showering the lad with bad words.

Maire noticed the boy, too. He saw the yearning look in her doleful eyes, but she did nothing to call him back. Evidently, Maire still wanted the boy away from the keep, for his own safety. It seemed unfair to deprive a child of the feast, but that was her decision to make, not his.

Old John was there at the high table with him, as well as Bolthor, Stigand, Toste, and Vagn, though the latter two were ogling the sloe-eyed daughter of some sheepherder come down from the hills yestereve. They were all sipping at the potent brew, and, whilst not
drukkinn
, they were all feeling mellow.

Rurik’s eyes strayed to Maire once again … an involuntary action he could not seem to stop.

Old John coughed when he noticed the direction of Rurik’s gaze. “Smitten with our fair Maire, are ye?”

“Huh? Who? Me?” Rurik said halfwittedly.

Old John just smiled and touched his neck, mirroring Maire’s gesture. By the holy rood, had everyone noticed the mark on her neck?

Sensing Rurik’s discomfort, he said, “Now, now, do not be blustering so. ’Tis a natural thing fer a man to want a woman. The bulls in the fields, the rams in the hills, even the wee fishies in the burns … all these are subject to the same urges as we men. Some say it all began with Adam. Aye, methinks ’tis all part of God’s plan and you and Maire be no different.”

Odin’s eyes! Now, I’m being lectured on sex by a one-armed, aging Scotsman!
Rurik heard an odd gursound
and realized it emanated from himself. “Maire hates me,” he pointed out.

“Faint heart ne’er won the fair lady,” Old John expounded.

Oh, God!

“Besides, Maire deserves some good treatment from a man,” Old John rambled on. “She’s had little enough of it in her life thus far.”

Now, that was a bit of news he had not heard before. “What mean you? Did her father and brothers not treat her well? Or her husband? Logic says, being the only girl child in the chieftain’s family, she would have been spoiled like a pampered pet.”

“Spoiled? Hah! Her father died when she was little more than a bairn. Raised by her two brothers she was, but they had no time fer her. Two wives each, Donald and Angus had. All four of them died in the birthing and not a whelp to live from the lot of them. Donald and Angus were not unkind to Maire, precisely … neglectful would be a better word. That be why she spent so much time with the old witch, Cailleach.”

Rurik shrugged. Life was hard. Many men from many lands treated their womenfolk so, though Rurik’s friends did not, and he considered their homes more pleasant as a result. “How about her husband? Did he not cherish her, as newly wedded grooms are wont to do?”

“Humph! Kenneth was beastly to our Maire. The man had a mean mouth on him, and beat her on occasion, he did.”

Rurik bristled with outrage. “Beat? How badly?”

“Not so bad. Many a bruise and blackened eye and cracked lip, of course …”

Of course? Of course? There is no natural course in that!

“… but no broken bones … well, except for that one time her arm got broken, but Maire claimed she fell down the stairs. She was no doubt tryin’ to protect her husband from her wrathy clansmen, but we had to accept her word.”

Rurik clenched and unclenched his fists several times to calm himself. He knew it was not uncommon for a man to beat his wife, especially if provoked, but he felt a wild fury at hearing of Maire’s maltreatment. “I thought… well, Maire spoke of her upcoming marriage as a love match. Leastways, that is how I recall it, though it has been five years since last we met.”

Old John shook his head. “Kenneth was not a bad sort afore the wedding … certainly not of the same devilish ilk as his older brother. But he changed. Not just in his attitude toward Maire, but toward the Campbell lands and our whole clan, whose name he’d vowed to take on afore the ceremony. Some people said at the time that his bitterness was caused by…” Old John let his words trail off, as if he’d said too much.

“What?” Rurik prodded, then glared at Old John with the silent message that he’d best continue or face the consequences.

Old John took a long swallow from his cup and then disclosed, “Some said another had gone afore him, if you get my meaning, and this Kenneth discovered in the bridal bed. Virginity matters overmuch
to men, if you ask me. Rumor was that it was for the lack of a maidenhead that Kenneth turned sour and punished her thereafter, when the foul mood was upon him.”

Rurik sucked in a sharp breath. Maire had been abused because of lying with him? In his country, women were more free. Oh, a maidenhead was prized, as it was in other lands, especially in negotiating the bride price, but lack of one was usually not such a huge problem… except betimes in uniting noble families. Certainly, it did not warrant beatings.

Now, adultery was another matter. Rurik had traveled to many countries where a husband would be entitled to have his wife’s head shorn of all hair for such an offense. In one case, the man had even cut off the tip of his unfaithful wife’s nose. But single, unattached women were usually given more leeway.

For the love of Freyja! Why had she not said anything?

But then, he immediately chastised himself as he realized that, in a way, she had. That must be why she’d urged him to take her with him, even if only for a short while. She’d known what the repercussions would be.

And how had he helped her? He’d laughed.

Rurik closed his eyes for a moment as guilt overwhelmed him. All his life, ever since he’d been a small boy, beaten and berated by those bigger and stronger than he, Rurik had taken great pains not to behave in a like manner to others … not weaklings, and certainly not women. And now he had to live with the fact that he’d caused the same pain to be inflicted on another person.