Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (23 page)

“Why is it so important to you?”

An astonishing flush bloomed on his cheeks and he confided, “When I was a boy, I always imagined my mother, if she had lived, sitting afore a loom or tapestry, working silently with me at her feet. A fey notion, I know. But there was so much turmoil in my life that the idea of a mother who was serene and gentle in her ladylike pursuits held inordinate appeal.”

Maire could not speak over the lump in her throat. There was so much of the little boy still in Rurik, and long-suppressed emotions roiled inside him, though he would never admit to such “weaknesses.” She tried to lighten the air of somberness that invaded the room. “So, you think of me like a mother?”

He laughed at that, and his beautiful blue eyes twinkled with sudden merriment. “Hardly that, m’lady. Come here, and I will show you.”

She just smiled … on the outside. Inside, her heart grew heavy and light at the same time. Heavy, because she felt as if she were standing in a dangerous peat bog, her feet sinking in the mud at the bottom, like quicksand. And light, because she knew there would be such joy in doing something—anything—to please this man. Even if it was just needlework.

How could she refuse him such a simple favor? Rurik was a dolt some of the time. Arrogant all of the time. But she was beginning to see a side of him that was, at times, loveable. So, for the first time in
more than a year—mayhap two—Maire sat down before her tapestry frame and began to lay out the threads she would use. Rurik had been right. She should not have ignored this work for so long. It brought a calmness she sorely needed now whilst storms swirled about her. She swept her fingertips over the fabric—a sensuous gesture of appreciation. Truly, the scene … this labor of creative love … was like an old friend. And old friends should not be neglected too long.

While she sewed, Rurik enjoyed his bath. Then he dried himself off, combed his hair and clubbed it back at the neck with a leather thong, and finally lay naked on her bed with his head propped on one elbow. All the time, he watched her work.

Occasionally, he would ask a question, like, “Do you create a scene in some sequence? Background first; figures second? Or do you work by color? Or some other method?”

“It varies, usually depending on my mood. Some days I am inclined to work on people or animals. Another day I may have come across an unusual color of dye by experimenting with different plants, and I will be anxious to see how it looks. One time,” she related with excitement, recalling an incident she hadn’t thought of for years, “… one time I was on the moors with Jamie, and I saw a rowan tree. From a distance, its leaves had a shredded, feathery aspect. I experimented and found a way to feather the edges of my yarn on the tapestry to get the same effect. Like this.” She pointed to an example in the foreground.

Rurik nodded in understanding, saying nothing more.

“It’s odd, really, how you begin to look at things differently as an artist.” Maire paused as the realization hit her suddenly that she did, in fact, consider herself an artist. ’Twas strange when she’d thought of herself for such a long time as a witch… and an inept one at that. She smiled to herself at the glow of pride that swept through her. I
am an artist. A good artist
. But then she continued her discussion with Rurik. “Sometimes appearances can be deceptive. What appears to be one thing from a distance is something else altogether up close. These sheep, for example. From where you view my tapestry, they are clearly wooly-haired sheep, I warrant, but from my vantage point, they are just clumps of undyed yarn.”

Rurik chuckled at her enthusiasm over her craft, then waved a hand for her to resume her work when she stopped to glare at him.

Another time, he commented, “Is that unfinished male figure your husband?”

“No. The people in this tapestry don’t represent anyone in particular,” Maire lied.

Rurik thought for a moment and said, “Make the man’s hair black then… black as a raven’s wing. And be certain to use silk thread to denote its silky texture.” He waggled his eyebrows at her as he touched his own hair.

Maire’s heart raced at his words, but then she realized that he was just teasing … He did not suspect that the man really was supposed to be him… that the woman was she … and the boy, their son, Jamie. That was probably why she’d never been able to complete
the tapestry… because it was not real. She would have been better off picking fantasy characters.

“In fact,” he continued, “when I am old and no longer so comely… or when I am dead, it would please me immensely to know that I have left something of beauty behind. Well, leastways, that I contributed in some small way to the creation of a more permanent form of splendor. A legacy of beauty.”

Oh, Rurik, if you only knew, you create beauty in your own way… not just in how you look. And your greatest legacy is a boy with hair black as a raven’s wing and silken to the touch
.

Still another time, Rurik remarked, “You seem happy when you sew. Nay, happy is not the correct word. You seem
peaceful.”

“Hmmm. I suppose I do feel peaceful.”

“Methinks I will carry this image into future battles with me. In the midst of all the blood and carnage, I will call up a mind-picture to soothe me—‘Maire at Peace.’ ”

Maire’s heart skipped a beat at the prospect of Rurik being at war, surrounded by imminent peril, possibly injured or killed. It was silly of her to mind so. After all, it was Rurik’s occupation to be a fighting man. And yet Maire hated to think of him endangered.

Mostly, there were silences while she sewed on her tapestry … easy, comfortable silences. Once, Maire looked up to see Rurik just staring at her. Their eyes connected, and he smiled, softly. She smiled back. It was such a precious moment that tears welled in her eyes, and she had to resume her work quickly before
Rurik could notice and think her a foolish, smitten maid.

Then Maire became absorbed in her work, pausing only when she heard a commotion coming from belowstairs and realized that her people were making for bed. She must have been working for many hours.

Glancing over to the bed, she saw that Rurik had fallen asleep. She set aside her threads and placed the precious needles in their special silver case, which had been passed down through generations of Campbell women. Walking over to the bed, she looked down at the insufferable rogue. At rest, he was handsome in an altogether different way. His black lashes lay against his skin like fans. His mouth was full and sensual, but not in a threatening way. The blue mark stood out, of course, but, truth to tell, Maire liked it. Without it, his features were too perfect.

With a sigh, Maire slipped her chemise over her head and eased herself into the bed. Resting her face against his warm chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart.

Still sleeping, Rurik wrapped one arm around Maire’s bare shoulder and tucked her more tightly against his form.

During the night Rurik awakened her in the best possible way—making sweet love to her. It was a silent, gentle loving … as powerful and bone-melting as his more aggressive, blood-pounding bedplay had been earlier.

Words were not necessary.

They both knew they were falling in love.

And they both knew how utterly impossible such a love would be.

Sometimes destiny was not all the bards claimed it to be. Sometimes fate dealt the harshest blows by planting love where there was no chance for the seedlings to grow. Sometimes Maire wished she really were a witch so that she could make wishes come true with a mere swish of her magic staff.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

“What
was that?” Rurik asked as he bolted upright in bed, awakened from a sound sleep mere minutes past dawn.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

“Holy Thor! It sounds like a herd of elephants farting.”

Maire sat up beside him, rubbing her eyes sleepily with one hand, and holding on to a sheet tucked about her breasts with the other. “I know you have traveled a great amount, Rurik, but have you actually encountered a herd of elephants … breaking wind?” she inquired incredulously.

“Nay. Not precisely.”

“Tsk-tsk!” she chided playfully. “Best you watch your lying, Rurik. You know what they say about Vikings that misstate the truth.”

“Well, I have seen elephants, but not…” He stopped abruptly. “That is not the issue. What
is
that ungodly racket?”

“Murdoc is probably teaching Bolthor how to play the bagpipes.”

“At dawn.”

“They will be busy with more crucial duties the rest of the day. This would be the only time.”

Rurik put his face in his hands. “I have survived a childhood of abuse in a pigstead. I have survived near-mortal wounds in battle. I have survived five years of ridicule over my blue face mark. But I doubt that I can survive both Bolthor’s sagas
and
his playing the pipes.” All the time he spoke, the most ungodly noise was rising up from the courtyard below their windows … rather like a lusty mead fart, or the blowing sound of mockery made by children with outthrust tongues, except that this sound was louder. Much louder.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

“Mayhap we should send Bolthor and a set of bagpipes onto the MacNab lands. That would be enough to make them surrender, methinks.”

Maire put fingertips to her lips to stifle a giggle.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

He jumped out of bed and began to don his braies. “I will put a stop to this nonsense, that I swear.” Even though he was in a rush, after he was fully dressed he took the time to comb his hair and put a narrow braid on either side of his face, interlaced with colored beads. And he shaved, as well. Old habits died hard.

Maire was still watching him with a bemused expression
on her face when he was done.

“Well? Are you going to stay abed all day? I ne’er took you for a slug-a-bed.” He walked over to the bedstead and couldn’t help smiling at the alluring picture she made. The bed linen still covered her bare form, but it revealed as much as it concealed. With her slumber-mussed hair and sex-flushed cheeks and kiss-pouty mouth, the witch looked like naught more than a wench who had been well tupped, but to Rurik she resembled a goddess. He would be a fool to attempt to discount as mere lust all that had passed between him and Maire this past day and night.

“A slug-a-bed?” Maire exclaimed with mock affront. “Does that mean I am to be released from my bed prison … finally?”

He shrugged. “For now.”

Disappointment passed over her face, which she immediately replaced with a look of intense relief. Quicker than he could say, “The Saxons are coming!” she was up and about, her bed linen draped about her modestly, like a Roman senator in his toga, already searching for daytime apparel.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

“Oh,” he said, suddenly remembering something he’d intended yestereve. He went over to his leather saddlebag, which sat in one corner. He finally found what he was searching for … an object wrapped in soft black velvet. Handing it to her, he said gruffly, “This is for you.”

She’d already pulled on a clean, well-worn chemise while his back was turned. For some reason, the condition of her chemise tugged at his conscience. He had noticed on more than one occasion that his garments
were of much finer quality than hers, even though her station in society was higher.

Her eyes went wide with surprise that he would offer her a gift, and Rurik found immense pleasure then, not only in the gifting—a practice all Norsemen enjoyed—but in the anticipation of her delight. “You have a gift for me? No one has ever given me a gift that I can recall.”

No one has ever given her a gift? How can that be?
Rurik’s blood boiled with rage at all the men in her life who had so neglected this woman … her father, her brothers, her husband.

“Ahoooommm! Ahoooommm! Waaaraaaa!”

I swear, I am going to kill Bolthor. This latest endeavor pushes the bounds of friendship. Hell, it would push a foe to the brink, as well
.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Maire began to unravel the cloth, uncovering the oval gemstone pendant suspended from a delicate gold chain. Although the jewel resembled a hazy emerald, it was actually a rare green amber he’d discovered last year when amber hunting with Tykir in the Baltics. One of Tykir’s jewelry makers in the trading towp of Birka had set the stone for him.

But, wait, Maire did not appear pleased. In fact, a small sob escaped her lips, and she began to weep, but not before attempting to hand the jewelry back to him.

“What? You do not like it? Look, Maire, it matches your eyes exactly. Truly, this pendant was meant for you. Let me help you put it on.”

She shook her head. “Oh, Rurik, how could you?”

“What? How could I
what?”

“Pay me … for services rendered … that’s what. Just because I behaved as a … a harlot does not mean I deserve to be treated as one.”

At first, her words didn’t penetrate his puzzled brain, overwhelmed as it was by the cacophony of sound coming from Bolthor’s unmusical mouth. When they did, he felt a sense of outrage that she would think such of him.

But her pain outweighed any insult he suffered. Dropping to one knee beside her, he pressed the pendant back into her hand. “Maire, I give you this gift in payment, but not for bedplay. When Old John told me how you suffered for having lost your maidenhead, I knew it was my fault. I treated you shamefully, and for that I am sorry. It was after my conversation with Old John that I decided to make reparation to you in some small way, and then I recalled this pendant that I’d actually discovered myself in the sandy shores off the Baltic seas. Most amber is the shade of tree sap or yellowish gold. Almost never is it green. The same day, Tykir found a hunk of golden amber the size of a man’s head. So, it was a lucky day for both of us.” Rurik realized that he was rambling with nervousness. Never had he expected her to decline his gift.

“Old John told you about… Kenneth?” Her body tensed, almost as if in fear.