Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (25 page)

Rurik looked to Maire for her opinion. She nodded, but not before adding, “As long as you stay inside the keep, or within eyesight. I mean this, Jamie. It’s important that you do not stray.”

“I ken what ye say, mother,” Jamie said in an uncharacteristically meek voice. “Rurik ’splained it to me. The bloody MacNabs, and all.”

Maire was about to correct him for his foul language, but decided to wait till later. “Come here first and give your mother a hug,” she encouraged. “I have missed your hugs these many days we have been separated.”

“Mo-ther!” Jamie protested, glancing toward his friends to see if they were watching. Still, when Rurik released his hand, he jumped forward and gave Maire a sloppy kiss on her cheek and an exuberant child hug with his arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

Into his neck, Maire whispered, “Are you all right, sweetling?”

“Aye,” Jamie whispered in an overloud voice directly into her ear. “But I still think Rurik is a bloody hell Viking.”

“That he is,” Maire found herself concurring in an undertone.

As her son rushed off to be with his friends, Maire smiled and wiped away a tear.

Rurik was watching her closely. “You coddle the boy overmuch,” he said, but Maire could also see something else in his blue eyes … eyes that marked the only difference between him and his son. Jamie’s were green, like hers. Well, that, and the blue mark. Rurik must have yearned at one time for the kind of maternal affection he’d just witnessed between her and her son.

So, instead of reacting adversely to his “coddling” remark, she said, “You and I have much to talk about.”

To her surprise, he conceded, “Yea, after we eat, we will sit down and discuss all that must be done about the MacNabs.”

Rurik had misunderstood. She had meant to tell him, at long last, about his son … before someone else did. But now she realized there were issues that had greater priority.

At first, the meal passed in silence. An awkward silence, to her, because people’s heads kept pivoting from her to Rurik to Jamie, as if expecting some explosion. But Rurik seemed unaware of the looks. He was wolfing down his food to assuage the great hunger he’d alluded to earlier. He paused at one point and commented, “Kenneth must have been a handsome man.”

Maire choked on her ale.

He clapped her heartily on the back.

“Why do you say that?” She tried to make her
voice as casual as possible as she picked at an oat cake.

“Well, Jamie shows promise of great size and uncommonly good looks. Since the boy does not resemble you, except for the eyes, I assume he got these traits from his father.”

The others at the table began to make strangled sounds and kept their eyes averted, just waiting to see what Maire would do next.

What she did was nothing, coward that she was. “Kenneth was passable in appearance,” Maire replied.
Talk about evasion and half-truths!

Rurik seemed satisfied with that explanation and resumed eating.

If a Viking’s you-know-what falls off, eventually, for telling a lie, I wonder what happens to a Scotswoman who fails to tell the truth for five long years
. Maire knew—she just knew—she was going to pay someday for her lack of honesty, and perchance this was her punishment… never knowing precisely when the ax was going to fall.

Even more alarming, there was absolutely no doubt in Maire’s mind that the “ax” would be in Rurik’s hands.

Rurik found it difficult to justify his actions to a woman, but Maire deserved to be kept abreast of the happenings on her clanstead… especially since she was, for all purposes, the clan chieftain, till her son reached his majority. He’d already outlined the essentials for her, involving Toste and Vagn slipping inside the MacNab ranks, but he could tell by the
bullish expression on her fair face that she remained unconvinced.

“But it’s a dangerous plan,” Maire said, wringing her hands with dismay as they walked along the parapet of her keep.

Yea, she was unconvinced … even though Rurik had just explained to her the new dangers posed by the MacNabs, why he’d needed to bring her son into the safety of her keep, and the bare bones of the scheme they’d concocted.

What he didn’t explain to her was this new feeling of protectiveness he felt toward her. Originally, he’d agreed to provide his shield and manpower, limited as it was, in return for her removing the blue mark, but now he could not hide the fact that he would stay till she was safe, blue mark or not. And it was not just honor that bound him, either. What it was, exactly, he suspected, but would not name aloud for fear of the power it would wield over him.

“Yea, ’tis dangerous,” he agreed, pausing and reaching out to brush his knuckles across her cheek. “But, really, any plan would be at this point.”

To his amazement, instead of slapping his hand away as would have been her wont just days ago, she leaned into his caress, much like a cat purring out its pleasure at a petting. Of course that prompted him to recall how she had purred for him the night before … on more than one occasion. It would be an understatement to say that he and Maire suited well… in the bed furs, leastways … and in the petting.

Too bad he was otherwise betrothed.

Too bad Maire was a witch and lived in god-awful Scotland.

Too bad he had not recognized her worth five years ago and taken her with him, as she’d requested.

Too bad he still carried the ignominious blue mark.

Too bad he had become such a maudlin Viking, weeping in his mead, so to speak. One should not argue with fate, whether it be dealt by the Christian One-God, or the Norns, the wise old women whom the Norse fables held responsible for the destinies of all men.

Clearing his suddenly tight throat, he persevered in his attempt to convince her to accept his plan. “We are seriously outmanned. Even if all the males here were of prime age and whole of body, we would still be outmanned. We need to outmaneuver them. Many a time a war is won with wit, rather than weaponry.”

“But sending Toste and Vagn inside the MacNab stronghold! Dost really think that is the best course of action?”

He shrugged. “ ’Tis worth a try. It’s only been three days since Jostein left for Northumbria, and we cannot be sure that he will even reach his destination, let alone bring help in time. I sense the MacNabs feel some need to gain a resolution, or an advantage, in your dispute.”

“Hmmm. You may be correct in your thinking,” Maire said. “I wonder if it might be related to King Indulf’s scheduled trip to the Highlands this autumn. Long have I suspected that Duncan has fed Indulf and his advisors a false tale of the situation here. Mayhap he wants the entire business resolved afore then.”

Rurik nodded solemnly. “And that resolution would involve his marriage to you and taking over
the Campbell lands in guardianship till Jamie is of age.”

“Aye, it makes sense now that I think on it. I had predicted to Nessa just days ago that Duncan would have me killed within days of the wedding, if I should be so faint-minded as to agree … and Jamie would be killed, as well… eventually. But now I am leaning toward another idea … that he would wait till after the royal entourage has left the area. What he wants is a united front, giving the appearance of peace betwixt our clans. After they leave, however, ’twould be a different story altogether.” She made a slicing motion with a forefinger across her throat.

The fine hairs stood out on Rurik’s nape at her calmly pronounced death sentence. “It will not happen,” Rurik declared.

Maire’s chin shot up with surprise at the forceful-ness of his pledge. “You may not be able to prevent it.”

“It will not happen,” he repeated with deadly calm. “Even if I die in the effort, there will be others after me to fulfill my promise of protection.”

She tilted her head in question.

“The brothers, Eirik and Tykir, would come forthwith if they heard of my passage to Valhalla. Or their father’s old friend and mine, Selik, who resides in Jorvik. Or my good friend, Adam, who is in the Arab lands just now, studying medicine.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You would save me with a healer?” she teased, no doubt trying to lighten their mood. “Is he a monk? Would your monk-healer pray over our situation as he prepares his medicinal cures? Oh, that would be such a picture! A witch and a doctor
trying to save a clan with spells and herbs!”

“Adam is as strong a soldier as he is a healer,” he declared defensively, chucking her under the chin. “And, nay, Adam is hardly a religious sort.” He grinned at that last thought.
“Hardly. ”

“So,” Maire said, whisking her hands together resolutely, “your plan involves Toste and Vagn infiltrating the MacNab keep. To what purpose? And what makes you think they would be able to do so?”

“Maire, Maire, Maire. Have you learned naught of those twins in the time they’ve been here? Those two rogues have been slipping in and out of the beds and keeps of women of many lands since they were mere youthlings. Believe me, they can scale a wall, tread soft as a kitten, and make themselves nigh invisible when it is warranted.”

She let out a breathy exhale, but did not contradict his assertions. “Once there, presuming they are successful, what in the name of Mary could they do that would save my clan? The two of them could not fight the entire MacNab clan, could they? Would they be opening the gates for us Campbells to enter? Explain to me how that could occur, undetected. Besides, the MacNabs would have an advantage, fighting inside their own grounds, wouldn’t they?”

Rurik smiled at Maire’s brisk interrogation. She had become accustomed to taking charge and apparently did not know when to relinquish some of that leadership. Taking her hands in both of his, he kissed the fingertips … and her pouting lips … ignoring her tsk-ing reprimand. Before he continued in that enticing vein, he laced the fingers of one hand with one of hers and drew her forward to continue their walk
about the parapet. While they strolled, Rurik explained, “Actually, you will play a part in the plan, indirectly.”

“Me?” she squealed, and tried to halt in her tracks.

God, I love how I can make her squeal
. “Yea, you, dearling. You and your witchly arts,” he replied, forcing her to keep pace with him, despite her digging in her heels. “I will go to the MacNab stronghold this evening, unarmed, under a truce flag. Whilst there, I will outline your grievances, including the senseless slaughter of sheep and cattle, the placing of a high-ranked lady in a cage—that would be you—and a long list of other complaints that Old John gave to me, going back to the time of Kenneth’s death. As recompense, I will demand that they immediately desist in their harassment of the Campbells, pay a
danegeld
of gold coins, and sign a peace pact with your clan.”

When Maire dug in her heels this time, he was unable to make her budge; so, he stopped with her. He still held her fingers laced with his, though, and he could feel her rapid pulse.

“Have you gone daft, Rurik?”

Perchance. Daft over you
. “Trust me, Maire. I know what I am doing.”
Leastways, I think I do
.

“What makes you think Duncan would agree to any such thing? He will laugh in your face.”

“Yea, he will,” Rurik replied with calm indifference. He let his words hang in the air for several long moments, while she tapped one foot impatiently. He wasn’t sure why he tormented her so, except that she looked so tempting with her flushed cheeks and jutting
chin and heaving breasts … especially her heaving breasts.

“Stop leering at my breasts, you … you libertine.”

Caught in the act… of being a libertine
. “I was not,” he lied. “I was just thinking and my eyes may have drifted.”

She made a harrumphing sound of disgust. “Get to the point, Viking. What threat can you levy that would force compliance?”

“A spell,” he announced brightly. “A magic spell.”

“Witchcraft,” she said in a dull, disappointed voice. “You would use me thus, even knowing that sometimes I fail?”

Sometimes? The way I hear it told, most times you are less than successful
. But he rolled his shoulders as if her complaint were of little consequence.

“Word of my ineptness has spread as far as the MacNab lands, I am sure. Threats of my inflicting a spell on them will have no effect at all, unless they laugh themselves to death.”

“Sad, but true.”

“Not that I am in accord with your plans … but I should go with you.”

“Nay!”

“Why?”

“Too dangerous. Duncan might take you captive. Then he’d have you exactly where he wanted from the start.”

“How about you? Is it not dangerous for you, too? Could he not take you captive?”

“He could, but he would not enjoy wedding and bedding me nearly as much… nor gain the same land wealth.”

“Notice that I am not amused by your poor attempt at mirth.” He shrugged.

“Rurik, this is my battle. I should be involved. This is a Campbell feud.”

“Uh-uh-uh, Maire, do you misremember already? I was voted a Campbell by your very clan. Rurik Campbell, that’s what Old John called me.”
God, did I really give credit to that ridiculous notion?

Her small groan indicated that she had, indeed, forgotten. “You are no more Rurik Campbell than I am Maire …” She paused and examined his face closely, as if searching for answers. “What is your other name?”

“I have none.”

“You must. Do you Vikings not take on the name of your father … as in Thork Ericsson, which would be Thork, son of Eric?”

He pressed his lips together tightly and refused to answer.

“You do know your father’s name?” she asked tentatively, sensing that she opened the gate to a path he would not walk.

“Yea, I know my father’s name,” he snarled. “But he denied me at birth, and I would not give him the respect of using his name now.”

She gasped and reached out a hand, as if to comfort him.

He stepped back, being long past the stage of wanting or needing pity for his family’s ill treatment. “Back to our plan,” he said. “In my travel bags, I have ten ells of sheer fabric that I obtained in the Eastern lands, where the
houri
wear them whilst dancing
for their sultan masters.” He waited for that information to sink in, as indicated by the blooming blush on Make’s cheeks. “Eirik’s wife, Eadyth, is a beekeeper, and she commissioned me to purchase the cloth, which she uses to make head-to-toe garments to avoid being stung by her bees. I figure that Toste and Vagn can drape themselves with lengths of this ethereal fabric and thus, in a dim light, resemble—”