Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (30 page)

Maire inhaled and exhaled several times, as if to calm herself. “Rurik, you might not come back from this mission tomorrow. I cannot let you go into danger without telling you … something. You
need
to know.”

He was already fully garbed and putting his sword in its scabbard. “Is this news something that will upset me?”

“Possibly.”

“Cause me to lose my concentration?”

“Probably.”

“Change my life in any way?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Rurik couldn’t imagine anything involving her son that would affect him so. The scamp must have done
a deed that was really, really bad for his mother to be so distressed.

She was about to say more, but Rurik put up a halting hand. “Nay, save it till I get back. Bad news going into battle means bad news coming back.”

“But—”

“Nay, Maire. Leave be, for now.” He leaned down to give her a good-bye kiss. When he was done, he murmured against her mouth, “When I come back, I promise to reciprocate for you the events of today. Mayhap I will demonstrate what I can do with a piece of chain mail.”

She nodded, not really hearing his words, he could tell. He made for the door, opened it, and was about to leave her chamber when she called out, “Rurik, there is one thought I would have you take with you … something I never would have believed just a few days ago. I don’t think this will upset you.” She paused briefly, then said, ever so softly, “I love you.”

He just nodded at her words, and left. Oh, he knew she’d wanted him to say the same phrase back to her. He could not.

Maire was wrong about the effect her declaration would have on him. Rurik
was
upset.

How had his life become so complicated?

How was he ever going to explain to Maire that, once his mission here was completed, he had another mission to accomplish?

His wedding.

Rurik was in the lead, riding his horse down the narrow path from Maire’s mountainside castle. When they got to the bottom, they rode in a tight veeformation,
with Stigand and Toste on one side, and Bolthor and Vagn on the other. A half dozen of the Campbells fell in behind them. Although these ten accompanied him, Rurik would be entering the MacNab clanstead on his own, unarmed, while Toste and Vagn snuck in wherever they could. The others would stand watch outside.

“We’re running late,” Toste pointed out, as if that weren’t obvious from the darkening sky. “Did you have to or-gaz her
again?”

“Who says I did?” Rurik replied. That was the trouble with Norsemen. When they were not a-Viking or a-battling, they were meddling in other men’s business.

Stigand untied the red yarn from his middle finger, ripped it in half, then handed a piece to Rurik. “Best you commence measurin’ yerself if yer gonna be lyin’.”

Rurik started to tell his berserker that he hadn’t precisely said that he hadn’t or-gaz-ed Maire.
Damn, I can’t believe I’m using that ridiculous word now, too
. But he was too dumbfounded by Stigand’s cutting his yarn in half.

He had no time to chastise Stigand because Vagn launched into him. “ ’Tis obvious you or-gaz-ed yourself boneless. In truth, we could probably fold you up and put you in a saddlebag. I doubt there’s a drop of man seed left in your body. If the lady didn’t share in the pleasurin’, then shame on you.” Vagn grinned mischievously. Good thing he was two horse widths away, or Rurik would have swatted him aside the head.

“There’s an odd gleam in his eye… have you noticed?”
Toste asked his brother. “Rather like incredulity. What do you suppose the witch did to him in the bed furs to cause incredulity?”

Everyone looked at Rurik.

Rurik pressed his lips shut and stared straight ahead. He was saying nothing. He could feel his ears turn red, though.

“Your ears are turnin’ red,” Stigand accused Rurik with a hoot of laughter.

“Uh-oh,” Toste and Vagn remarked. “That good, huh?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Bolthor said. Everyone groaned.

“This is the story of Rurik the Greater…” Bolthor began.

“Who is getting greater by the moment, if his red ears are any indication,” Stigand added, ducking to avoid the swing of Rurik’s fist. “And, by the by, why is your chain mail sticking out from under your tunic? Did you forget to lace the ties?”

Rurik glanced down at his groin and, sure enough, the vee end of his chain mail was sticking out. Now, his face and neck were no doubt turning red, as well as his ears. “Why must you men always be poking into my personal affairs? I am a single Viking, unattached by wedlock to any woman … as of yet… so what is wrong with me or-gaz-ing my brains out, if that is what I want to do?”

Everyone grinned, knowing they’d provoked a reaction from him, which had obviously been their objective from the start. He turned away with a snort of disgust… mostly at himself.

“Methinks I have a good title for this saga,” Bolthor
announced enthusiastically. “Sex and the Single Viking.”

The events of the night went surprisingly well. Rurik was permitted to enter the MacNab keep, alone and unarmed, while Toste and Vagn somehow entered in a clandestine manner.

The castle and grounds were prosperous compared to the Campbell holdings, which prompted Rurik to wonder why some men in their greed never had enough. On the other hand, he noted in the background another MacNab brother, Graham, and his wife and numerous grandchildren; so, ’twas likely that the ever-growing extended family felt the need to sprawl out and swallow up its neighbors. Rurik had also been told that Duncan entertained a convoluted notion that he was entitled to the Campbell lands through his dead brother’s marriage.

At first, Rurik outlined the demands of the Campbells with the threat that, unless the MacNabs immediately
ceased their threats upon the Campbells in deed and word, spirits would overtake their land.

Duncan and his men could scarce prevent themselves from falling over into the rushes with laughter. It was the expected initial reaction.

Rurik was invited to join them for a cup of ale before he departed … although he wasn’t entirely certain that the unscrupulous Duncan would allow him to leave.

He was a despicable man, Duncan was. A
nithing
… totally devoid of honor. Rurik swore an oath to himself to make the man pay one day, not just for the continuing threat against the Campbells, but especially for putting Maire in a cage and attempting to force her into a marriage that everyone knew would lead to her eventual death.

The MacNabs continued to laugh and make jests over Rurik’s threat of spirits overtaking their keep if they did not desist in their threats against the Campbells.

They weren’t laughing for long. Soon, terrified soldiers who manned the ramparts and courtyard began to rush in with reports of dozens of ghosts flying about the MacNab castle.

Dozens?
Rurik thought.
God Bless Toste and Vagn, and their ingenuity
.

Duncan and his men laughed about the ghost sightings, as well, till the numbers grew alarming, and the spirits’ warning of an evil spell placed on all MacNab men started to ring true.

“What kind of spell?” Duncan demanded of Rurik, ice in his voice and his one hand on the hilt of a dagger that had been lying on the table.

Rurik shrugged and tried to appear casual as he replied, “Oh, something to do with … let me see, how did Maire word the spell… ‘Every time a MacNab man harms a Campbell, in word or deed, his cock shall shrink … till his manhood is no more … and the MacNab line dies out.’ ”

Duncan made a grunting sound of disbelief. Still, he glanced down at the joining of his thighs, as did every other male in the great hall.

Maire had been right when she’d advised him not to offer threats … that men, including the MacNabs, would go into battle without a thought when their lives were in the balance, but when it was their precious male parts, that was another story altogether. That’s why his men and hers had been so willing to accept the lies-linked-with-shriveling-cocks nonsense.

“I cannot credit Maire using the word
cock
in one of her ludicrous spells,” Duncan replied. “Despite her claims of being a witch, she is a high-born lady.
Cock
is a man-word … crude and unseemly for a woman of her station to use.”

Rurik made a moue with his mouth that translated to, “Who can say what women will do?” Then he added, aloud, accompanied by a waggle of his eyebrows, “Mayhap the lady has changed.”

“What kind of game do ye play here, Viking?” Duncan yelled, standing with bull-like rage. “Maire Campbell is a notoriously inept witch. None of her spells ever worked, according to my brother, Kenneth. Why should we believe ye now?”

As if to belie Duncan’s protests, more men, and several women, ran into the hall complaining of new ghostly visits. One of the ghosts had been waving
what resembled a penis and testicles, which the ghost claimed had fallen off a MacNab villein stationed at the edge of Campbell lands.

Rurik, who remained sitting, sipping a cup of ale, stifled a grin. Old John had been responsible for that last-minute inspiration, handing Toste a dead ram’s male parts, wrapped in a cloth. Good thing Duncan’s man hadn’t looked too closely at the hideous thing. He didn’t know about Scotsmen, but Viking male parts were much more beauteous than that.

“Where is she?” Duncan bellowed. “How do we get her to remove the spell?” Rurik suspected that Duncan didn’t really believe, but he was fearful of taking chances.

Rurik shrugged. “I cannot be certain where she is at the moment… ofttimes she flies off during the night, no doubt to visit with her coven or gather more familiars. Those black cats are hard to keep about… the animal sacrifices, you know.” Maire would kill him if she heard him speak of covens or familiars, and especially sacrificial rites. “Or mayhap she is dancing naked in the woods with her sister witches.” Yea, Maire would swat him good if she heard of this.

Duncan made a growling sound of impatience and drew his one-brow low over his eyes. “Get to it, man.”

“Well, I do know that she goes to the witch’s cairn in Devil’s Gorge every morn, just after dawn.”

“Devil’s Gorge?” he snorted.

Rurik nodded. “Yea, that narrow valley between
Beinne Breagha
and
Beinne Gorm
, which is so named because of its treacherous landscape in the wintertime. Maire goes there daily … something to do with
renewing her powers and balancing herself… the kind of foolishness she is always spouting. But methinks ’twould be a bad idea for you to go there …” He let his words trail off deliberately, as if he’d revealed something he ought not to … like the fact that Maire would be alone, in a vulnerable spot. “Yea, ’twould be much better if you approach Maire in her own keep. I’m sure she would be willing to accept an offer of peace from you there.”

Duncan said nothing, and Rurik knew he had no intention of making any concessions. Rurik would bet a king’s treasure that the MacNabs would be going to Devil’s Gorge, and they would be there, down in that valley, long before dawn.

Just as he had planned.

Late the next morning, Devil’s Gorge …

Rurik and his men, with what was left of the Campbell clan, withdrew for a short respite. ’Twas time to assess their losses and prospects.

The prognosis was not good.

Swiping a forearm across his sweaty brow, with chest heaving for breath, Rurik glanced over at Stigand, whose skin remained as dry as old leather and whose breathing was normal, though he’d worked twice as hard as Rurik. “How bad?” he inquired.

“Not so many deaths … just Young John, Rob the Mutterer, one of the shepherds, and the stable lad. But injuries aplenty.” Scanning the “battlefield,” he pointed to the larger number of MacNab deaths and casualties. “They have lost fifteen men, or more, and they have a like number of seriously wounded.”

Their plan had fallen into place as if ordained by
the gods. Once the MacNabs were far into the gorge, the boys had done their work with the sling shots to distract the men. Then the archers had gone into play, followed by hand-to-hand combat with sword and lance … not to mention Stigand’s famous battle-ax, Blood-Lover.

Even the deadly snakes had been brought forth again to scare the nervous war horses. Rurik didn’t want to think about where such a large number of vipers were kept hidden in this misbegotten land. Vagn had been heard commenting to Toste, on first seeing Old John bring the snakes forward, that he was never again going to sit on a privy seat with ease, or take a stroll in a dark wood, let alone make love with a wanton maid on a grassy moor. Bolthor had promised to develop a saga about it… if they survived.

But alas, all their efforts, successful as they’d been, had not been enough.

“Despite it all, we did good, didn’t we?” Rurik asked Stigand now, though he already knew the answer.

“Yea, we did. These Scots are a tough breed, I’ll give them that.”

“It was a good plan, Rurik,” Bolthor interjected from Rurik’s other side. “Everyone worked together, even the young ones with slingshots in the trees. But the numbers were against us from the start.”

“Well, it appears as if all of us will be drinking mead this day in Valhalla,” Rurik told his comrades, who nodded. Not a tear was there in any of their eyes. Death was a fate every Viking expected because of his violent life. All of the men joined their right hands
together in one communal fist and raised it high in the air, shouting “To Thor!”