Page 100 of The Blue Viking

He did the only thing he could think of.

He waved.

Rurik was sitting at one end of the great hall, sipping uisge-beatha with Tykir, Eirik, and Selik, who declared the beverage a gift from the gods, and determined to carry barrels of it back with them to their estates in Northumbria and Norway. All five of his Viking comrades were there in the background, indulging equally, even Jostein, who was full of himself for actually succeeding in bringing Rurik’s three friends back with him, along with a troop of fifty men, even if their services were no longer needed. The soldiers were camped outside on the hillside of Beinne Breagha, none the worse for wear, especially since they’d been given rations of uisge-beatha, as well.

Eadyth was off examining some natural beehives with Nessa. Eirik’s wife was an expert in raising bees and selling their products in the markets of Jorvik, including what she called the world’s best mead. It was.

Alinor, Tykir’s freckle-faced, red-haired wife and the most pestsome woman this side of Niflheim, had one of Maire’s weavers in hand and had trotted off to an outbuilding, where she was examining the looms. Already she had mentioned a new pattern they might not be familiar with. No doubt, she would be inspecting the sheep, too. Alinor thought she knew every bloody thing in the world about the wooly-headed animals and their products. She probably did.

Rain, a noted healer and wife to Selik, was in the kitchen, where a line of patients had already formed for her medical diagnoses. Everything from ringworm to the lung cough.

Beast, the traitor, was off trailing after Rose, of all things. Eirik had told him with disgust that Beast was too fastidious by far and had declined to breed with his bitch wolfhound, Rachel. Fastidious, hah! Not when he’d developed an affection for an ugly cat!

And Maire was an even worse traitor. She’d left him to face all his friends alone. In fact, she was probably hiding somewhere, hoping she wouldn’t have to come out till everyone was gone, which was not bloody likely. He’d been the one who’d had to walk out of the loch bare-arsed naked, to the laughter of one and all. He’d been the one to carry her garments out into the water so she could cover herself. He’d been the one to shoo everyone away so she could emerge in dignity. And how did she thank him? By running away and leaving him to face the jests of his old friends. And that was just what they’d been doing for the past hour… making mock of him.

The most persistent teasing related to the witches.

“Ne’er have I seen so many witches in one place in all my life,” Eirik proclaimed as he watched through the open door, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, as a half dozen of the old hags practically flew by in the courtyard, chasing after a herd of black cats, which were chasing after Beast, who was chasing after Rose. “Not that I have ever really witnessed witchery in the past.” Eirik sank back down into his chair and directed a gaze of astonishment at Rurik.

“Do they all live here… born and bred?” Selik inquired with equal amazement. “Are they your witches, Rurik? Or do you have a habit of drawing witches to your person … like the one who marked you?”

“Nay, they are not my personal witches. They’re here because of Maire,” he explained with a frown on his face.

“Maire called up this vast array of witches?” ’Twas Tykir who spoke now, and his tone implied that Maire must be daft.

Now, Rurik had considered Maire daft on more than one occasion, but he did not like others suggesting the same thing. So he defended her by saying, “It was an accident. She only wanted one witch… Cailleach, her old mentor… to come, but her spell went awry … and all the witches in Scotland somehow arrived.” The explanation sounded rather daft, even to Rurik’s ears.

Rurik hoped his explanation, daft as it was, would satisfy Tykir, who was the most persistent fellow when he got a bug lodged in his … well, body cavities.

“A spell? Gone awry? Is Maire really a witch, then?”

He should have known Tykir would not just drop the subject.

“Yea, she is a witch. Nay, she is not a very good witch. And, afore you ask, yea, I have made love with the witch again. And, nay, she has not turned other body parts blue.”

Everyone raised his eyebrows at the excessive explanation.

“I see you still have the blue mark,” Eirik remarked, not even trying to hold back the smile that twitched at his lips.

Rurik’s only response was a growl of displeasure.

“But Rurik Campbell?” Tykir asked with that infernal grin on his face. And, really, Tykir had the most irksome grin in the whole wide world. Besides, what the Campbell name had to do with his blue mark, he had no idea. He suspected his old friends were jumping from one distasteful subject to another, just to throw him off balance. ’Twas a tactic he’d employed with them on more than one occasion.

“How could you … a fierce Viking warrior… become a Scotsman?”

“I told you,” Rurik hissed. “It was a misunderstanding. I did not become a Scotsman.”

“I suppose you will be eating haggis now,” Tykir commented with an exaggerated sigh, “and playing the bagpipes.”

“Nay, I have not developed a taste for haggis, and Bolthor is the one who has taken on bagpipes as his weapon of choice.”

“Odin’s Balls! Do not tell me,” Tykir said in an aside to Rurik, so as not to offend the skald. “Bolthor is playing the bagpipes … and reciting poetry?”

Rurik nodded and plastered an evil grin on his own face. “And I can guarantee you, he will be doing both for you back at Dragonstead this winter.”

Tykir looked as if he’d been poleaxed.

“But you have a son,” Eirik pointed out, still belaboring the Campbell appellation that Rurik had been given by Maire’s clan, “who will one day be a Scottish laird.”