Page 13 of The Blue Viking

He rested both palms on the horn of his saddle and smiled ferally at her. His eyelids were hooded, like a hawk’s. “Hmmm. Methinks there might be great pleasure to be had in keeping you caged … but not nearly enough satisfaction for the grief you have caused me these past years.”

“Me?” she asked, putting both hands to her chest in mock amazement. She continued in an overstated Scottish brogue, thick with rolling r’s, “What could a puir Highland lass like me do to harm a big brave Norseman like you?” She treaded dangerous waters by tweaking the tail of this Viking wolf; she knew that, but could not seem to restrain the impulse.

Rurik shook his head at her foolhardy bravado. Then he threw another jab at her, from another angle. Sniffing in an exaggerated fashion, he remarked, “What is that odor, Maire? Couldst be you are less aromatic than last time we met? As I recall, there was the scent of flowers … on certain body parts.”

Ooooh, how dare he remind her of her embarrassing surrender to his charms! She could feel her face going crimson with humiliation. As if she did not have a daily reminder of her woman’s weakness in the form of one robust little boy with raven-black hair.

Just then, she noticed bits of peat moss clinging to his apparel. For a man who was usually so fastidious about his appearance, it struck an odd note. She smiled in a deliberately gloating manner. “Ah, have you taken a bath in one of our lovely bogs, Viking?”

He snarled some foreign word under his breath. A Norse expletive, no doubt. He recovered rapidly, though, and smiled back at her. “Is that the latest in Scottish fashion, Maire?” He was surveying her poor attire with disdain.

Now it was her turn to snarl.

He smirked at her, satisfied to have provoked a reaction from her.

The maddening arrogance of the Viking infuriated her. She would have liked to wipe that smirk off his face with a bucket of cold water. Instead, she taunted, “And what is that odd mark on your face, Rurik? Couldst be you are less handsome than last time we met?” Instantly, shame overcame her at the unkind-ness of her comment.

He seemed about to toss back some nasty retort, but they were interrupted. Off on a nearby hillock, she heard Murdoc pick up his bagpipes and begin a plaintive tune. Thanks to all his battle wounds, Murdoc was an unattractive man physically, but, oh, the music he played was rapturous. Tears welled in her eyes, as they always did when she heard the pipes.

Bolthor exclaimed to Rurik, “Is that not the most wondrous sound you have ever heard?”

“Huh?” Rurik said.

The dolt!

Bolthor turned to Old John. “Dost think I could learn how to play the pipes like that?”

“Oh, no! No, no, no!” Rurik was quick to interject.

But Old John ignored Rurik and patted Bolthor on the sleeve with his good hand. “I canna see why not.”

Rurik and the remainder of his group groaned. Obviously, they were ignorant men who could not appreciate good music.

Bolthor addressed Rurik, “Can you not see the possibilities, Rurik? Mayhap I could teach Stigand to say the words to my sagas whilst I accompany him with the bagpipes.”

“Me? Why me?” Stigand sputtered. “Be damned if I will be caught spouting any bloody poetry.”

“Not only will I be a skald, but I will be a bard, as well,” Bolthor said with an elated sigh.

“Or one might say, a skaldic bard,” Toste offered with a chuckle.

“Or a bardic skald,” Vagn added, also chuckling.

“How about a bald?” Stigand put in with dry humor. He was not chuckling.

“Now, Bolthor, slow down a bit and think on this,” Rurik advised. “When have you ever heard of a bag-piping Norseman?”

Bolthor lifted his chin and smiled broadly. “That is the best part. I will be the first.”

“This is all your fault,” Rurik yelled up at her, surprising her so much that she jumped, causing her cage to sway. Promptly, he added, “Why are you looking cross-eyed?”

“She is no doubt centering herself,” Young John answered for her, as if that explained everything. “Perchance her bars will now part of their own volition.” He seemed unable to control a snicker. “Then again, perchance not.”

Rurik glanced about and realized that, for some reason, he had an amused audience. He turned to Stigand. “Go up to the ramparts and use your ax to chop off that plank that’s holding the cage.”

Stigand frowned. “But the cage will drop to the ground.”

“Yea,” Rurik agreed with a sly smile. “That is the point. The witch deserves a good shaking up and the cage is not so high that she will be harmed.”