Page 20 of The Blue Viking

“Nay, you do not understand. My need for escape was more important than my damaged pride. So, whilst you were sleeping, I took a vial from the leather bag Cailleach gave me—”

“Cailleach?”

She frowned in annoyance at his interruption. “Cailleach was the old crone who taught me witchcraft at one time.”

Rurik was getting a huge ache in his head from Maire’s roundabout explanation, which made no sense at all. “Backtrack here a bit, Maire. You took a vial from the witch’s bag. What did you intend to do with it?”

“I was going to slip some of it through your lips whilst you slept, but I tripped and the liquid in the vial spilled onto your face.”

Rurik still did not understand. “What kind of potion was in the vial?”

“Well, I thought it was a…” Her words trailed off into an indecipherable murmur at the end, and she picked up with, “but obviously it was something else.”

“What did you say? I could not hear you. What kind of potion had you intended to give me?”

“A love potion,” she practically shouted. “There! Are you happy now that you know?”

“A love potion? A love potion? Lady, the desire to swive you has ne’er been a problem.” He could not stop the grin that crept over his lips.

“Ooooh! Do not dare to laugh at me again, Viking.”

“What will you do? Put another mark on me? Slip me a love potion? Turn me into a toad?”

“You are a toad,” she declared and had the nerve to dump the pottery bowl of wash water over his head before she sailed away, out of the room.

He could not care. He was laughing too hard.

And he did not believe a single word the witch had said. He knew only too well the conspiracies that enemies wove in the course of battle, and there was no doubt in his mind that he and Maire were in a war… of wits, if nothing else. The only leverage she had over him was the blue mark, and she would not want to remove it till she had gained all she could from him.

Little did the witch know what a seasoned warrior he was, and how much he relished a good battle. She would never, ever win, whether crossing swords, or wills, with him.

He was sore angry with the witch, and had been for five long years. Still, for now, he could not help delighting in the laughter that rippled through him at her weak machinations.

A love potion? Indeed!

It was late afternoon, and the Campbell clan was celebrating their liberation before a huge bonfire composed of the wooden cage that had held their leader for almost a week.

The number of clan members seemed to be growing by the minute as more and more of them came out of hiding… most of them battered or handicapped in some way by war or their harsh lives. Rurik had tried to tell them that it was too soon for celebrating, and that liberation could be a momentary thing, but they would not listen to him. Instead, they gazed at him as if he were a savior sent by the gods … or, worse yet, a knight in shining armor called forth by a dimwitted witch.

The only one missing was Maire’s son, and Rurik was starting to be sorely annoyed by that fact. He suspected that Maire feared contamination by him… as if he might turn the wee-laird into a Viking, of all horrible things.

“What do you think?” Rurik asked Stigand and Bolthor, who had been working with the men all day, attempting to instill some discipline and rigor into their fighting exercises.

“They have heart,” Stigand informed him. “Even those who are lame and weak have the will to fight. That may not seem like much, but it could make the difference.”

“And there are those who were fierce warriors and can be again, despite their weaknesses,” Bolthor added. “Like Young John with the one eye. Even with just a few lessons this morning, I was able to show him how to better handle himself. In truth, his half-blindness is not near as bad as mine. He can still see blurry shapes with his bad eye. It is a question of balance, and he is an enthusiastic learner.”

Rurik nodded. “Toste and Vagn have been assessing the physical defenses.” He peered off into the distance where they were assisting some of the younger Campbells, pulling down the rotting timber walls with their crumbling stone foundations with an eye toward rebuilding and remortaring them over the next few days. Of course, there were several Campbell lasses about admiring their work… or could it be their good looks? Truly, the twins garnered female admirers no matter what country they were in. “We have much to do to repair the walls,” Rurik went on, “but this clanstead is well situated to ward off attacks when guards are positioned strategically.”

“It’s all a question of time and numbers of fighting men,” Bolthor concluded.

“And skill,” Stigand added. “That the six of us have aplenty, and the others can be taught. In time.”

“Jostein,” Rurik yelled out to the young man, who was working with his Campbell counterparts on the wall. Hastily, Jostein rushed over to do his bidding. “Dost think you could find your way back to Britain on your own?”

Jostein nodded eagerly, panting from his vigorous activity.

“This is an important mission, Jostein. I would like you to ride out on the morrow. Go to Ravenshire in Northumbria, the estate of Lord Eirik and Lady Eadyth. Explain the situation here, and ask if he has troops to spare that he could send to our aid.”