Page 34 of The Blue Viking

She laughed gaily, a tinkly sound of spontaneous joy, which caused his heart to expand in the most alarming way. “You never give up, do you?”

“Never,” he said. “That’s the second best thing about a Viking.”

She laughed again. “And the first best thing?”

“Aaaah, that you will find out later tonight.”

Finally, finally, finally, the feast was about to begin.

Maire couldn’t recall the last time they’d had a feast at Beinne Breagha. So, even though she personally felt no need to have one now, it was hard to begrudge her people this small pleasure. Their life had been so dire for so long. Even a temporary respite from danger was cause to celebrate.

She could not blame them for wanting to honor the handsome toad at her side, either. No one had been more surprised, or touched, than she today when he’d given her clansmen back their pride with a few words of praise.

Of course, he would be milking that generosity for all it was worth, as evidenced by his insinuations concerning the night to come. He was only jesting, of course.

She hoped.

Or did she hope?

Of course, she hoped.

Aaarrgh!

The man was beguiling her with his sinful skills of seduction. Truly, the rogue could charm the feathers off a goose if he put his mind to it. Maire put a hand to the love mark on her neck and recollected, in detail, how she’d almost succumbed to his charms this afternoon. This feminine weakness had to stop … for her son’s sake, as well as her own well-being. With a brisk shake of her head, she pulled her thoughts back to the present.

Nessa led the procession of maids and housecarls from the kitchen into the hall, carrying platters and bowls for the late meal. Taking precedence on the huge wooden trencher in her outstretched arms was the wonderful Scottish delicacy, haggis, which met with applause of appreciation from her clansmen. Foreigners to Scotland were inclined to make mock of haggis, but it truly was delicious, though admittedly an acquired taste. The heart, liver, and lungs of a sheep were ground up and mixed with suet, onion, oats, and seasonings, then stuffed into a bag made of the sheep’s stomach, which was boiled slowly for an entire day. It would be sliced and portioned out so that everyone could get a taste of this prized Highland dish.

Maire glanced from side to side and saw that Rurik and all his Viking comrades seated at the high table were gawking at the haggis, a bit green-faced and gap-mouthed. Their bellies, which had been emitting audible growls of hunger just moments ago, suddenly stopped rumbling.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Rurik declared, and all his friends nodded in agreement.

“That’s the biggest haggis I’ve ever seen,” Bolthor said, his one good eye wide with astonishment. He was already muttering something under his breath that indicated he couldn’t quite find the right title for his new saga; “For Love of a Haggis,” or “Why the Gods Made Haggis, Saxons, Ugly Women, and Other Deplorable Things,” or “One Hundred Reasons to Hate a Haggis.”

“I’m not eating any of that,” Toste declared, his cleft chin raised high, his usually smiling mouth turned southward. Maire had no idea where Vagn had disappeared to … probably off to no good with Inghinn, daughter of Fergus the Sheepherder.

“It’s only a sausage … of sorts,” Maire called down the table to Toste.

“Hah!” Toste answered. “A sausage big enough for a giant.”

“Mayhap I will give it a try,” Stigand said, trying to be polite.

Maire smiled at the big berserker.

“I might not vomit this time,” Stigand added.

Maire’s smile disappeared.

Fortunately for them, there were other foods being brought forth, too. Finnan Haddie, or smoked haddock, herring coated with oats, sheepshead and blood puddings, leg of lamb, a thick Scotch Broth made with mutton stock, barley, and vegetables, a hearty cock-a-leekie soup, and neeps—Oh, Lord, were there ever neeps!—boiled, roasted, creamed, and poached. Ever since her incarceration in the cage, Maire had developed a real distaste for that prolific Scottish vegetable, the turnip.

But, wait, here came the tail end of the procession. Four of the young housecarls were carrying a makeshift tray made out of a small discarded door. On top of it sat what was a rarity in many Scottish homes—a roast suckling pig.

“Aaaaaaahhhhh!” was the communal sigh of pleasure heard round the hall at the sight and smell of this preeminent treat. But suddenly there was a loud roar.

Everybody turned as one to gaze at Stigand, who was staring at the roast pig as if it were one of his children who’d been put into the oven. He was pulling at his hair like a wild man, his eyes were rolling up in his head and a bellow like that of an enraged bear was coming from his wide-open mouth.

“Do not put your beard in a blaze, my friend,” Old John cautioned, his forehead furrowed with puzzlement.

Rurik ran up to his comrade and tried to calm him with strange words, “Go easy, my friend. Go easy. ’Tis not Thumb-Biter. Go easy.”