Page 8 of The Blue Viking

Maire shrugged, though inside she was not so calm as she pretended to be. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel justified in putting the blue mark on Rurik’s face. He’d taken her maidenhead, then spoken blithely of going off the next day to his homeland, as if she had not just given him a woman’s most precious possession. But that was not the main reason for her taking such drastic action. She’d asked him to take her with him, foolish wench that she had been. At the time, she’d had good reason to want to be absent from her homeland … for a while, at least. But what did the brute do when she’d asked? He’d laughed at her.

Well, she’d gotten the last laugh.

But she was not laughing now.

“Mayhap ’tis time to face the Viking. Mayhap my marking him was the start of all our troubles. Mayhap I need to remove the mark in order to reverse the curse that seems to have struck us Campbells.”

“Hmmrn,” Nessa pondered. “But what if he … the Viking … hurts ye?” Nessa asked.

“He won’t,” Maire answered. For some reason, she did not think he would do her physical harm.

Nessa arched her eyebrows skeptically. “He’s a Viking.”

“Aye.”

“Vikings be a bloodthirsty lot.”

“I am acquainted with a few Scotsmen who are bloodthirsty, too. Like Duncan MacNab, for instance.”

“Duncan resents Kenneth not gaining the land rights from ye through marriage. Duncan means to have ye, Maire. And King Indulf has given his permission. Time is not in yer favor anymore.”

“I know,” Maire said on a sigh. “ ’Tis not me he wants, though. It always comes back to the land. Never mind that he is old enough to be my father. Never mind that I’ve refused his proposals more times than I can count. Never mind that his men stand guard below in my courtyard as we speak and won’t leave till I cooperate. Never mind that the MacNab will beat me mightily once he has marriage rights.” Maire rubbed her cheek where Duncan had slapped her hard the day before for refusing to accede to his wishes. “In truth, I predict my accidental death within days of my wedding, if I should ever be so foolish as to wed with that bastard.” And God only knew what would happen to Wee-Jamie under Duncan’s guardianship.

“But how much longer can we hold out?” Nessa wailed, rubbing her hands together anxiously.

“I do not know. I am so tired of fighting this battle alone. If only father were still alive, or Donald, or Angus.” Her father, Malcolm Campbell, had died at Brunanburh eighteen years past, along with the son of Constantine, king of the Scots. Her brothers had died in various other battles since then. Her husband of five years, Kenneth MacNab, Duncan’s much younger brother, had died mere months ago, but little good he had been to her while alive. ’Twas he who had banished Cailleach from her lands. Only a straggling band of Campbells was left of her clan and only Maire to hold them together against the onslaught of outside forces. It was a heavy load for a woman of only twenty and five years to carry. Unfortunately, there was no one else … for now.

“What ye need, me bonnie lass, is a brave knight in shining armor to champion your cause.”

“Hah!” Maire scoffed. “All my life I’ve had only myself to depend on, and that’s the way it’s always going to be.”

“Many women say the same … but only till their true love comes along. Yea, what ye need is a true love.”

“A true love?” Maire burst out laughing. “I thought you said I needed a knight in shining armor.”

“And who be sayin’ ye can’t have both?” Nessa sliced her a condemning glare. Then, she put a fingertip to her chin, pondering. “Dost think there be any way ye could get the Viking to help in this fight?” Nessa asked tentatively.

“Nay!” Maire exclaimed vehemently. Blessed Lord! The woman can’t possibly be putting Rurik in the category of a brave knight. Or—may the saints rise from their graves—a true love. “I want no help from the likes of that man. And one thing is certain. He must never, ever, know …” Her words trailed off as she bit her bottom lip. “… my secret.”

“Now, now, lassie, ye are not to fear. Old John has come up with a plan.”

“A plan?” Maire squeaked out. Old John was the head of her guardsmen, such as they were these days. Even Old John, once a strong fighting man, had only one arm now and was nigh crippled with pain from all his battle injuries over the years. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of a plan? He should discuss his plans with me.” The shrillness of her voice rang out, and several of the MacNab sentries glanced her way.

Nessa slanted her a rueful look. “Old John could hardly come here to talk with ye. There be MacNabs all about the keep.” Pulling back from the parapet, Nessa prepared to leave. “Doona be worryin’ none. ’Tis in God’s hands now … and Old John’s.”

Now Maire was really worried.

Chapter Two

“Vikings, go home. Ye are not wanted here in the Highlands.”

Rurik and his men were on horseback, staring across a wide gully at a dozen Scotsmen, also on horseback, all of them red-haired and florid-faced. Weapons were not drawn on either side, but all of them had their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to fight if the need arose. Even with six against twelve, Rurik did not doubt that his band would win in an honest fight, but a good soldier fought no unnecessary battles; therefore, he held himself in check.

Like many Scotsmen, these wore the traditional léine and brat… the léine being a long, full shert down to the knees, resembling an under-tunic, often of a saffron yellow color, and the brat, or pladd, being a mere blanket of sorts, which was fastened on the shoulder with a brooch, like a mantle, looped under the sword arm and secured at the waist with a leather belt. Their legs were exposed at times, especially when riding a horse. In fact, many Highlanders dropped their pladds in battle, fighting naked… which was not so unusual; Viking berserkers did the same. The first time Rurik had viewed Stigand in such nonattire, his eyes had almost bulged out. What a sight that had been!

These men were a scurvy bunch, with crafty eyes, though they rode fine steeds, and their claymores and long-bladed dirks were of the best quality. The man who had spoken, the leader, appeared most sinister of them all. He had seen more than fifty winters, and white strands threaded through the bright red hair that hung down to his shoulders. His mane looked as if it hadn’t been washed or combed in a sennight. A full red beard encircled his chin. Most conspicuous about him was his eyebrows … or, rather, his eyebrow … for the man had only one bushy brow that extended from one hairline to the other, with no break in between at the bridge of the nose. With this single brow the man appeared frowning and ruthless.

Rurik didn’t trust him one bit. “And who might you be?” he asked.