Page 87 of The Blue Viking

Not that he wanted to marry Maire.

Really.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.

And he didn’t want to.

Really.

Why, then, did it feel as if a fist had reached inside his chest and was squeezing his heart?

Why, then, did he keep recalling her words to him yestereve, “I love you”?

Why, then, did he wonder what news Wee-Jamie wanted to disclose to him when he’d said, “I have somethin’ important to tell ye”?

Why, then, did fear overwhelm him … fear that he was about to lose the most important thing in his life?

Chapter Sixteen

Eight hours later…

Chaos reigned at Beinne Breigha.

But it was chaos of the best, most marvelous kind, in Maire’s opinion. She stood in the doorway of her great hall, which gave her an equal view of activities both inside and outside the keep.

Bagpipe music had been blaring sweetly for some time now. Well, some of it was sweet, when it came from the expert mouth and fingers of Murdoc. And some was not so sweet, when it came from Murdoc’s apprentice-in-training, Bolthor.

Everywhere could be heard sounds of levity. Giggles. Chuckles. Belly laughs. There was so much joy that Maire could scarce contain her own gaiety. In fact, she suspected she wore a continual, silly grin on her face.

Females, young and old, garbed in their best arisaids, danced at will and occasionally burst into Highland songs as they helped set the trestle tables for the largest celebratory feast ever seen by her Campbell clan. “Is there aught more beauteous than a comely lass with a smile on her face?” Old John was heard to remark on more than one occasion.

Even in the worst of times, Beinne Breagha boasted an abundance of nature’s blessings, whether from land or water. If ever they’d appeared to be poor of victuals, it was not for lack of food, but more for lack of time or people to prepare fine fare. Already the boards groaned with fishes of a dozen different varieties … baked, boiled, jellied, pickled, minced, and smoked. A mass of eels still slithered in their scullery barrel awaiting the perfect moment to be boiled and added to the leek and curdled cream sauce. And not to be ignored at this special event was the Scottish favorite, smoked craigellache, or salmon.

Even the standard fare seemed uncommon today: tupney pies; cock-a-leekie soup; blood sausages or black pudding; potted headcheese made of boiled shin meat and marrow bone; vegetables, including the infernal neeps; and of course, haggis.

To satisfy the sweet cravings of young and old, there were preserved fruits; cook’s famous currant and hazelnut pudding; uisge-beatha-laden cream custard, known as crannachan; and Scotch shortbread. Honey still in the combs sat on high shelves in the kitchen, away from sticky-fingered children, to be slathered on oat cakes or bannocks in the course of the feast.

Males, young and old, dressed in their best pladds, stole kisses and made assignations for later as they passed to and fro from the great hall to the courtyard where a huge red deer stag was being roasted on a spit, rotated by children who took turns at the honored task. To supplement the red meat and fish were hams fresh from the smoke huts and chickens stuffed with chestnuts and boiled eggs. Later in the evening, once the wee ‘uns had fallen asleep on their mothers’ laps from pure exhaustion, the scullery maids would carry out a silver bowl, passed from generation to generation, containing the Campbell flummery. The base of the frothy concoction was soaked cereal, the liquid of which set to a clear jelly, flavored with rosewater and topped with cream and honey and its own distinctive ingredient… uisge-beatha. Definitely an adult drink.

The most chaotic thing about this whole chaotic scene was that there were witches here, witches there, witches essentially everywhere. Ugly witches. Beautiful witches. Dour and sweet. Although there were a few young witches, most of them seemed ancient. Some of these were white of hair, toothless, and hairy-waited, with dried-apple faces, but others were softly aged with wise, all-knowing eyes. Though they varied in physical appearance, they all had one thing in common… cackling. Even the prettiest of them let loose with a decided cackle now and again. Mayhap that was why Maire had never become a very good witch; she’d never been able to cackle.

The way Cailleach was cackling right now.

“Ye’ve made a fine mess of things this time,” her mentor proclaimed as she opened her arms for Maire’s enthusiastic embrace. “Tsk-tsk-tsk!”

“I didn’t mean to call up all the witches in Scotland.” Maire replied defensively. She pulled back to get a better look at her beloved teacher. It was alarming to see how much Cailleach had aged in the past five years. Or had the witch always resembled an old hag?

Cailleach waved a bony hand dismissively. “ ’Tis not that mess I be referrin’ to, dearie.” She pointed to the exercise yards where Rurik was helping some men set up targets and other equipment for the games to be held on the morrow… archery, wheel throwing, wrestling, triple jumping, and horse racing. Although Rurik had already been to the loch to bathe with the other men, and his hair was fancy-braided on the sides with amber beads, he had stripped off his tunic and was working bare-chested now, with his black braies hanging low on his hips.

Maire’s heart lurched and her blood thickened with desire at just the image of Rurik’s ridged abdomen and the thin mat of hair that ran down in an enticing vee toward his …

Her thoughts broke off at that juncture on hearing yet another cackle.

“That be the mess I am referring to, girl.”

“Rurik?” she asked with surprise.

“If Rurik be the name of the too-pretty Viking with the wicked eyes glancing this way, then, aye, that be the selfsame mess I see ye embroiled in.”