"Do witches fall in love?"
"Aaarrgh!" Rurik groaned at the halfwit query that had just been directed at
him. He would have put his face in his hands if they were not so filthy from his having
fallen ignominiously into a peat bog a short while ago. Distastefully picking pieces of
musty moss from his wet sleeve, he glared at Jostein, who had asked the barmy question,
then snarled, "How in bloody hell would I know if witches fall in love? I'm a Viking,
not an expert in the dark arts."
"Yea, but you have lain with a witch. One would think you have firsthand knowledge
of such things," declared Bolthor the Giant. Bolthor was Rurik's very own personal
skald, for the love of Odin! He'd been shoved off on him at the inception of this
three-year trip to hell...Scotland, that is...by his good friend, Tykir Thorksson...well,
mayhap not such a good friend, if he'd tricked him into taking with him the world's worst
poet.
Rurik would have glared at Bolthor, too, if he were not the size of a warhorse.
Bolthor--a fierce fighting man--did not take kindly to glares. He was oversensitive by
half.
Jostein, on the other hand, turned blood red in the face and neck and ears at having
earned Rurik's disfavor, and Rurik immediately regretted his hasty words. It was not
Jostein's fault Rurik was in such an ill-temper. Rurik was well aware that the boy, who
had seen only fifteen winters, thought he nigh walked on water. Foolish youthling!
"Well, I was just thinking," Jostein stammered, "that mayhap your problem
stems from the witch being in love with you."
The problem Jostein referred to was the jagged blue mark running down the center of
Rurik's face...the permanent blue mark, much like that worn by the Celtic
warriors of old...the selfsame mark which was at the heart of his three-year quest to find
the damnable witch who'd put it there...actually five years, if one counted those
first two years when he'd only searched half-heartedly and spent the winters in Norway and
Iceland.
Just then he noticed the remnants of reddish-brown water beginning to stain his hands
and clothing. 'Twas from the tannin in the bogs. Holy Thor! If he was not careful, he
would carry not only the blue mark, but red ones, as well. Could his life get any worse
than this? Rubbing his hands briskly on the legs of his braies, he grumbled aloud
in belated response to Jostein's question, "Since when do wenches show their love by
marking a man for life?"
"Couldst be that you hurt the witch's feelings?" Bolthor offered. Bolthor
thought he knew a lot about feelings...being a poet and all. "Mayhap Jostein's
thinking is not so lackbrained. Mayhap the witch was in love with you, and you hurt
her feelings, and she put the mark on you for revenge. What think you of that
notion?"
"A fool's bolt is soon shot," Rurik mumbled under his breath.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Bolthor wanted to know.
"Not a thing," Rurik replied with a sigh. "I was just thinking about
Scotsmen," he lied. But to himself, he translated, Dumb people don't mind sharing
their opinions. "Besides, methinks it matters neither here nor there
why Maire the Witch put the mark on me. I just want it removed so I can resume a normal
life."
"But--" Bolthor started.
Rurik put up a hand to halt further words on the subject, but Stigand the Berserk,
another of his retainers, was already joining in. "The witch made a laughingstock of
you. Everywhere you go, people smirk behind your back and make jokes about you."
Rurik frowned. He did not need to hear this.
And, really, what could Stigand be thinking...to risk provoking him so? He had known
Stigand as a child back in the Norse lands, though he had not met up with him again till a
few years past. His trusted friend pushed all bounds by reminding him that people were
making jest of him; he knew better than most what a sore point such mockery had been with
Rurik then, and still was.
"You should let me lop off her head," Stigand suggested gleefully. And he was
serious.
Was that not like Stigand...ever the protector? Rurik could not help but be touched at
the fierce soldier's instinct to shield him from pain. But Rurik was quick to state,
"You are not lopping off any more heads." The bloodlust was always high in
Stigand and had to be reined in constantly. He had a habit of decapitating his enemies
with a single blow of his trusty battleaxe, appropriately named Blood-Lover. Throughout
their three-year quest, they'd constantly had to restrain Stigand, lest a sheepherder or
unwary wayfarer get in his path when he was in a dark mood. So intense were his berserk
rages on occasion that Stigand actually growled like an animal and bit his own shield.
In fact, just last sennight, he'd almost decapitated a Scottish princeling who'd
winked repeatedly at him. Turned out the young nobleman was not a sodomite, but had
suffered from a nervous tic since birth. "Leastways, do not think of lopping off
Maire's head till I have the mark removed."
"I know, I know--" the twins, Vagn and Toste, said as one. 'Twas eerie
betimes the way the two grown men, identical in appearance, right down to the winsome
clefts in their chins, would come out with the same thought.
Vagn spoke first. "I have an idea. Now, do not be offended when I tell you this,
Rurik..."
Toste snickered as if he knew what his brother was about to say.
Rurik was sure he was going to be offended.
"You always had a certain word-fame for woman-luck, but perchance you lost the
knack," Vagn elaborated, "and that is what caused the witch to mark you. 'Twas
frustration, pure and simple."
"The knack?" Rurik inquired, against his better judgement.
"Yea, the ability to bring a woman to pleasure," Vagn explained.
"Hopefully, more than once. Wenches like the bed-sport, too, you know. I certainly
have that knack." Vagn puffed out his chest for emphasis.
"Me, too," chimed in Toste, Bolthor, Stigand...even Jostein in a squeaky
not-quite-man voice.
Rurik suspected that the twins used his mission as an excuse for carrying their
overeager genitals from place to place. New carnal territory to explore.
How did I ever gather such a demented retinue? Rurik thought. Which god
did I insult to bring on such misfortune? But what he said was, "The only
thing I know for a certainty is that witch hunting is becoming one immense pain in the
arse." He was not exaggerating when he said that. Truly, a Viking should be on the
high seas sailing a longship, not bouncing his rump on the back of a horse for days at a
time. Portly Saxons, or dour Scotsmen, might not mind the constant jostling, but Vikings,
being physically fitter than the average man and having less fat on those nether regions,
were better suited to other modes of transportation, in Rurik's opinion. He had to grin at
the egotism of that observation.
Mayhap, he should suggest that Bolthor create a saga about it.
On the other hand, mayhap not.
Based on past experience, it would have a title like, "Viking Men With Hard
Arses," or some such nonsense.
All five men fixed their gazes on him, and he realized that he had been chuckling to
himself, witlessly.
With a sigh of despair at his own disintegrating brain, he sank down onto a boulder.
Picking up a small knife, he began to scrape peat moss and other unnamed slimy
substances--like mud mixed with twigs and grass--from his leather half-boots, which had
been made in Cordoba of the softest skins and cost three gold coins.
"This witch hunting business is becoming bloody bothersome," Rurik continued
in a low grumble, but not before spitting out yet another clump of what tasted like soggy
charcoal.
They all nodded vigorously in agreement.
Bolthor lumbered up and loomed over him, adjusting the black eye patch over the
holeless socket of one eye which had been lost in the Battle of Brunanburh many years
before. He squinted at him through his good eye, then put a palm over his mouth to hide
his smile, as if there was humor in a grown man falling into a peat bog. If the
now-grinning wretch dared to start spouting a saga about this episode in their
never-ending search for Maire, he would give him a bog bath, though he would no doubt
strain his back in the process.
"You know, Rurik, the Scots poets have a practice of writing odes, unlike us
Norsemen who prefer a good saga. Dost think I could put together an ode or two...just for
practice? How about `Ode to a Peat Bog'?"
Everyone guffawed with mirth, except Rurik.
"How about `Ode to a One-Eyed Dead Skald'?" Rurik inquired wryly.
"It does not have the same ring to it," Bolthor said.
I would like to give you a ring, you dumb dolt. More like a ringing in the ears
from a sound whack aside the head with a broadsword.
Then Bolthor added, more soberly, "Methinks 'tis time to put an end to this
fruitless venture and admit defeat."
"A Viking never admits defeat," Rurik reminded him.
Bolthor shook his head in disagreement. "Vikings never admit that they admit
defeat." That was the kind of daft logic Bolthor came up with all the time.
"I say we behead every Scotsman and Scotswoman we come across," Stigand
interjected. "That will flush the witch out of her lair, I predict."
Everyone looked at Stigand with horror. It was one thing to spill sword-dew in the
midst of battle, but to kill innocent people...even if they were scurvy Scots? 'Twas
unthinkable.
Vikings had their ethics, despite what the English monk-historians in their
scriptoriums liked to say about Norsemen as rapers and pillagers. Hah! Every good Viking
knew that the Church amassed so much gold and silver in its chalices and what-nots
just to tempt Norsemen. Besides, it was a well-known fact that Vikings invigorated the
races of all those Christian countries they conquered. And didn't they embrace their
Christianity...even it it was only a token embrace?
But, back to Stigand. Rurik knew about the horrors that a young Stigand had
suffered...horrors which had caused his mind to nigh split...but what had happened to him
over the years to make the adult man so hard?
Fortunately, Rurik did not have to respond to Stigand's suggestion because one of the
twins, Toste, spoke up. "I have grown accustomed to the blue mark on your face,
Rurik. Really, 'tis not so bad. If that is the only reason for continuing this
quest...well, perchance you should reconsider."
"The wenches seem to have no problem with it, either," Vagn added.
"Yestereve that farmsteader's daughter picked you for swiving above all of us, and
I'll have you know that I am renowned for my good looks. Godly handsome is how the wenches
describe me."
"I did not swive--" Rurik started to demur, then gave up, throwing his hands
in the air with disgust. But then he added drolly, "I thought it was your knack the
women coveted."
"That, too," Vagn said with a grin.
"I'm more handsome than you are," Toste challenged his brother.
"Nay, I am more handsome than all of you," Bolthor proclaimed, which was so
ridiculous it did not even bear comment.
"I think Rurik is the most handsome," Jostein piped in. Jostein was
suffering a severe case of hero worship and had been since Rurik rescued him when he was a
mere ten from a Saracen slave trader with a proclivity for male children.
"Bugger all of you," Stigand said with a mild roar. "I am the most
handsome and anyone who disagrees can taste the flavor of my blade." He rubbed a
calloused forefinger along the sharp edge of Blood-Lover for emphasis.
No one disagreed with Stigand, though he resembled a wild boar. Mayhap he was
a handsome fellow, but who could tell how he really looked under his unruly beard and
mustache which all blended together in a curly mass. He had not shaved in the past few
years.
"I have three more months left," Rurik told them with a weary sigh.
"Theta gave me two years to have the blue mark removed afore she would wed me...and
that time does not end till autumn...three months from now. I do not intend to give up
till then."
"Three months! Twelve more sennights!" Vagn griped. "It may as well be a
year. Remember one thing, Rurik. Friends are like lute strings; they must not be strung
too tight, and we all in your troop are overstrung, believe you me."
"Lute strings? Lute strings?" Rurik sputtered.
"Precisely," Vagn said. "I am sick to death of moors and Highlands and
Lowlands...and quarrelsome Scotsmen."
Stigand tilted his head to the side, as if thinking hard. "I rather like the
quarrelsome Scotsmen. They give me an excuse to hone my fighting skills." He ducked
his head sheepishly and added, "They remind me a bit of us Vikings."
Everyone gawked at him as if he had gone senseless...which he probably had...long
ago...after his first hundred or so kills.
Perhaps even long before that.
"'Tis true," Stigand insisted. "They are proud, and independent, and
good fighters. And they hate the Saxons the same as we do. So, we have something in
common."
"They hate Vikings, too," Rurik pointed out.
That contradiction went right over Stigand's head. Seeing their lack of accord with
him, Stigand continued, "Even their practice of constant reaving--stealing
shamelessly from their neighbors--is not unlike us Men of the North who enjoy a-Viking on
occasion."
They all shook their heads at Stigand's thinking, even though it had a ring of validity
to it.
"What I hate most about Scotland is the haggis," Jostein said, gagging as he
spoke. "I swear, 'tis a concoction the Scots devised to poison us Norsemen. 'Tis
worse than gammelost, and that smelly cheese is very bad."
Rurik nodded in agreement. Once he had been on a sea voyage in which their food stores
had been pared down to gammelost. By the time their longship had finally arrived
back in Norway, all the seamen's breaths reeked like the back end of a goat.
"Well, I for one think Theta was being unfair to give you such an ultimatum.
Methinks you should have tossed her into the bed furs then and there," Toste opined.
He was tipping a skin of mead to his mouth between words, which probably gave him the
courage to speak to his leader so. "Without her maidenhead, her father would have had
no choice but to force Theta to exchange vows with you." He belched loudly at the end
of his discourse.
"Her father is Anlaf of Lade, a most powerful Norse chieftain," Rurik told
Toste, as if he did not already know. "And Theta, even being a fifth daughter,
is a most willful wench. She would not come to my bed furs without the vows, and I
had no inclination to waste long hours seducing her to change her mind."
In truth, Rurik had been thinking on that very subject of late. Sometimes, he wondered
if he really wanted to wed the woman who'd made such demands on him. For a certainty, he
was not in love with her...nor had he ever been with any woman. At the time, it had seemed
the right thing to do. His good friends Erik and Tykir Thorksson had settled happily into
their own marriages. So, he'd purchased a large farmstead on a Norse-inhabited island in
the Orkneys. Rurik had never had a real home of his own. He was twenty-eight years
old...well past the age for settling in and raising a family. What it all boiled down to
was that he'd made a decision to wed simply because it had seemed the right thing to do.
After these long intermittent years of scouring the Scottish countryside for an elusive
witch, Rurik had changed. For one thing, he'd become a sullen, brooding man. His sense of
humor had nigh disappeared. He'd lost his dreams. Bloody hell, he could not even remember
what they had been. Too much time for thinking and pondering was causing him to doubt all
that he'd thought he wanted. Still, he felt the need to finish what he'd started...whether
it be capture of a Scottish witch, or marriage with a Norse princess.
"Actually, 'tis not uncommon for highborn women to make such demands."
Bolthor had been speaking while Rurik's mind had been wandering. "Remember Gyda,
daughter of King Eric of Hordaland. She refused to wed with Harald till he defeated
all his enemies and united all Norway. And Harald did it, too, but not afore making
a vow to never bathe or cut his hair till he completed his mission. Thereafter, he was
known as Harald Fairhair."
Everyone knew the story of King Harald, and each sat or stood about contemplating
Bolthor's words. Moments later, one by one, they turned to gape at Rurik, as if wondering
why he had not made such a vow. But then, they knew that Rurik was prideful of his
personal appearance, and was known to wear only the best crafted fabrics for his tunics
and overmantles, adorned with embroidery and precious brooches of gold or silver. Colored
beads were often intertwined in the war braids at the sides of his long hair. Never would
he go for an extended period without washing the silky black tresses. They did not call
him Rurik the Vain for naught...a title which he disdained, but had earned.
"Methinks 'tis time for a saga," Bolthor announced.
Everyone groaned...softly, so they would not offend the gentle giant.
"What happened to your idea for embarking on odes?" Rurik made the mistake of
asking.
Everyone except Bolthor scowled at his lackwittedness, as if they at least knew not to
encourage the fellow's less-than- artistic efforts.
"Sagas, odes, poems, eddas, ballads...I am willing to try all of them,"
Bolthor answered optimistically.
Oh, God!
"This is the saga of Rurik the Great," Bolthor commenced.
"I thought Tykir was the one you called `great' in your sagas," Rurik said.
"You were always saying, `This is the saga of Tykir the Great.'"
Bolthor waved a hand airily. "There can be more than one great Viking."
Rurik did groan aloud then.
"Well, if you insist." Bolthor apparently decided to change his opening
because now he started, "This is the saga of Rurik the Greater."
"Greater than what?" someone mumbled sarcastically.
Rurik was about to throw a wad of peat moss at whoever it was who had spoken, but
everyone stared at him with seeming innocence.
Bolthor had that dreamy look on his face that he always got when he was inspired to
create a new poem. Then he began:
"Rurik was a winsome Viking,
Many the maid will attest.
With long black hair
And flashing teeth,
All the wenches were obsessed.
Through many a land
And betwixt many a thigh,
Rurik the Vain wielded
His seductive moves so spry.
But, lo and behold,
Came a Scottish witch,
Her name was Maire the Fair
Because of her beauty rich,
But also because of her
Fairness pitch.
No mere Viking would use her so,
Boast of his conquest,
Then walk away, no impairment to show.
Thus befell the witch's curse so dark
And the painted face mark.
Now the fierce Norse lackbrain
Is no longer vain.
He is known as Rurik the Blue.
Or sometimes Rurik the Greater...
This is true."
Disgusted, Rurik tossed his knife to the ground, giving up on removing the peat sludge
from his boots and wool braies.
Instead, he stood and stomped off to a nearby lake...or what the Scots referred to as a
loch. It was a strange land, Scotland was. At times, its barren, mountainous, stone cairn
laden landscape could appear soul-rending bleak, and at others, beautiful, almost in a
spiritual sense. Not unlike his own harsh-climated Norway.
The weather was often dreary and dismal. A mist, which the Norse referred to as haar,
poured from the North Sea, out over the still, cold waters, even on warm, clear days, like
today.
Hearing a loud screeching noise, he glanced upward to see a large golden eagle soaring
lazily over the moors, a young red deer in its powerful talons. No doubt, it would make a
tasty meal for the birdlings left in some lofty aerie. At times like this, he missed his
dog, Beast, a wolfhound which he had left behind at Ravenshire in Northumbria to breed
with one of his friend Erik's bitches.
Yea, there was a beauty of sorts in this stark land he had come to hate so much.
Rurik waded, garments and all, into the icy water. Then, with a teeth-chattering
exclamation of "Brrrrr!" and a full-body shiver, he dove underwater and swam
till the water cleansed him.
When he finally came up and out of the water, he heard Bolthor call out to him,
"Dost think it wise to go into the lake without a weapon? The Scottish legends speak
of huge monsters which reside in the depths of their lochs...monsters which resemble a
combination fish and dragon. Hmmm. I recall one of their epics which relates the story of Each
uisage, which means something like water horse, and..."
Rurik didn't wait for more. He dove underwater once again. He would rather risk
fierce water dragons, or freezing some precious body part, than another of Bolthor's
horrible sagas.
But Rurik did wonder as he swam.
Would his quest ever end?
Was he doomed to wear the blue face mark for life?
Why had the witch cursed him so?
And where was Maire hiding?
Hah! She was no doubt living the soft life in some Highland castle chamber, uncaring of
all the havoc she wreaked. And she was fully aware of his endless search for her,
he would warrant, and laughing joyously about the idiocy of it all.
*****
Maire was living in a wooden cage...a cage, for the love of St.
Colomba! And she was so miserable she felt like weeping.
"Puir lassie! The old laird mus' be rolling over in his grave at yer sorry state.
Tsk-tsk," Nessa, her maid and companion, said to her.
Sorry state didn't begin to describe Maire's predicament. She was locked
inside a wooden cage which hung suspended high in the air from a long plank which extended
out from the parapet, above the courtyard. Far below, a large pit had been dug and filled
with snakes, the top covered with a huge woven mat. If she jostled her cage too much, or
someone tried to rescue her, there was always the danger of falling into the pit, cage and
all.
Thus far, she'd been in the cage for five days, and would remain there till she agreed
to betray all that was precious to the Campbell clan...something she would never do. All
her people--crofters and fighting men alike--had fled to the woods, at her orders, taking
her son with them. Other than the MacNab guard stationed about her keep, the only ones
left were a few servants and those too old or frail to leave their homes. Duncan showed up
periodically to shout at her and issue threats.
Maire didn't even look up from where she sat now, her back pressed against the wooden
bars of her "prison," as Nessa clucked and tutted at her while she leaned out
over the parapet, passing her a bowl containing her one meal of the day--boiled neeps and
flat bread. By her doleful tone, you'd think that Nessa was an elderly servant and not a
young widow a bare few years older than Maire's twenty-five years.
"Well, my father has rolled more than once over my problems these many years he's
been gone."
"Doona be disrespectin' the dead. Yer father was a good man, despite the troubles
that seem to flock yer way," Nessa chided, the sympathetic tenderness on her face
belying her reprimand.
Maire was not in the mood for arguing. In fact, she was not in the mood for anything
other than a hot bath and a soft bed. But she had work to do...Magick, if
you will...if she was going to reverse the bad luck which had befallen her people.
"What? What are ye about, Maire?" Nessa asked curiously.
Maire was standing in her cage now, facing east, and was preparing to center herself
with legs shoulder-width apart and two hands wrapped around one of the wooden bars. She
wished she had her staff with her, but the wooden bar would have to do.
"Ooooh! Doona tell me...yer gonna try the witchly rites again, I wager. One thing
is for certain...if ye try that whirling dance nonsense, yer gonna land yerself in a snake
pit. I swear, my heart canna take much more of...Blessed Lord, why are ye lookin'
cross-eyed? Is it the evil eye come over ye?"
"Shhh! I need to focus if I want to bend my bars so that I can escape."
"The last time ye focused--two days past--it was on the MacNab guards below. Ye
said yer spell would cause 'em to run off. Instead, ye gave them a bad case of the running
bowels. Not that some of us did not find humor in that mistake. And then there was
the other spell what was gonna give the MacNabs flight, right off Campbell lands. Bless
the Saints! We had two dozen roosters and hens a-squawkin' and a-flappin' their wings.
None of the hens would lay today, by the by."
Maire sniffed at Nessa for her interruption. "Sometimes, I don't concentrate hard
enough, or I get the spells a little mixed up."
"A little mixed up! Lassie, when ye tried that wind-riding bizness the first day
the MacNabs took ye captive, ye promised ye would end up on the other side of the glen
come mornin'. The only one ridin' the wind was Grizelle, and I swear she will ne'er
forgive ye fer that affair...her falling off the parapet like an eagle about to take
flight, with her gown blowing in the wind, exposing her bare rump. Good thing that young
MacNab lad caught her, though he was laughing so hard they both fell to the ground."
It was true. Maire was not a very competent witch. In truth, she probably wasn't a
witch at all, despite having studied with the old crone, Cailleach, when she was a young
lass. But Cailleach was long gone now. What choice did she have? There was no one else to
rely on. She had to try.
"Either be still, or go away, so that I can concentrate. You're not helping
at all. At least I'm trying. What else would you have me do?"
"Pray," Nessa offered with dry humor. She shifted from foot to foot, still
not leaving.
"Well, what else did you want to say? I can tell you have something on your
mind."
"Aye, that I do. I hates to burden ye with more troubles when yer up ta yer oxters
in troubles as 'tis, but there be darkness on the horizon...again. The Viking is
back."
"Let him come," Maire said with a sigh of surrender. She knew, without
questioning, which Viking Nessa referred to. That scoundrel, Rurik, had been scouring all
of Scotland for her these past few years. Little did he know that the clans, which fought
each other over the littlest dispute, stood together when a hated Norseman was involved.
They'd been more than willing to hide the location of her Campbell clanstead, Beinne
Breagha, or Beautiful Mountain, which was located high in the hills, and enjoyed
leading the Vikings on a merry chase, in full circles at times. Until recently, that
is.
When she'd engaged the wrath of Duncan MacNab--her brother-by-marriage--the most evil
man who'd ever walked the Highlands, Maire and her clan had developed a whole new set of
problems. There was no longer any time for worries about irate Vikings or frivolous hiding
games. Their very future at Beinne Breagha was at stake now.
"Let him come? Let him come?" Nessa practically squealed. "After
all these years, we should invite him in like an invited guest?"
Maire shrugged, then waved a hand at her surroundings. "You ask why I no longer
resist meeting up with the Viking? What can he do to me now?"
Immediately, Nessa's countenance softened. "Och, sorry I am to have raised me
voice. Ye be a good girl, despite all that dabblin' in the witchly arts. I don' mean to
hurt yer feelings, Maire, but ye are the sorriest witch the Highlands ever saw. Ye are no
Cailleach. Mayhap ye really should take up prayer. Have ye e'er considered a
nunnery?"
Maire lifted her chin with affront.
"Oh, girl, doona be gettin' yer feathers ruffled jest 'cause ye can't get a spell
right. If ye want to be upset, be upset over the sad scrape we are in...the worst of all
the Campbell bad times. 'Tis not fitting that ye should be the one to suffer most. That
Duncan MacNab is Lucifer's brother, that I warrant." She was staring woefully
at the horrible cage as she spoke. "Who but the devil hisself would do such a wicked
thing to a woman?"
"Who indeed?" But wait. Here they were blathering when a more important worry
assailed Maire. "How is Wee-Jamie?" she inquired anxiously. Her four-year-old
son's well-being was of highest concern. And not just because of her maternal love. If the
MacNab got his hands on her wee-un, she would be forced to give all he demanded. And that
would spell doom for what remained of her clan.
Nessa's worried brow relaxed. "The boy is fine. Old John and the others have
hidden him well in a cave in the forests. The MacNab willna set his filthy paws on
Jamie, even if there be only one Campbell left standing."
Maire nodded.
"I ken you have other dilemmas, dearie, but ye mus' be careful. And doona be
discountin' the danger posed by the Viking. He is closer than he's ever been afore,"
Nessa pointed out. "He'll ne'er give up till he finds ye."
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 that time she'd
been visiting her cousins in Glennfinnan five years past. 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
awhile, at least. But what did the brute do when she'd asked? He'd laughed at her.
But she was not laughing now.
