Page 102 of The Blue Viking

“Of course, I am thinking that Toste and Vagn might be good topics for some of my upcoming sagas,” Bolthor continued.

Toste and Vagn could not have appeared more horrified if he’d suggested they cut off their manparts.

“Yea, I can see all the twin possibilities. ‘Sex With a Wily Witch.’ ‘Vikings With Extra-Ordinary Endowments.’ ‘What Twin Vikings Can Do In the Bed Furs and Others Cannot’ ”

It was Rurik’s turn to grin widely. Mayhap there was hope for him yet. Mayhap Bolthor would decide to latch on to the twins and devote his poetic life to their escapades.

But then Selik tilted his head to the side and asked, “Why do all the men here have yarn bows tied on their middle fingers?”

“Well, actually, I can answer that,” offered Stigand, who had been quiet thus far.

Rurik stood abruptly, not even waiting for the lengthy reply that Stigand was sure to give… one which would somehow make him look even more foolish.

“Where are you off to?” Eirik asked with a knowing smile.

“The garderobe.”

But what he was thinking was he’d like to find Maire’s hiding place and hole up with her there for a day or so… or a sennight.

Tykir was waiting for him in the corridor outside the garderobe. Not a good sign. Nor was it a good sign that Tykir wore a serious expression on his usually mischievous face.

“I am worried about you, Rurik,” Tykir said right off.

“Why?”

“You are not yourself.”

Hah! That is an understatement! “It will take some getting accustomed to fatherhood, that is all.”

Tykir smiled. “ ’Tis a wondrous thing, is it not… being a father?”

Rurik smiled back. “Yea, ’tis. I ne’er thought to be a father… I am not sure why. Nor did I crave the passing of my blood on to another. But I find myself grinning in the most ridiculous fashion whene’er I gaze upon the child.”

Tykir nodded in understanding. Then he brought up the topic that Rurik had been avoiding. “About Maire?”

“What about Maire?”

“Do you love her?”

Rurik refused to answer. He was not being deliberately rude. In truth, he did not know the answer.

To his dismay, Tykir began to laugh uproariously.

“I cannot imagine why it should be so funny that I might conceivably be in love with a Scottish witch.” He looked at his friend, who was so much like him, then admitted, “Well, all right, ’tis rather funny. A joke on me. In fact, the supreme joke from the gods in a lifetime of jests at my expense.”

Tykir shook his head at him, tears of mirth rimming his eyes, “On the other hand, perchance it is a gift from the gods.”

Now there was a thought.

Chapter Eighteen

It was evening, and they were celebrating another feast… this time in honor of their guests. Good thing there was lots of food left over from the night before.

Rurik sat beside Maire, dressed in richly embroidered garments that would do a prince proud. She had managed to drag out an old arisaid of the softest emerald green wool with gold braiding that predated her wedding … a perfectly suitable garment… but she hated the fact that Rurik was more beauteous than she was, both in form and apparel. Her hair was a mass of red curls since she’d been unable to dress it properly after her impromptu bath in the loch.

Tykir, Rurik’s friend from the Northlands, had taken the liberty a short time ago of tugging on a lock of Maire’s hair and watching with a bemused expression on his face as it sprang back into a tight coil. He’d glanced at his wife’s red hair, then back to her, before he’d commented to Rurik, “Another flame-haired goddess!”

Rurik—the oaf—had muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Redheaded women… God’s plague on man.”