Page 43 of The Blue Viking

Rurik stepped away from Maire. “How could so much have happened in the short time since I left the hall?”

“Well, ’tis not that short a while,” Bolthor answered. “Mayhap you’ve been diddling here on the steps longer than you think.”

“Diddling?” Maire choked out.

“Diddling?” Rurik choked out, too. Then, “Take Maire up to her bedchamber,” he ordered Bolthor, “and make sure you stand guard outside till I return. I’ll take care of Toste and Vagn. Stigand, too.”

“I need no guard,” Maire protested.

“You need a guard,” he assured her, leaning forward to give her one last, brusque kiss. “This night, above all others, I will not allow you to escape.”

Maire raised her chin defiantly. “You’re trying to scare me with all these ‘punishment’ threats, but I’m not afraid of you.”

“More the fool you,” he declared, already heading down the steps.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are. There is an old Gaelic proverb you would do well to memorize: ‘Great barkers are not biters.’ ”

God, the woman is daft to push me so. And believe me, I intend to bite her fair body.

Over his shoulder, he heard Bolthor explain, as if an explanation was, necessary, “Methinks he intends to or-gaz you tonight. Since he hasn’t succeeded in the past—with you, that is—well, that could be scary.”

Rurik wasn’t sure if the gurgling sound came from himself or Maire.

Maire was desperate.

Hurriedly, she lit candles all about her bedchamber, preparing to perform a witchly ritual. This afternoon, when Rurik had returned to the keep after talking with Duncan MacNab, Maire had learned for the first time that her old mentor, Cailleach, might still be in Scotland. And tonight, when she’d been attempting a lévitation—Blessed Mary! Have I ever been so humiliated in all my life?—Maire had recollected some hazy words to a charm for calling forth a witch. So now she wanted to beckon Cailleach, if that was possible. Cailleach would know how to remove Rurik’s blue mark, if anyone could. And if that could be done, Rurik would concentrate all his efforts on ridding the Campbell clan of the MacNab threat. Then he would be off to do whatever it was Vikings did … raping, pillaging, a-Viking, terrorizing innocent women with “punishments,” grooming themselves to be even more handsome than they already were. She would not care if she never saw the plaguish man again.

At least, that’s what Maire told herself… though, to be honest, he did give good kisses. Incredibly good kisses. Kisses so good, in fact, that some weaker-willed lasses might be tempted to sample the “punishments” he doled out… or the or-gaz-hims.

“Trobad, trobad, Cailleach,” she chanted in Gaelic. “Come here, come here.” She tossed some herbs onto the dozens of candles burning about the room, causing them to flame higher and brighter. Over and over, she recited various Gaelic words and phrases, hoping that one would be the correct combination. The candle flames began to flicker and dance in an unnatural pattern. Was Cailleach’s spirit in the room already?

Going to a small pottery jar, she took a pinch of a powdery substance and placed a portion in each of the four corners of the room. “Eye of a twig, toe of a snake, I summon you, witch, a miracle do make.”

There was a presence in the room. Maire could feel it.

“A bheil sibh gam chluinntinn?” Maire asked softly. “Do you hear me?” She was a little frightened because one never knew what dark force could be roused when dabbling in the dark arts.

A clap of thunder in the distance was Maire’s only answer. Now, it could be an approaching storm, for the air was thick and humid. Or it could be Cailleach’s promise to come. Maire chose to believe the latter.

With a smile, she danced about her bedchamber, always on the alert for Rurik’s approaching footsteps, reciting all the old charms to cajole a witch to do one’s bidding. As she danced, scattering herbs as she twirled and skipped here and there, she began to remove her clothing, down to her linen shift, though she still wore her hose and heavy leather shoes. The room was becoming ungodly hot, and she was so tired.

She had every intention of blowing out all the candles and hiding evidence of her witchly practice before Rurik returned. She also had every intention of putting a lust-killing spell on the room. But first she needed to comb her hair. Just for a moment. Or sit down on the edge of the bed. Just for a moment. Or lay her head upon the pillow. Just for a moment. Or close her eyes. Just for a moment.

Unfortunately, all of Maire’s best intentions disappeared with the onslaught of an overwhelming weariness.

As she was drifting off to sleep, she heard a voice in her head say, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming …” She thought it might be Cailleach, except that there seemed to be many voices speaking to her. Was Cailleach changing her voice, deliberately, to fool some lurking fairies or trolls?

“Is that you, Cailleach?” she asked with a wide yawn.

The only response was a cackle.

A lot of cackling.

Surely, that was a good sign.

“Best you be careful, Rurik,” Bolthor told him. “There be a hell of a lot of cackling goin’ on in there.”

Cackling? “Huh?” It had taken Rurik nigh on an hour to break up the fight in the courtyard, to placate Fergus, and to drag Toste out of the stables … not to mention waking Stigand and eliciting his promise that he would not lop off any heads during the night. Now, Bolthor spoke to him of… cackling? “Like chickens?”