Page 5 of The Blue Viking

“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 Eirik 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 the 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 was wandering. “Remember Gyda, daughter of King Eric of Hordaland. She refused to wed with Harald till he defeated 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 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 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 of embarking on odes?” Rurik made the mistake of asking.

Everyone except Bolthor scowled at his lack-wittedness, 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. “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,