Page 60 of The Blue Viking

But that was the worst thing about Rurik, or mayhap the best. He was always surprising her.

Instead of attempting further sexual inroads with her, Rurik pulled a low stool over to the side of the tub. With his elbows resting on his knees and his chin bracketed in his palms, Rurik amused her with stories of his past… both his childhood spent on a pigstead, the grueling adolescent years learning to be a soldier, a stint with the Varangian Guard in Byzantium, battle stories of fighting under one Norse chieftain or another against the hated Saxons, and poignant tales of his friendship with two brothers, Eirik of Ravenshire in Northumbria, and Tykir of Dragonstead in Norway. All the time, he fed her, and himself, bits of cold smoked venison, hard cheese, oat cake, and bannock, even tart cherries, all washed down with cold ale.

When the water began to cool, Rurik did not insist on helping her wash, as she’d expected, but he did make the strangest request. “Can I lather your hair?”

Who knew that a man’s fingers massaging a woman’s scalp could be so … well, erotic!

If this was part of a plan of seduction, Rurik truly was a master. Maire was finding it harder and harder to maintain the control she had promised herself a short time ago.

When she was done and wearing a clean shift, Rurik placed her on the low stool and combed all the tangles out of her long hair. Long after the snarls were smoothed out of the tresses, which tended to curl if left untended, he braided the strands with an expertise one wouldn’t usually expect from a man. But then, Maire recalled that Rurik was a man prideful of his personal appearance. He must often braid his own hair.

When he was done, he kissed her on the neck and stood back to remove his own garments.

Now it comes, Maire thought. Now he will take the offense. Now I will have to gird myself against his renewed sexual assaults.

Once again, Rurik surprised her. Sinking into the now cool water, he said, “Maire, would you do me a favor?”

Her head jerked up with alertness. She had been picking up the wet drying cloths and stacking them near the door with the dirty bed linens. Uh-oh! What scandalous thing does he want me to do now? Wash his male parts? Get in the tub with him? Dance naked for his entertainment?

“It would give me great pleasure,” he said in a voice smoky with some strong emotion, “if you would work on your tapestry whilst I soak in the tub.” He put up a halting hand as she prepared to protest. “Do not tell me it is too dark in here. You can light more candles.”

“I cannot afford to waste so many candles… or the time. I have other, more important things to do.”

He shook his head. “Creating such beauty can never be a waste of time or money. You are going nowhere anyhow… not till morning. In the meantime, I will buy you new candles, if that is truly of concern to you.”

“Why is it so important to you?”

An astonishing flush bloomed on his cheeks and he confided, “When I was a boy, I always imagined my mother, if she had lived, sitting afore a loom or tapestry, working silently with me at her feet. A fey notion, I know. But there was so much turmoil in my life that the idea of a mother who was serene and gentle in her ladylike pursuits held inordinate appeal.”

Maire could not speak over the lump in her throat. There was so much of the little boy still in Rurik, and long-suppressed emotions roiled inside him, though he would never admit to such “weaknesses.” She tried to lighten the air of somberness that invaded the room. “So, you think of me like a mother?”

He laughed at that, and his beautiful blue eyes twinkled with sudden merriment. “Hardly that, m’lady. Come here, and I will show you.”

She just smiled … on the outside. Inside, her heart grew heavy and light at the same time. Heavy, because she felt as if she were standing in a dangerous peat bog, her feet sinking in the mud at the bottom, like quicksand. And light, because she knew there would be such joy in doing something—anything—to please this man. Even if it was just needlework.

How could she refuse him such a simple favor? Rurik was a dolt some of the time. Arrogant all of the time. But she was beginning to see a side of him that was, at times, loveable. So, for the first time in more than a year—mayhap two—Maire sat down before her tapestry frame and began to lay out the threads she would use. Rurik had been right. She should not have ignored this work for so long. It brought a calmness she sorely needed now whilst storms swirled about her. She swept her fingertips over the fabric—a sensuous gesture of appreciation. Truly, the scene … this labor of creative love … was like an old friend. And old friends should not be neglected too long.

While she sewed, Rurik enjoyed his bath. Then he dried himself off, combed his hair and clubbed it back at the neck with a leather thong, and finally lay naked on her bed with his head propped on one elbow. All the time, he watched her work.

Occasionally, he would ask a question, like, “Do you create a scene in some sequence? Background first; figures second? Or do you work by color? Or some other method?”

“It varies, usually depending on my mood. Some days I am inclined to work on people or animals. Another day I may have come across an unusual color of dye by experimenting with different plants, and I will be anxious to see how it looks. One time,” she related with excitement, recalling an incident she hadn’t thought of for years, “… one time I was on the moors with Jamie, and I saw a rowan tree. From a distance, its leaves had a shredded, feathery aspect. I experimented and found a way to feather the edges of my yarn on the tapestry to get the same effect. Like this.” She pointed to an example in the foreground.

Rurik nodded in understanding, saying nothing more.

“It’s odd, really, how you begin to look at things differently as an artist.” Maire paused as the realization hit her suddenly that she did, in fact, consider herself an artist. ’Twas strange when she’d thought of herself for such a long time as a witch… and an inept one at that. She smiled to herself at the glow of pride that swept through her. I am an artist. A good artist. But then she continued her discussion with Rurik. “Sometimes appearances can be deceptive. What appears to be one thing from a distance is something else altogether up close. These sheep, for example. From where you view my tapestry, they are clearly wooly-haired sheep, I warrant, but from my vantage point, they are just clumps of undyed yarn.”

Rurik chuckled at her enthusiasm over her craft, then waved a hand for her to resume her work when she stopped to glare at him.

Another time, he commented, “Is that unfinished male figure your husband?”

“No. The people in this tapestry don’t represent anyone in particular,” Maire lied.

Rurik thought for a moment and said, “Make the man’s hair black then… black as a raven’s wing. And be certain to use silk thread to denote its silky texture.” He waggled his eyebrows at her as he touched his own hair.

Maire’s heart raced at his words, but then she realized that he was just teasing … He did not suspect that the man really was supposed to be him… that the woman was she … and the boy, their son, Jamie. That was probably why she’d never been able to complete the tapestry… because it was not real. She would have been better off picking fantasy characters.

“In fact,” he continued, “when I am old and no longer so comely… or when I am dead, it would please me immensely to know that I have left something of beauty behind. Well, leastways, that I contributed in some small way to the creation of a more permanent form of splendor. A legacy of beauty.”