Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (13 page)

How would he be able to live with that?

How could he make it up to Maire?

He brightened suddenly as an idea came unbidden to him. He owned a prized necklet he’d had made especially by a jeweler in the trading town of Hedeby after a recent amber expedition to the Baltic with his friend, Tykir. He’d intended it as a bride gift for Theta, but he could always find something else for a wedding token. Yea, he reflected, smiling inwardly with satisfaction, he could picture the gold chain and oval, amber pendant lying against Maire’s creamy skin. He should probably wait till she was naked before he presented her with the thanks-gift. Definitely. Naked.

“Doona fash yerself over old wounds. Maire survived jest fine,” Old John told him with a pat on the forearm. Apparently, Old John had misunderstood Rurik’s dismay. He thought Rurik was upset over the abuse of a woman. He didn’t know it was much more personal than that. “Besides, we Campbells stick together. We did our best to protect Maire from Kenneth’s tempers. ’Tis amazing how many hiding places there are in such a small keep.” He grinned at Rurik as he spoke.

So, Maire was beaten only when she was caught unawares, Rurik deducted, much like he himself. Small consolation, that. And she’d had her clan to protect her, when they could, just as he’d had Stigand. He had not realized they had so much in common.

“There is somethin’ I been meanin’ to tell ye,” Old John said then. His face flushed red under his wrinkled cheeks, and that surprised Rurik mightily.
Old John did not appear to be a man who embarrassed easily.

Rurik cocked his head to the side with interest.

“What you said about us Campbells today … when you was speakin’ to the MacNab… well, ’twas a mighty fine thing … and I speak fer all of us when I say we appreciate it, and we willna forget it, ever.”

“It was nothing, I—” Rurik started to say, but Old John put up a halting hand. Now Rurik was the one who felt his face heat up. “I meant what I said, and I don’t want anyone’s gratitude,” he said gruffly. “Let this be the end of it.”

Old John shook his head. “I willna speak of it again, but gratitude is a heavy burden … fer both parties. Ye must ken what this means, laddie.” Old John was beaming at him. “There’s only one way we can repay ye fer yer kindness.”

The fine hairs stood out on Rurik’s body. He knew … he just knew … he was not going to like what Old John was about to tell him. Still, his wagging tongue took over, “Uhm. What exactly are you referring to?”

Old John puffed out his chest and smiled widely at Rurik.

Rurik braced himself.

“Ye’re one of us now, son.”

“Nay,” he exclaimed with alarm, even though he was unsure what the man was jabbering about. “I am not.”

“Aye, ye are a Campbell now.”

“Nay, nay, nay!”

“Aye, aye, aye!”

“But I do not even like Scotsmen all that much,” he stated with a grunt of disgust.

“What has that to do with anything? We Scotsmen are not overfond of Vikings, either.”

He gave Old John his fiercest glare. “I am a Viking, pure and simple.”

“That may very well be, but ye are an honorary Campbell now, too. We voted.”

“Who voted?” he demanded.

“All the Campbells. That’s who. Ye should be proud. It’s an old and respected clan we are.”

“I don’t doubt the honor you do me, but…” Rurik rubbed the fingers of one hand across his furrowed brow, trying to find a diplomatic way of extricating himself from this latest mess. “Did Maire vote, too?”

Old John chuckled. “Nay. Only the males of the clan vote on such matters … in our clan, leastways.”

“I’ll bet that rankles her.”

“What did ye say?” Old John asked, leaning closer to hear better. It was hard to be heard over the din of hungry Campbells.

“Did that manure-mouthed whelp of hers get to vote?”

Old John nodded, not even needing to ask whom he referred to. “Wee-Jamie voted agin ye, I’m sorry to say,” he informed Rurik with a sad face, then brightened, adding, “but luckily, he was outvoted.”

“Lucky me,” Rurik muttered. This ridiculous notion of the Campbells adopting him had gone far enough. Perchance it was a flummery on someone’s part. Still, he did not want to offend unnecessarily. “It’s great homage you pay me, but I must respectfully decline. It’s a Norse tradition,” he lied with suden
inspiration. “We cannot be adopted by any other ountry.”

But it was already too late. Bolthor was standing nd clearing his throat, a sure sign he was about to peak.

Rurik braced his elbows on the table and put his ace in his hands. God must be punishing him for ome misdeed. A big one.

“This is the saga of Rurik the Greater,” Bolthor oomed out.

“Greater than what?” Young John could be overead asking Murdoc at the table just below the dais.

“Damned if I know,” Murdoc answered. “The Men f the North be an overblown lot, if ye ask me. hey’re always thinkin’ they be greater than anyone lse on God’s earth, when everyone knows Scotsmen e the greatest.”

He and Young John grinned at each other.

Bolthor did not like to be interrupted when he was erforming; so, he started over again. “This is the iga of Rurik the Greater,” Bolthor repeated, slicing scowl of warning at Young John and Murdoc. Sometimes known as Rurik the Scots Viking.”

Hell… and… Valhalla!

Rurik would never live this saga down. This was worse than the eel-up-Alinor’s-gown escapade, worse than the time Alinor’s sheep followed him and his fellow Vikings across Northumbria, worse even than the time he was caught in a sultan’s harem with not one or two, but five of his wives.

Wait till his friends Tykir and Eirik heard about this, along with their respective wives, Alinor and Eadyth.

Wait till his comrades in the Norse court heard about this.

Wait till his bride-to-be heard about this. Wait till his father-to-be-by-marriage heard about this.

But the worst was not yet to come, it was already at hand, for when Bolthor finished, the hall echoed with a resounding cheer, “Long live Rurik Campbell!”

Maire finally sat down next to Rurik at the high table, at his urging. Well, it wasn’t exactly urging … more like yanking her by the upper arm and whispering into her ear, “Come with me, wench.”

The first thing she did was take a long sip of
uisge-beatha
and murmur with appreciation as she stared into her cup, “Aaah! Just the thing for the end of a long Highland day.” Obviously, her body was more accustomed to the burning brew than his, for she did not even wince at the first taste, as he was wont to do.

“What’s got your tail in a tangle?” she asked then. “You have such a fiery expression on your face. I nigh expect to see smoke come out of your ears.”

“Oooh, your tongue outruns your good sense, m’lady. I’ll tell you why my
tail
is in a tangle. I am a Viking. I have been a Viking all my life. I like being a Viking. I will be a Viking on the day I die. Being Viking is a good thing. Viking, Viking, Viking. That’s who I am.”

“You like being a Viking?” she asked with surprise. Then, “What’s your point?”

He made a low, growling noise at her question. “My point,” he said, wagging a finger in her face, “is that I refuse to be a bloody Scotsman, adopted or otherwise. Your people had no right to give me the Campbell name without my permission. It’s damned humiliating. I’ll never live this down.”

“Oh, that.” She waved a hand dismissively. He’d like to wave a hand dismissively at her, right across her bottom. Mayhap he would … later. “What do you want me to do?”

“Rescind it.”

“Me? I cannot do that. Besides, it’s an honor… not one I would necessarily grant you, but—”

“You are really making me angry, Maire. And, believe me, you do not want to make me angry… especially when we have not yet begun your ‘punishment.’ ”

She waggled her hand in that dismissive manner again, as if to say, “Oh, that!” Truly, the woman tempted the devil when she behaved so flippantly. Did she not recognize that her time of reckoning was fast approaching? But then she put a hand on his forearm,
her face went soft, and her eyes misted over. And his anger melted, along with his bones. “Thank you, Rurik.”

He tried to call back his anger, to no avail. “For what?” he grumbled.

“You spoke on behalf of my clansmen. You gave them back their pride. You are a better man than I ever thought…”

He arched a brow at her unfinished comment. “Than you ever thought a Viking could be? Or just me?”

She shrugged. “Just know this … tomorrow, or in a sennight, or even in an hour, I will probably go back to considering you a Norse toad. But for that one moment, when you stood up to the MacNab in my courtyard and praised my clansmen … well, you were a better man then than I have ever known in my life.”

“Meekness does not suit you, Maire.”

“Cherish it whilst it lasts, Viking,” she countered with a decided grin.

Rurik loathed and savored her praise at the same time. Thor’s Knees! He could barely speak over the lump in this throat. So, all he said was, “Thank you.” But then he relaxed, cast her a deliberately provocative look, and asked, “Does that mean you will be thanking me in other ways later?”

She laughed gaily, a tinkly sound of spontaneous joy, which caused his heart to expand in the most alarming way. “You never give up, do you?”

“Never,” he said. “That’s the second best thing about a Viking.”

She laughed again. “And the first best thing?”

“Aaaah, that you will find out later tonight.”

Finally, finally, finally, the feast was about to begin.

Maire couldn’t recall the last time they’d had a feast at
Beinne Breagha
. So, even though she personally felt no need to have one now, it was hard to begrudge her people this small pleasure. Their life had been so dire for so long. Even a temporary respite from danger was cause to celebrate.

She could not blame them for wanting to honor the handsome toad at her side, either. No one had been more surprised, or touched, than she today when he’d given her clansmen back their pride with a few words of praise.

Of course, he would be milking that generosity for all it was worth, as evidenced by his insinuations concerning the night to come. He was only jesting, of course.

She hoped.

Or did she hope?

Of course, she hoped.

Aaarrgh!

The man was beguiling her with his sinful skills of seduction. Truly, the rogue could charm the feathers off a goose if he put his mind to it. Maire put a hand to the love mark on her neck and recollected, in detail, how she’d almost succumbed to his charms this afternoon. This feminine weakness had to stop … for her son’s sake, as well as her own well-being. With a brisk shake of her head, she pulled her thoughts back to the present.

Nessa led the procession of maids and housecarls
from the kitchen into the hall, carrying platters and bowls for the late meal. Taking precedence on the huge wooden trencher in her outstretched arms was the wonderful Scottish delicacy, haggis, which met with applause of appreciation from her clansmen. Foreigners to Scotland were inclined to make mock of haggis, but it truly was delicious, though admittedly an acquired taste. The heart, liver, and lungs of a sheep were ground up and mixed with suet, onion, oats, and seasonings, then stuffed into a bag made of the sheep’s stomach, which was boiled slowly for an entire day. It would be sliced and portioned out so that everyone could get a taste of this prized Highland dish.

Maire glanced from side to side and saw that Rurik and all his Viking comrades seated at the high table were gawking at the haggis, a bit green-faced and gap-mouthed. Their bellies, which had been emitting audible growls of hunger just moments ago, suddenly stopped rumbling.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Rurik declared, and all his friends nodded in agreement.

“That’s the biggest haggis I’ve ever seen,” Bolthor said, his one good eye wide with astonishment. He was already muttering something under his breath that indicated he couldn’t quite find the right title for his new saga; “For Love of a Haggis,” or “Why the Gods Made Haggis, Saxons, Ugly Women, and Other Deplorable Things,” or “One Hundred Reasons to Hate a Haggis.”

“I’m not eating any of that,” Toste declared, his cleft chin raised high, his usually smiling mouth turned southward. Maire had no idea where Vagn had
disappeared to … probably off to no good with Inghinn, daughter of Fergus the Sheepherder.

“It’s only a sausage … of sorts,” Maire called down the table to Toste.

“Hah!” Toste answered. “A sausage big enough for a giant.”

“Mayhap I will give it a try,” Stigand said, trying to be polite.

Maire smiled at the big berserker.

“I might not vomit this time,” Stigand added.

Maire’s smile disappeared.

Fortunately for them, there were other foods being brought forth, too.
Finnan Haddie
, or smoked haddock, herring coated with oats, sheepshead and blood puddings, leg of lamb, a thick Scotch Broth made with mutton stock, barley, and vegetables, a hearty cock-a-leekie soup, and neeps—
Oh, Lord, were there ever neeps!
—boiled, roasted, creamed, and poached. Ever since her incarceration in the cage, Maire had developed a real distaste for that prolific Scottish vegetable, the turnip.

But, wait, here came the tail end of the procession. Four of the young housecarls were carrying a makeshift tray made out of a small discarded door. On top of it sat what was a rarity in many Scottish homes—a roast suckling pig.

“Aaaaaaahhhhh!” was the communal sigh of pleasure heard round the hall at the sight and smell of this preeminent treat. But suddenly there was a loud roar.

Everybody turned as one to gaze at Stigand, who was staring at the roast pig as if it were one of his children who’d been put into the oven. He was pulling at his hair like a wild man, his eyes were rolling up
in his head and a bellow like that of an enraged bear was coming from his wide-open mouth.