Page 12 of The Blue Viking

The twins, Toste and Vagn, must be twenty-two now. They’d been a rascally pair of seventeen-year-olds when last she’d seen them in the seaport town. With long blond hair and pale blue eyes and cleft chins, they’d had no trouble attracting women, even then. Now, their bodies had gained a mature musculature. She wondered if they still fooled people by pretending to be each other.

There was that mean-eyed soldier, Stigand the Berserk, with his wild beard and unkempt mane of reddish blond hair. Hard to tell how he really looked under all that hair, but he had a haughty presence about him that was rather appealing. His eyes were deep brown, like a muddy stream, and bespoke some great pain. He was reputed to be a heartless killer.

Maire did not recognize the young man, who could not have seen more than fifteen winters, but he carried himself with the same arrogance as all the others. His blond good looks probably gained him much in female regard, even at his young age.

The huge giant with the black eye patch was no doubt Bolthor the Skald … slightly older than Stigand. She’d never met him, but had heard much of his clumsy sagas. They rarely had visitors these days at Beinne Breagha; so even the words of a bad poet would be a welcome diversion if circumstances were different.

Lastly came the leader of this Viking retinue … the one from whom Maire had the most to fear. Rurik.

By the saints, would you look at that mark? Did I really do that? It certainly is… blue.

Oh, he was uncommonly handsome, still. The jagged blue mark down the center of his face did not detract from his appearance at all, in Make’s opinion. In truth, he resembled the untamed, painted Celtic warriors of old.

Five years had passed since she’d seen him last. So, he must have seen twenty-eight winters by now. The years had been kind to the knave.

Though many of the Norsemen had pale hair, Rurik’s was midnight black and hung down to his shoulders. The strands were held off his face, on the sides, by thin braids that had been intertwined with gold thread and amber beads. All the men wore slim trews and leather boots, topped by woolen tunics, belted at the waist, and short mantles over their broad shoulders. Rurik’s shoulder mantle was of silver fox, held in place by a large golden brooch in the shape of some twisting animal, perchance a dragon. The woad-dyed tunic that hugged his frame had strips of appliqued samite along the neckline, short sleeves, and hem, adorned with vividly colored embroidery. His face was clean shaven and well-sculpted, except for a few small scars … and the blue mark, of course.

To say he was stunningly virile would be a vast understatement.

The Vikings stopped their horses in the inner courtyard. Only then did they glance up at her, still standing in her dangling cage. In fact, they stared at her with horror. Was it her rundown keep, or was it she herself who aroused such disgust? While Rurik was adorned in finery fit for a Saxon atheling, she wore a simple undyed wool arisaid—the female pladd, which was little more than a large cloak wrapped artfully about the body and fastened at the center of the chest with a brooch and at the waist with a belt. She had not bathed in days, nor combed her hair. Frankly, she stank, though she misdoubted her body odor would carry down to the courtyard.

Rurik’s upraised eyes met hers. Blue, blue eyes … hard as icy water in the winter lochs. His expression was a mask of stone, unreadable, except that he appeared to be visibly shaken and very, very angry. His tightly coiled power resonated in the air, though he did not move.

A sudden chill hung in the air, and there was an eerie silence all around. Even the birds had quieted.

Rurik was stunned by the depravity of this savage land… or rather the depravity of a man who could do such to a woman… put her in a cage, like an animal. It was unconscionable.

So overcome with fury was he that, for several long moments, he was unable to speak. Fisting his fingers tightly, he slowly brought his temper under control.

Eventually, he met the green eyes of the witch, who was staring at him without trepidation, even though he favored her with his fiercest glower. She no doubt thought his anger was directed at her. Well, it was … partly. And she should be fearful, if she had a jot of sense in her body.

She had changed these past five years; he could see that. His upper lip curled at the sight of her straggly red hair. Rurik had a personal aversion to red hair on a woman. Red-headed women tended to be temperamental and fiery-tongued, in his experience. Not worth the trouble. Like his friend Tykir’s wife, Alinor. Trouble, trouble, trouble. He had to concede, though, that, despite the wrinkled, blanketlike robe Maire wore, her beauty was apparent… a more mature beauty than she had exhibited when she was a mere twenty.

But he refused to be attracted to the witch. Never again!

“Maire the Witch,” Rurik shouted suddenly. Maire lurched. “Magdalene’s tears! Are you speaking to me?”

A low, nimbly sound came up from Rurik’s chest at her impertinence. “Nay, I’m speaking to that skinny rooster over there.”

“You don’t have to be testy with me, Viking,” she grumbled.

Testy? I will give you testy. “Maire, get your arse down here,” he roared.

Chapter Three

Dumb, dumb, dumb… The man is dumber than a wooly Highland sheep.

“How would you suggest I do that, Viking?” she asked with seeming pleasantry.

“You’re a witch. Do you not fly?”

She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. The man really was a halfwit. “Not lately.”

He scowled at her mirth-making, and she recalled, of a sudden, how prickly his pride had been at one time. Apparently it still was. Men and their stupid vanities! She could not be bothered.

“You cannot be a very good witch, if you got yourself in this … this”—his eyes went hot with some inner fury as he gazed upon her cage—“this dilemma. A witch should be able to escape.”

Well, he was correct there. “Are you going to let me hang here, Viking, or are you going to release me?”