Page 7 of The Blue Viking

“Puir lassie! The old laird mus’ be rolling over in his grave at yer sorry state. Tsk-tsk,” Nessa, her maid and companion, said to her.

Sorry state didn’t begin to describe Maire’s predicament. She was locked inside a wooden cage that hung suspended high in the air from a long plank fixed to the parapet above the courtyard. Far below, a large pit had been dug and filled with snakes, the top covered with a huge woven mat. If she jostled her cage too much, or someone tried to rescue her, there was always the danger of falling into the pit, cage and all.

Thus far, she’d been in the cage for five days, and would remain there till she agreed to betray all that was precious to the Campbell clan … something she would never do. All her people—crofters and fighting men alike—had fled to the woods, at her orders, taking her son with them. Other than the MacNab guards stationed about her keep, the only ones left were a few servants and those too old or frail to leave their homes. Duncan MacNab showed up periodically to shout at her and issue threats.

Maire didn’t even look up from where she sat now, her back pressed against the wooden bars of her “prison,” as Nessa clucked and tutted at her while she leaned out over the parapet, passing her a bowl containing her one meal of the day—boiled neeps and flat bread. By her doleful tone, you’d think that Nessa was an elderly servant and not a young widow a few years older than Maire’s twenty-five.

“Well, my father has rolled more than once over my problems these many years he’s been gone.”

“Doona be disrespectin’ the dead. Yer father was a good man, despite the troubles that seem to flock yer way,” Nessa chided, the sympathetic tenderness on her face belying her reprimand.

Maire was not in the mood for arguing. In fact, she was not in the mood for anything other than a hot bath and a soft bed. But she had work to do … Magick, if you will… if she was going to reverse the bad luck that had befallen her people.

“What? What are ye about, Maire?” Nessa asked curiously.

Maire was standing in her cage now, facing east, and was preparing to center herself with legs shoulder-width apart and two hands wrapped around one of the wooden bars. She wished she had her staff with her, but the wooden bar would have to do.

“Ooooh! Doona tell me. Yer gonna try the witchly rites again, I wager. One thing is for certain … if ye try that whirling dance nonsense, yer gonna land yer-self in a snake pit. I swear, my heart canna take much more of… Blessed Lord, why are ye lookin’ crosseyed? Is it the evil eye come over ye?”

“Shhh! I need to focus if I want to bend my bars so that I can escape.”

“The last time ye focused—two days past—it was on the MacNab guards below. Ye said yer spell would cause ’em to run off. Instead, ye gave them a bad case of the running bowels. Not that some of us did not find humor in that mistake. And then there was the other spell what was gonna give the MacNabs flight, right off Campbell lands. Bless the Saints! We had two dozen roosters and hens a-squawkin’ and a-flappin’ their wings. None of the hens would lay today, by the by.”

Maire sniffed. “Sometimes, I don’t concentrate hard enough, or I get the spells a little mixed up.”

“A little mixed up! Lassie, when ye tried that wind-riding bizness the first day the MacNabs took ye captive, ye promised ye would end up on the other side of the glen come mornin’. The only one ridin’ the wind was Grizelle, and I swear she will ne’er forgive ye fer that affair… her falling off the parapet like an eagle about to take flight, with her gown blowing in the wind, exposing her bare rump. Good thing that young MacNab lad caught her, though he was laughing so hard they both fell to the ground.”

It was true. Maire was not a very competent witch. In truth, she probably wasn’t a witch at all, despite having studied with the old crone, Cailleach, when she was a young lass. But Cailleach was long gone now. What choice did she have? There was no one else to rely on. She had to try.

“Either be still, or go away, so that I can concentrate. You’re not helping at all. At least I’m trying. What else would you have me do?”

“Pray,” Nessa offered with dry humor. She shifted from foot to foot, still not leaving.

“Well, what else did you want to say? I can tell you have something on your mind.”

“Aye, that I do. I hate to burden ye with more troubles when yer up ta yer oxters in troubles as ’tis, but there be darkness on the horizon … again. The Viking is back.”

“Let him come,” Maire said with a sigh of surrender. She knew, without questioning, which Viking Nessa referred to. That scoundrel, Rurik, had been scouring all of Scotland for her these past few years. Little did he know that the clans, which fought each other over the littlest dispute, stood together when a hated Norseman was involved. They’d been more than willing to hide the location of her Campbell clan-stead, Beinne Breagha, or Beautiful Mountain, which was located high in the hills. The neighboring clans enjoyed leading the Vikings on a merry chase, in full circles at times. Until recently, that is.

When she’d engaged the wrath of Duncan MacNab—her brother by marriage and the most evil man who’d ever walked the Highlands—Maire and her clan had developed a whole new set of problems. There was no longer any time for worries about irate Vikings. The very future of Beinne Breagha was at stake now.

“Let him come? Let him come?” Nessa practically squealed. “After all these years, we should invite him in like a welcome guest?”

Maire shrugged, then waved a hand at her surroundings. “You ask why I no longer resist meeting the Viking? What can he do to me now?”

Immediately, Nessa’s countenance softened. “Och, sorry I am to have raised me voice. Ye be a good girl, despite all that dabblin’ in the witchly arts. I don’ mean to hurt yer feelings, Maire, but ye are the sorriest witch the Highlands ever saw. Ye are no Cailleach. Mayhap ye really should take up prayer. Have ye e’er considered a nunnery?”

Maire lifted her chin in affront.

“Oh, girl, doona be gettin’ yer feathers ruffled jest ’cause ye can’t get a spell right. If ye want to be upset, be upset over the sad scrape we are in … the worst of all the Campbell bad times. ’Tis not fitting that ye should be the one to suffer most. That Duncan MacNab is Lucifer’s brother, I warrant.” She was staring woefully at the horrible cage as she spoke. “Who but the devil hisself would do such a wicked thing to a woman?”

“Who indeed?” But wait. Here they were blathering when a more important worry assailed Maire. “How is Wee-Jamie?” she inquired anxiously. Her four-year-old son’s well-being was of highest concern. And not just because of her maternal love. If the MacNab got his hands on her boy, she would be forced to give all he demanded. And that would spell doom for what remained of her clan.

Nessa’s worried brow relaxed. “The boy is fine. Old John and the others have hidden him well in a cave in the forests. The MacNab willna set his filthy paws on Jamie, even if there be only one Campbell left standing.”

Maire nodded.

“I ken you have other dilemmas, dearie, but ye mus’ be careful. And doona be discountin’ the danger posed by the Viking. He is closer than he’s ever been afore,” Nessa pointed out. “He’ll ne’er give up till he finds ye.”