by Sandra Hill
"Well, then, what?" Rurik asked.
"Don't ye want to hug me? That's what me mother always does when she gets teary-eyed."
Before Rurik could register the fact that the rascal was accusing him of weeping, or that he'd asked him for a fatherly embrace, he was standing and his son was hurling himself high into his arms.
With the child's face nestled in the crook of Rurik's neck, and his skinny arms wrapped around his neck like a vise, Rurik hugged his son for the first time. And it was a glorious, glorious feeling.
His life would never be the same again.
And Cailleach had been right… his life was turning upside down.
It was after midnight and Rurik was making his way through the trestle tables in the great hall, which still bore the remnants of the night's feast. There would be much cleanup work to do on the morrow.
Well, that was none of his concern. Rurik had more important things on his mind. Like his son, whom he'd just tucked into a pallet in an alcove off the great hall with promises that he would be there when the boy awakened. There were a hundred things Jamie wanted of him. Lessons in archery and swordplay. Trout fishing. A walk to his favorite mountain peak. Horseback riding. An exploration of the cave where Jamie had been hiding for weeks on end. And talk, talk, talk about every subject that would be of interest to a small boy, and some things that should not be of interest to a small boy.
How was Rurik going to do all this… deal with Maire… have the blue mark removed… and leave for the Hebrides and his wedding?
"Are you all right?" a male voice asked out of the darkness.
Rurik had just stepped from the hall doors into the courtyard, and he jumped with surprise. It was not one male, but four of them. Bolthor, Stigand, Toste, and Vagn. All waiting to accost him. All with worried frowns marring their faces.
"Nay, I am not all right," he grumbled, sinking down to the stone steps.
They sank down beside him.
"How long have all of you known?" he demanded of them.
After a short bout of silence, Bolthor spoke for the group. "Several days… from when the scamp first got a bath and wore braids similar to yours."
Rurik snorted with disgust.
"We figured that you must know, deep down, or that you would soon discover the truth," Toste revealed. "After all, Jamie is a mirror reflection of yourself."
Rurik turned on Stigand. "You above all others knew how I would react. You saw firsthand, when we were children, how I hated being the subject of mockery. How could you have withheld the news from me?"
Stigand shrugged. "I did not think you would care."
Rurik's head reared back with affront.
"You always said bringing children into a world of pain and degradation was not to your taste. I thought you would not want the child."
"You are a fool to think such," he declared hotly. "As much a fool as I for not seeing the truth."
Anyone else who proffered such an insult to Stigand would be holding his severed head in his hands by now, but his old friend just shook his head sadly.
"Ah, but now that you know," Vagn opined, "is it not a grand feeling to have a son? Leastways, I always imagined that it would be the highest accomplishment for a man."
"Yea, it is a proud feeling," Rurik admitted, "and at the same time humbling."
"I could be his foster father," Stigand suggested hopefully.
Rurik gaped at him. Who would have thought the burly berserker could blush, or that he would entertain such a thought?
"Nay, I will be Jamie's foster father," Bolthor countered.
"Nay, me," Toste said.
"Nay, me," Vagn piped in.
Rurik put two hands in the air, as if in surrender. And he laughed for the first time in hours. "You can all be the boy's foster fathers," he conceded.
There was some grumbling, but finally agreement.
"This is the saga of Rurik the Greater," Bolthor began.
"Do not think of starting on me now, skald." But Bolthor just spoke over him, and for once, truer words were never spoken.
Betimes a man goes all through life,
Happy without family or wife,
But fate sticks out her big toe,
And down does the man go.
Then the man learns that being alone
Is not the place for a man grown,
Especially if his seed takes root,
And into this world comes a precious offshoot.
When that babe is a boy,
Oh, the wonderous joy!
For then discovers the man
What it is to be a real man …
A father.
They all nodded, deep in thought, probably wondering what Rurik would do now. If only he knew!
Rurik awakened about dawn in the stables on a bundle of straw he'd raked together. To his surprise, he'd actually slept, despite the turmoil of the night before… perchance in reaction to a long, eventful day that had begun in battle. How could so much have happened in one day?
But something had awakened him, he realized, even before he opened his eyes. There was someone in the stable beside him.
Was it Maire?
Was he ready to face the wily witch and all the problems aswirl betwixt them?
Should he shoo her away?
Or forgive her monumental transgression?
Was he ready to face all this so soon?
Slowly, he opened one eye, then shut it quickly on a groan. It was a witch, all right, but not Maire the Witch.
"What do you want?" he asked Cailleach. With eyes still scrunched tight, he rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his folded arms.
'Time's a wasting, Viking. Get up and start to set your world aright," she advised.
Really, the old hag had a death wish, ordering him about so.
Then the witch did the unthinkable. She whacked him across the buttocks with a palm and cackled several times with relish at her act.
He was half-reclining on his back within seconds, casting killing glares at the outrageous old crone. He refused to budge beyond that.
"Did ye hear me, ye lazy lump of Norse flesh? Rise and shine… though I doubt ye'll do much shinin' today. Yer skin looks a mite green. Exactly how much uisge-beatha did ye suck up las' night?"
"Not enough, apparently."
"Ooooh, ye are a foolish lad, maligning a witch so. I have powers, ye know."
"Really? Well, what say you to waving your magic wand and getting rid of this bloody blue mark on my face?"
"Is that all ye care about?"
"I'm getting mighty tired of answering that question."
"Well, yer gonna be lots more tired by the end of the day. Ye have much to do this day, Viking. Company's coming."
"Huh?" Rurik said. "What company? We have no need of more people here… not with every bloody witch in Scotland roosting in every free space."
"Watch yer tongue, boy, or ye may find this witch roosting on a body part that canna bear the weight."
"Don't push me too far, witch. I cannot guarantee the consequences." Suddenly, he sniffed… and sniffed… and sniffed. "What's that smell?"
"Yer breakfast."
Oh… Good… Lord! Rurik's gaze had moved sideways to where a huge cauldron was boiling over an open fire—an open fire in a stable! The witch was already ladling out a wooden bowl of some grayish liquid with pieces of something floating in it. She shoved the bowl into his lap and handed him a wooden spoon, then ordered, "Eat!"
"Why?"
"Ye need yer strength today."
He was alert of a sudden. "Is there to be another battle?"
"Ye could say that."
Rurik's eyes darted to his sword, which lay to the side.
"Not that kind of battle," Cailleach said with a few cackles.
"What other kind is there?" he asked.
She pointed to the bowl with the silent message that he was to get to it.
"What's in it? Eye of a newt? Toe of a snake?" he je
sted.
She just waited.
He took a tentative bite. It was thin porridge, with chunks of apple. Leastways, he thought it was apples. It didn't taste too bad. In fact, it tasted good.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
Cailleach laughed outright then, with more enjoyment than his question merited, in Rurik's opinion.
"What's so amusing?"
"Ye won't think I'm so nice by the end of the day, Viking."
Chapter Seventeen
By noon, the witch situation was totally out of control.
Despite her heavy heart over the strained relationship between herself and Rurik—he refused to speak to her at all—and despite her concern over Jamie's reaction to his new father—he was ecstatic—Maire had other, more pressing matters to attend to. She stormed out into the courtyard and screeched, "Cailleach? Come here! Right now!" She might not be proficient at the art of cackling, but she certainly could screech.
Cailleach was in the courtyard before her, engaged in some kind of dance with five other witches… something involving jumping up and down and swaying from side to side, with hands joined and lots of cackling. Supposedly, they were doing a thanksgiving rite related to the defeat of the MacNabs, though it looked more like a bunch of old women engaged in fits. Several of her servants, some of whom had already threatened to run away, were white of face, as if they were viewing ghosts… though witches were probably in the same category as ghosts when it came to scaring people.
Maire's screech apparently carried as far as the exercise yards, where the games were already in progress, and some of the men and women glanced her way, including Rurik, who immediately turned away. That hurt. But she could not dwell on that misery now. She had a more compelling problem.
"You have to get rid of all these witches," Maire whispered urgently to Cailleach, who had come at her bidding.
"Why? Ye're the one who called for them."
"I… did… not," she protested, as she had numerous times already. "I called for one witch… you… not fifty witches."
Cailleach shrugged with unconcern. "What difference does another witch or two make?"
"Wh-what difference?" Maire sputtered. "I'll tell you what difference. One witch showed the dairy maid how to milk a cow without touching the teats; now, Bessie is giving milk nonstop; we cannot supply enough buckets for all the milk. Furthermore, the milk has drawn all the cat-familiars who are hanging about the keep, which has caused the castle staff to turn skittish. Five of those cats were pregnant and gave birth, right in the rushes, and don't think that didn't cause a stink."
"Is that all?"
"Nay, that is not all," Maire snarled. "Effa, that witch from Skye, is searching high and low for the knucklebone of a virgin. She claims there are none to be found."
"I been meanin' to tell ye that ye must rein in the doings of some of yer young people. Do not fash yerself, though; have ye considered that perchance no one will admit to virginity when it means givin' up a body part?"
Maire snarled once again. "Toste and Vagn have been taking turns in the bed furs with that young witch from Inverness, and I swear, if the stories are true, she is teaching them some really perverted things."
"Naught wrong with that," Cailleach opined, examining her overlong fingernails with unconcern. "A man can never learn enough things about the sex arts… a woman, either, for that matter," she added, staring pointedly at Maire.
By the faith! Is she really advising me to learn sexual perversions?
"At least ten witches have offered to supply me with a love potion to lure Rurik back to my bed," she complained.
"And that is a bad thing?" Cailleach's gray eyebrows lifted. "Seems to me ye need all the help ye can get, lassie."
"Old John claims that a love elixir was put in the barrel of uisge-beatha last night, which caused the men to be more virile and the women more passionate."
"Surely, no one is complaining about that."
"Some of the witches have gone into business… selling the men antidotes for lying and shrinking manparts. 'Tis a sham, and you surely cannot condone such chicanery."
"Ye can't blame a witch fer tryin' to make a livin'. Times are tough fer witches, ye know. And who's to say the concoctions don't work?"
"There are rowan ashes on all the windowsills."
" 'Tis the best remedy for warding off the evil eye."
Maire took a deep breath for patience. "Cook is practically steaming from the ears over all the cauldrons missing from his kitchen, and he says you have been roasting what resembles a dog in his fireplace. The place reeks."
"Me?" Cailleach demurred, all innocence and batting eyelashes… or what few eyelashes she had left. Then she laughed… or rather cackled. "It's a small roe deer I'm roasting. I needed the heart and liver fer one of my special remedies, not to mention the hooves, ears, and testicles."
Maire's jaw dropped open.
"Yer problem, dearie, is not witches," Cailleach said, patting her hand lovingly. "It's frustration, pure and simple."
"Frus-frustration?" Maire was so flummoxed by Cailleach's need for animal testicles that she could scarce speak about this new contention of hers.
"Aye, 'tis a well-known fact that men get frustrated when they canna get enough… you know, loveplay. Actually, in some of them, the frustration builds and builds till they are nigh blue in their manparts." She scrutinized Maire, who was shocked into temporary silence, before adding, "Have you checked your female parts lately?"
"For… for what?" Almost immediately, Maire regretted her question.
"Blueness."
"Aaarrgh!" was Maire's only response as she rushed away from the courtyard and toward the exercise fields, where it appeared as if her son… her little boy… was about to participate in the archery contest. Blessed Virgin! With his inexperience, he was more likely to miss the target and shoot his cat.
And Rurik, fire in his blue eyes, was staring at her as if he'd like to make her the target.
Of what? That was the question.
Revenge?
Lust?
Love?
Maire was so tense and upset over all the happenings of the past day that her entire body was rigid. She glanced down at her clenched fists… then winced.
She was squeezing so tight they were blue.
Bolthor was standing next to Rurik as they both watched Maire come sailing toward them.
"I know what your problem is, if you ask me," Bolthor offered.
"Who asked you?"
"Frustration."
"Huh?" He turned on his friend with disbelief. His life was falling apart. The woman he'd cared about and trusted had betrayed him. He had a son he'd never been aware of. There were witches everywhere. He couldn't hit a target today, for the life of him. And Bolthor spoke of frustration.
"Yea." Bolthor nodded his head vigorously. "What you need to do is bed the wench. That is the best method for solving problems betwixt men and women. Otherwise, all these frustrations build up inside a man and make him miserable."
Rurik gaped at Bolthor, then shook his head as if he were a hopeless case… which he was, of course. "Go away."
Instead of going away, Bolthor had the affrontery to suggest, "Methinks I have the perfect name for my next poem. 'Rurik the Greater: Saga of the Blue-Balled Viking.' I could describe how yer blue balls match yer blue face and how there must be some significance to that happenstance. What think you—"
Rurik did not think. In fact, without thinking, he reached out and punched his skald in the nose. Bolthor swerved at the last moment, and the punch glanced off his jaw, instead. Still, he was knocked to the ground, where he rolled about, laughing like an idiot. It was Rurik then who went away… right toward Maire… whom he had been avoiding all day.
Could life get any worse than this?
"You!" she said in the steeliest voice she could manage, pointing to Jamie and the bow and arrow in his tiny hands. She motioned with her forefinger that he was to put the weapons d
own instantly and move off the game area.
Jamie grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, dragging the bow, which was as tall as he was, in the dirt after him.
Then she turned on Rurik. "You!" she said, also in a steely voice, and motioned with her crooked finger for him to follow her. She didn't look back to see if he obeyed her orders, as Jamie had done. She hoped, though. Fervently.
Maire had had more than enough of her wildly ricocheting emotions. Here, there, everywhere. He loves me, he loves me not. I love him, I love him not… well, that latter hadn't entered her field of emotions yet, but it probably would. He's angry with me; he's hurt. He wants my body; he wants revenge. I want his body; I want deeper affections. I want him gone; I want him to stay. At any one moment, she had no idea how either of them was feeling.
Mayhap it was time for Rurik to leave Beinne Breagha, just as it was time for the witches to leave. As heartsick as Maire felt over that prospect, she was more distraught over the upheaval in her life, and that of her son. Now that the MacNab threat was over—and, aye, she was thankful to Rurik for that—the Campbell clan needed to set a new course, with her as acting laird till Jamie came of age.
But how would Rurik fit into that picture? That was what Maire needed to know from Rurik. That was why she had ordered him to follow her to a private place.
He soon caught up and walked side by side with her, in silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence. In truth, they both needed the solitude of their own thoughts to formulate what they would say to each other.
To Maire's surprise, they had unconsciously walked to the judgment stone… that rocking boulder where she'd had such a memorable physical encounter with Rurik. She glanced at him. He glanced at her. And they both glanced away quickly, lest their true sentiments be revealed.
Giving the flat boulder a quick shove with his booted foot, he watched it rock back and forth, staring pensively. Was he thinking about placing her on the rock, and letting it judge her? Could the rock be any more unfair than his current assessment of her transgressions?
He walked away from the boulder then and leaned against a tree, legs crossed at the ankles—a lazy posture that was belied by the tense set of his jaw and the thin line of his pressed lips. He waited for her to speak.