Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] by The Blue Viking Page B

anddowndrafts of black smoke wafted into the various chambers. The roof surely leaked in a heavy rain; here and there, he could see through to the night sky. The only thing that could be said in
Beinne Breagha’s
defense was that it was, in fact, surrounded by blankets of beautiful flowering plants.
    Wearily, he picked up a candle in a soapstone holder, using the hand of his healthy right arm, and climbed the stone steps to the second floor, where there was one bedchamber and a solar… testament to some long-ago inhabitants who’d lived a finer life than these present Campbells did. Wincing, he tested his left arm for weakness as he walked, extending it out, then folding it back at the elbow, over and over. It hurt mightily to exercise the arm so, especially since the stitches were still tight and the wound raw, but he hated with a passion any weakness of body.
    In the corridor outside Maire’s chamber, he came across Toste, who had been assigned guard duty over the witch.
    “I’ll relieve you now,” he told Toste.
    Toste nodded. “I’m away to bed then,” he said and headed toward the stairway and a waiting pallet in the great hall.
    With a loud, jaw-cracking yawn, Rurik opened the heavy oaken door to the left. The master chamber was austere, which suited the dour Scottish personality. Rushes lay thickly over the floor… sweeter than those belowstairs, he noted… and pegs dotted the walls with clothing hung on them. In one corner was a large, unfinished tapestry on a wooden frame. There were several chests for bed linens and such and one higher chest on which rested a pitcher and bowl anda polished metal in an ivory holder for looking at one’s visage.
    He set the candle down and picked up the vanity device by its ivory handle. Examining himself closely, he saw a man of mature years—twenty and eight—with a day’s growth of beard and stern features. When had he turned so bleak of face? Soon he would be as sour-countenanced as any Scotsman.
    And he saw the blue mark, of course. Always the blue mark.
    It was vain of him to care so much about the mark, he supposed. But somehow it had come to represent all that he had hated about his youth. Despite everything he had accomplished in his life, the mark had become a humbling symbol to him of how little he really was.
    He glanced over at the large, raised bedstead situated in the center of the room, its high head frame set against one wall. The room was dark, except for the flickering candle and the little moonlight that entered the room through the two arrow-slit windows.
    With a glare, he surveyed the woman who occupied the bed. Should he shake the witch awake and demand that she cast her removing spells now? Or should he wait till the light of day?
    He decided with a sigh of exhaustion to wait. Putting the looking-metal down, he began to remove his garments. With luck, by this time on the morrow, his face would be free of the mark, he thought, as he unpinned his mantle brooch and set it down carefully. It had been a betrothal gift from Theta.
    Sitting on the edge of the straw-filled mattress, he toed off his boots, then stood and dropped his braiesand small clothes to the floor. Turning, he contemplated the wench. Since it was late summertime, bed furs were unneeded. Maire lay on her side in a thin chemise, hugging a pillow to her chest, like a lover.
    He felt a lurch of lust in his loins, which caused him to frown some more. He did not want to desire this traitorous witch.
    Walking to the other side of the bed, he slipped down onto the mattress. For several moments he just lay on his back, his hands behind his back. Then, with a muttered curse of, “Oh, bloody hell, why not?” he rolled to his side, right up against the backside of the witch. Carefully, he arranged his wounded arm on the mattress above her head, but his right arm he wrapped around her waist so that his palm rested on her flat stomach.
    As sleep soon began to overcome him, he grinned. There