Now, Rurik found himself hesitant to raise the issue and he turned for counsel to his friend. After the evening meal, Rurik sought out Connor’s favorite place in the keep—other than his wife’s bed—and found the laird there, high on the walls, observing the comings and goings in the yard.
“So, when do you leave?” Connor asked as Rurik approached.
“I have not yet decided to answer his call.”
“Rurik,” Connor said, slapping him on the shoulder, “you decided as soon as the words were said. Even before,” he said, nodding his head at Rurik’s sword. “The moment you took that sword out of hiding and used it, the deciding was done.”
“I…” Rurik began but could not continue denying it.
Connor shook his head. “There is no need to deny the truth to me. And Dougal understands as well, but does not wish to talk about it with you.”
Rurik did not have words to express his surprise or his gratitude for the understanding of the two people closest to him in life. Before he could embarrass himself, Connor held out his hand. “May I see the sword?”
“I would have thought you’d seen it close enough from the ground?” Rurik chided. Taunting was much safer than to speak of what he was feeling.
“’Twas clear to me when I looked in your eyes and realized the man standing over me holding death at my throat was not the Rurik I knew that you’d made your decision.” Rurik slid the sword from the scabbard and held it out, hilt first, to Connor. “A beauty,” he said in a voice filled with appreciation for the work of art that a weapon like this one could be. “Is it your father’s then?”
“And his father’s before him. I saw it hanging behind his chair in his hall when I was growing up. Five generations of warriors in his family have used this sword.”
Connor stepped back and took a two-handed hold on the hilt, swinging the sword above and around his head. Rurik knew that the sword was perfectly balanced and as lethal as it was beautiful. He watched in silence as Connor moved through a few swing-and-thrust motions with it. Only another warrior could truly appreciate a weapon such as this and, clearly, Connor did.
“And now it is yours?” he asked.
“Aye, ’twould seem so.”
“When do you depart?” Connor asked. Then he added quickly, “And have you told Jocelyn yet?”
Rurik shook his head. The lady had become a good friend, but she would not take well to the news that he was leaving. And he would miss her also.
“Coward!” Connor said, one of very few who could accuse him of such a thing and live to tell of it. “Very well, I will tell her after you have gone.”
Rurik returned the sword to its place and nodded. There was too much for any words to convey properly, so he held out his arm to Connor.
“Laird,” he said, bowing his head.
“Friend,” Connor replied, taking his hand and arm in a tight grasp and shaking it. “You always have a place here with the MacLeries, Rurik. Know that always.”
Rurik found his throat tight as Connor released him. With a quick nod and a turn, he walked away from the laird and toward his destiny.
Chapter Two
Convent of the Blessed Virgin Caithness, Scotland
Margriet sat on the steps leading up to the small chapel and held her hands over her ears. If another of the holy sisters began to wail, she would—God forgive her—be tempted to strangle her. Granted they were only novices and young at that, but already Sister Madeline and Sister Mary were caterwauling as loudly as she’d ever heard anyone scream. Sister Suisan had fainted again, so at least her crying had stopped.
The reverend mother, Mother Ingrid, overwhelmed at the sight of the warriors at their gates, promptly ran to the church, fell to her knees in prayer and would not respond to any questions or requests. Although Mother’s manner was usually one of calm and control, Margriet guessed that when confronted with such a formidable group of outsiders anyone’s calm could be disturbed. That left Margriet, as was their usual custom in recent days, in charge of the others and she was uncertain what to do.
“Lady?” a soft voice broke into her quiet cone of thoughtfulness.
Margriet looked up and realized it was Sister Sigridis and she was not whispering but shouting at her. She dropped her hands. “What is it, Sister?”
“He is calling for ye again.”
“Yes, Sister. He has been doing that for two days now.”
“Do ye think that mayhap ye should answer him? He sounds angrier than before.”
Margriet took in a deep breath and let it out before standing. Each time the warrior yelled out her name, the youngest of the nuns began their hysterics again. Lifting her long braid and tossing it back over her shoulder, she strode off toward the main gate and… him. Tugging on the thick brown gown as she walked, she prayed he would relent this time and leave them, and her, in peace. The stubborn set of his jaw in each encounter so far told her otherwise.
Truly, if it had been in a different situation, she might find him appealing. He was certainly fit and the strength in his arms—as he banged hard enough on the wooden gate to nearly shatter it—would provide strong protection to those in his care. His head, though it appeared that his custom had been to shave it of hair, was now covered with a downy layer of pale hair. Instead of marring or softening his appearance, it both gave him a dangerous look and made her palms itch to touch it and test its softness. It was the only thing soft about him for even his deep voice made her heart pound in terror at its fierceness.
Since she was the person he sought, Margriet felt mostly irritation at his behavior and his methods of attempting to gain her compliance. Sister Sigridis dropped away from her side and stood a distance from the gate as she climbed up into the guard’s tower to look over the wall.
“I asked you to stop terrifying the good sisters, sir.”
The words certainly sounded brave to her ears and she waited for his response. Margriet took a small step forward so she could look down at him. The man backed away a few paces, intent on looking up at her. With the nun’s habit on her, she knew he could glimpse only a small part of her face and not much more. The bulky robes covered her from feet to shoulders and the wimple and long veil covered everything else.
“And I asked Lady Margriet to present herself for escort home, Sister. One will surely follow the other,” he called out to her. When he stopped shouting, his voice could be quite pleasant…for a barbarian.
“Lady Margriet has taken vows…of silence…” she answered, thinking it an excellent reason for not talking to him, “and she fears for her soul if she breaks that.”
Guffaws from all the men below filled the air. Apparently the men did not think a woman capable of silence.
“Present the girl now!” He was back to yelling and banging and she feared the gate would give way soon to his strength.
“A short respite, please, sir. Let me see if I can convince her to see you,” Margriet offered.
There was a buzz of conversation below among all the men there and then an answer. “An hour, good sister. You have one hour to convince the