Surrender To the Highlander

He ate a few more mouthfuls without saying another word. Sven walked over with a battered cup and a skin of ale, which he held out to Rurik. Handing her his bowl and spoon, she watched as he first poured some into the cup before offering it to her, while he simply opened his mouth and filled it with ale from the skin. After passing it back to Sven, Rurik took back his food and ate it in silence.

Margriet sipped from the cup as she considered which questions to ask first. If she were too aggressive, he would back away. Too soft in her approach and he would wile his way out of answers that would enlighten her about him and his past.

“Why do you not wish to escort me to my father?”

“Pardon?” he asked, stopping with his spoon halfway between the plate and his mouth.

“’Tis clear to me that you do not want this duty. Why did you agree to it then?” She lifted the cup to her lips and forced another sip, trying with all her might to remain calm and pursue her intentions to discover more about him.

She’d caught him by surprise, she could tell. His eyes widened even as his mouth stopped chewing the food in it. He tried to swallow then, but Margriet knew he would choke.

And he did.

When his breath collided with that food, he convulsed with loud coughs. The plate flew through the air as he leaned over and, with his hands on his thighs, tried to loosen the blockage from his throat. Without stopping to think, Margriet ran to his side and began pummeling him on his back.

A few minutes went by before he stopped choking and she continued delivering blows until he did. After what seemed to be ages of time had passed, he waved her off and Margriet stepped back. ’Twas then she noticed the quiet that surrounded them.

To a person, everyone in the camp stood, mouths agape, staring at them. No one moved as she adjusted her wimple back to where it should sit on her head and as she tugged her robes back in place. When she had regained her composure and her breath, for beating the warrior’s back with her bare hands was hard work, she cleared her own throat and turned back to Rurik.

“Are you well now?” she asked.

“Now that I can breathe again or now that you have stopped trying to pound me into the ground?” Sarcasm laced his words and the sting of it slashed at her.

Humiliation pulsed through her body, making her heart pound in her chest and bringing the heat of embarrassment to her face. Worse, she felt the burning of tears in her eyes and her throat, forcing her to look away from him.

Why had she thought that she could face down a man, and one such as this one, and get her way? Margriet lowered her head and turned, hoping to walk quickly to some darkened corner of the camp where she could wait until the horror of her actions dissipated or at least until everyone ceased staring. She’d only taken a few steps when his voice stopped her.

“Sister, my thanks for your assistance,” he said loud enough for all to hear. Rurik watched as she stopped, unsure if she would still bolt, as the look in her eyes declared, or if she would remain. He waited and then held out his hand to her. “And my thanks for bringing me food.”

He stepped closer, though not too close, and glared over her head at those who still gawped at her, ordering their gazes away with a nod of his head. Only the little nun still watched, though hers was a look of concerned observation rather than a curious one.

Rurik had not realized his words were as harsh as they were until he saw the horror and embarrassment fill her face. ’Twas the tears he spied in the last moment before she fled that undid him. When she still did not take his hand, he bent over and picked up the cup she’d been drinking from and motioned to Sven for the skin of ale. Once filled, he offered it to her.