Chapter Five
They spent a cold night out on the water, it still being early enough in the season for a chill to come with the dark. In this case, it felt as if the icy air had followed their longboat down from the north and now gripped them in its claws.
Going viking, as Hulda well knew, was an elemental business, subject to every sort of change in the weather and the sea.
Being trapped aboard a boat with a score of males was likewise elemental.
They fell subject to their elemental urges—anger, pride, hunger, lust—and seemed to give very little thought to any of it.
And folk said women were subject to their moods…
Hulda had known these particular men all her life. For this venture, she and Faeir had between them selected each man. Yet she was already sick of their childish jokes, their careless bickering and complaints.
Men, ja, were like the weather. One could do naught but put up with it.
These men—all but the despicable Ivor—had been chosen for their reliability, their skill at sailing, and their strong backs when rowing became necessary.
If they did not overly question her orders, it was a bonus.
But they, like any good Norsemen, had come along on this venture for profit.
Bored near to death after the long winter, they’d been apt to jump aboard any vessel heading out of the bay.
Still, she would have to offer them something.
The settlement where Jute had died did, indeed, look large and no doubt wealthy. Also well defended. She would have to be careful if she meant to satisfy her men. She would have to be smarter than anyone else involved.
She got very little sleep and was up before the sun, staring out at the ocean and the rocks of their little isle. The men, other than the two guards she’d set for the end of the night, still slept, wrapped in their cloaks, snoring and farting.
Garik, who was one of the crew members Hulda could best tolerate, soon got up and came to stand with her at the rail. He was young like most of the crew and had been a friend of Jute’s. Well, everyone in their settlement at Avoldsborg had been a friend of Jute’s, him being well liked.
Garik towered over her even though she had a decent height. He had very fair hair, clear blue eyes, and a number of tattoos that had been poorly applied.
He nodded at Hulda before leaning on the rail. “Going to be a clear day,” he said.
“Ja. We will move out of the inlet in a while and let ourselves be seen.”
“I wanted to say, do not listen to Ivor. You know what he is like.”
“I do.”
“He will try to undermine your authority for the sake of it. He did the same to Jute.”
“Did he?” That made her eye her companion.
“Ja. I was on that voyage, when Jute died. Here in these waters.”
The very reason Hulda had brought him, as well as some of the others.
“Jute and Ivor were great friends. Yet Ivor loved to needle him.”
“Ivor loves to needle everyone.”
Garik agreed, “It is how he is made. Do not let him discourage you. If you think you can win this through negotiation or sleight of hand—do so. We are but one ship.”
“And it is a strong settlement.”
Garik shrugged. “Ja. I was fighting on that shore not far from Jute when he went down. These are not defenseless holy men.”
That made her eye him again.
“And Ivor—” Garik began, and paused abruptly.
Another man had joined them at the rail. Was it Hulda’s imagination, or did the clear morning darken a whit?
Ivor asked, “Did I hear you speak my name, Garik?”
“Ja. I was but saying to Hulda, you must want vengeance more than any of us, Jute having been such a good friend to you.”
“I fair thirst for it.”
Hulda nodded. Behind them, the rest of the crew were coming awake, grunting and coughing.
“But,” Ivor went on, “it seems we hang here like that cat outside the mousehole.”
“Ja,” Hulda told him, “and today the cat will show her face.”
*
“Quarrie—a word, if ye ha’ a moment.”
Quarrie paused and faltered when the words met his ear, just as if he’d hit a stone wall.
Last night had been peaceful—doubling up on Da’s draught seemed to have worked—and he’d managed to catch some sleep. But it had made him late coming out to begin the day’s first rounds.
He’d had the most curious dream…
About a woman, it had been. He dreamed about women only seldom. When he did, it was usually the sort of dream that beset most men from time to time. Of spending himself in passion, usually—disquietingly—with someone he knew.
This had been different, very different.
She’d stood before him, close, her hands lightly gripping his forearms. And a sight to behold with a wild mane of brown hair swirling around her, and eyes of bright silver. Her gaze fastened to his.
She spoke to him, and her voice wove in and out of him like an ancient song remembered. Lightly accented yet familiar, her voice was, and rooted in his soul.
“Always you say, my love, that you will find me—no matter where. No matter when. This time mayhap it is I who shall find you.”
“Quarrie?” The voice speaking his name here in the cool, quiet morning was also familiar. He spun to find Norah at his elbow.
Norah, holding her wee bairn in her arms.
Emotions speared through him at the sight of her. Only, surely, because he had not expected to find her here. He was over her, was he not? He no longer loved the woman. He could not say he’d ever loved her. He’d been attached.
She was a lovely thing. Small and delicate, with large gray eyes and dark-brown hair. A rosebud mouth. Sweet buds at her breasts also, and he had tasted them. Och, aye, he had.
He’d once believed, aye, he would wed with her. That she would birth his bairns. Now she stood looking up at him with another man’s babe in her arms.
The child of his close friend.
He told himself all he felt now was an echoing sense of betrayal. Of anger.
Both of those emotions made him look at Norah coldly as he said, “Mistress.”
She made a face. She could be mischievous, could Norah. Or coy. Now she appeared chiding, or perhaps rueful. “How long are ye going to stay angry wi’ me?”
Forever, perhaps. Or just till he stopped caring. “I am no’ angry, mistress,” he lied, and accompanied it with a stiff bow.
“Then why d’ye no’ call me by my name?”
He had no answer for that, but her name still would not leave his lips. “Wha’ is it?”
“Corban says we are to prepare for a flight to the hills, we women and children.” She jiggled the babe in her arms. “Have sails been sighted? Already?”
Quarrie looked at the child. A wee lad—of course she would give Corban a son—he had dark hair like hers and big, solemn eyes.
Corban. Supposed to be loyal to him.
“’Tis best to be prepared at this season. Should attackers appear, I would ha’ an orderly flight rather than a panicked one.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“If I can do naught else for ye, mistress, I am needed on the walls.”
He made to step past her when she reached out and touched his arm. “Quarrie, I want to explain—”
She had explained it all before. With tears and desperate wailing, she had. How she’d never meant to betray him. How she and Corban—who, like the rest of them, had known each other all their lives—had suddenly felt something springing up between them.
Quarrie just bet they had. And he knew precisely what.
“Quarrie,” she said again, “people canna help who they love.”
Nay, he supposed not. But they could help going behind the back of someone who trusted them. Who expected naught but honesty. Who did not see the knife coming before it sank in between his shoulders.
Well, that was the thing about a knife in the back, was it not?
He made himself look into her eyes, deep in. Lovely eyes they were, tipped up a little at the outer corners and fringed by dark lashes.
“Do no’ be angry wi’ me,” she repeated. “Ye used to look at me so kindly.”
Aye, and he’d learned that lesson, had he not? Not to go blithely giving his heart away.
She whispered, “I did care for ye—”
Aye, mayhap just not enough.
He detached his arm from her grasp. “Excuse me, mistress. I am that busy.”
He had time to see tears fill her eyes before he walked away.
By heaven, did he not have enough troubles without adding her in?