Chapter Seven
By late afternoon when the call came, Quarrie knew what must be happening. Or he thought he knew.
Since dawn he had haunted the walls, up and down so many times he’d lost count. In between he had fielded questions. Everyone who could catch hold of him had asked, much as Norah had, whether they must prepare for attack.
Even his mother had drawn him aside. “Son, are there sails—”
“A glimpse only, Ma.”
“If we come under attack, can ye hold them off?”
Quarrie had met her gaze with his own. “I will do all I can.” Including spend his life if necessary.
She hurried on as if she did not hear him. “Because I think yer father should be taken awa’ wi’ the women, if they are sent to the hills. He canna fight. He can barely stand. But—”
“Ye will ne’er persuade him of it,” Quarrie told her. Abandon the keep during a fight? Was there a force on earth that could convince the chief to leave?
“But he canna fight,” she repeated wildly for her. A composed sort of woman, this, she had lifelong been a foil for her husband’s intensity. Driven beyond that now.
“He would ha’ to be carried,” Quarrie said. “Can ye see him letting his men carry him awa’ to the hills?”
“Nay.” Her hands twisted together. “Nor do I wish to see him slaughtered in his bed.”
“Ma, I promise ye I will do all I can to defend this place with my own heart’s blood, if that is what it takes.”
“I know ye will. And ye are a fine warrior. The best we ha’ seen, so yer father always says, for generations.”
Da was not so bad himself, before his injury, so Quarrie reflected. Witness the fact that he had taken the fierce Norseman’s head last season.
“Then trust me,” he bade Ma. “We do no’ even know as yet that this is an attack.”
But when the call came from the walls, aye, his entire being ran to the defense, even as his feet carried him up to lean out and stare just like the guards.
Borald was there, leaning out so far he looked to tumble over, and turned a burning gaze on Quarrie.
“There,” he said. “Look!”
The sail was back, a dark shape now against the early afternoon light.
“It came out fro’ behind the island,” said one of the other men. “We were all watching.”
It hung there as it had before. And then it began an approach.
Narrowed eyes followed it with fear and dread. A single sail. Not so intimidating except for the fact that, as it drew closer, the silhouette became unmistakable. The big, square sail. The long, sinuous shape of the craft raised at bow and stern.
“Wha’ in God’s name are they doing?” someone wondered aloud. “Showin’ themselves in broad daylight.”
“Is there but the one?” another man asked.
Only one they could see. Anything could lurk behind the island.
“Wha’ should we do, Master Quarrie? Send the women and bairns awa’?”
“No’ yet.”
A single ship. It might be overflowing with Norse warriors the way a grain store overflowed with vermin. But he should be able to hold them off. He should be able to protect this place he loved.
He barely breathed as they watched the longboat come in. It sailed gracefully over the still water, catching its own reflection. Like something out of a dream.
Or a vision.
When they could see it clearly, it paused. Quarrie noticed then that though the sail was up, there were men at the oars. He could see other men on deck. One at the tiller, a couple hurrying about. One standing beside the prow, gazing landward.
Staring at them.
The commander of the vessel, no doubt. He wore a helmet that caught the sun and a fine cloak, and was no doubt heavily armed. He gave no audible commands, made no gestures. Stood like stone when the vessel halted and the men threw anchor.
“What is this?” Borald asked.
Quarrie could not imagine. Not an attack. Not anything he comprehended.
The men on the longboat hauled something around. A curragh it was that they had towed out. Faint cries echoed over the water. Two men descended into the curragh before the commander, motionless till then, followed.
“They are coming in,” someone said in total disbelief.
“Get men on the shore,” Quarrie called, but men were already there. Members of the guard and some clansfolk all staring.
Quarrie said, “Get yer weapons. I am going down.”
*
The settlement grew larger as the faering approached, rowed by strong arms. Hulda had chosen two of her best men, level heads who would not go off before she commanded, but good fighters in a pinch.
They might all three be about to die.
She watched the scrambling on the shore—brought about by their presence—and marveled at the fear produced by one longboat. Such was the reputation earned by her countrymen.
Order and chaos she saw before her. Armed men chased away what must be the ordinary occupants of the place. Her fingers played about the hilt of the sword she wore.
One man emerged onto the rocky shore, standing firm at the place toward which the faering headed. She eyed him closely. Her opponent?
Was this the man who had killed Jute?
His stance argued authority, legs wide and feet planted on the stones. His stones, that attitude seemed to say. You shall not pass.
“Hulda,” Garik said from behind his oar, “are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Ja,” she lied. The closer she got, the less certain she felt.
Details came into view. The stronghold, up on the rise and out of reach from the sea, was a fine one built all of stone, the thatch on the roof weighted down with more rocks.
Many were the other dwellings scattered around it.
A stout guard stood backing the man who waited for them, and she could see they were heavily armed.
She could not see their faces clearly as yet, but would bet they held distrust.
The man waiting for her had brown hair lit to red where the sun struck it. He wore no helm but had a sword at his side, his hand on the hilt. He was tall, gracefully built.
A typical Gael, she told herself. One she would have no difficulty killing if it came to that.
Just a Gael. One on a rocky stretch of Scottish shore. Who had likely killed her brother.
“Halt,” she told the men, and they shipped the oars. The small boat drifted. Everything on the shore froze.
“Who is leader of this place?” Hulda called over the waves, bellowing so the words would carry. She called in the Gaelic tongue, not considering them intelligent enough to know hers. “I would speak with him.”
The man with the brown hair took a step forward, which put his toes in the foam. “I am he. What do ye want?”
Familiar was the cadence of his speech. Hulda’s own nurse, Aoedh, had been a captive who spoke so. Like music, sometimes.
She tossed back her head. “I have five more ships waiting behind yon isle. If you wish to spare your settlement, you will speak with me.”
A man dashed up to the brown-haired commander. They conferred briefly before he stepped away again.
“We ha’ naught to say to ye. Be on yer way.”
“You would prefer to watch your homes burn? Your people die?”
“Only try for it,” he said.
He possessed confidence, she had to give him that. Ja, he it must be who had taken Jute’s life.
“You would let me kill scores, when I want but one?”
“What one?”
Hulda floated there and did not say.
He called, “I value all my people.”
“And yourself? What value do you set upon your own life, Gael? Are you worth more than your folk?”
That caused him to rear back a little. Aoedh had told her many stories. Her people prized the valiant. The tales teemed with self-sacrifice, or one for all.
Was this man not likewise valiant?
She bellowed again, “Let us talk about it.”
“Madness,” said Garik, behind her.
Ja, maybe she was about to die. But she did not think so. These Gaels loved their honor too well.
Before the man on the shore could reply, she called, “May I have your pledge of safe conduct for me and my men, until our talk is done?”
He hesitated. Her boat had floated in closer and she could now see his face more clearly. A woman needed to see a man’s eyes before she could judge him.
He seemed to make up his mind all at once, as if the answer came from beyond him.
“Aye. Come awa’ in.”