Chapter Ten
“You are the man who killed my brother?” From the moment she’d laid eyes on him, ja, Hulda had suspected it. The foremost among his men. A fine warrior, possibly fighting in his father the chief’s stead. Who else could have bested Jute?
Besides, the way she felt about him—that was her inner knowing telling her so.
But now that he admitted it, she did not want it to be him. Regret took hold of her by the throat, and for the first time she wavered in her resolve.
For if he handed himself over to her in order to save his people, what she had planned included debasement. Ridicule. Humiliation. Pain and, at long last, death.
His gaze held hers, unflinching. “Aye.”
She jerked up her chin. “Describe his death to me.”
That surprised him.
“I would be sure I have the man who should pay the price for Jute’s death.”
“I took his head. The battle fell apart then. When his men withdrew, they took his body but his head remained here.”
A particular source of grief to her. She had been away, ja, a member of Faeir’s crew, and not come home until Jule’s body had been laid out in state. Covered in wounds. As always, he had fought hard.
“Tell me what became of his head.”
He did not want to. She could see that. “A trophy, mistress. It remained above our gate for some time.”
Another long breath escaped her. “And then?” She wanted to hear it all, her brother’s fate.
“Burned.”
“At your orders?”
“Aye. ’Twas the decent thing to do.”
“Decent?”
“Mistress, I can give no part o’ your brother back to ye. I regret so, but that is the way o’ it. If ye come here to our lands seeking battle, ye maun reap the results.”
“This is a thing all warriors know.” All honest warriors.
“It is.”
“I have an offer for ye, Master—” She paused in an effort to remember his name.
“Quarrie MacMurtray,” he reminded her.
“Son of the chief here.”
“That is right.”
“And where is he, your chief?” His father.
“Indisposed.”
Hulda narrowed her eyes at him. She did not know what that word meant; it reached beyond her understanding. For the moment, she let it go. “He did not fight in the battle that took my brother’s life?”
“He did.”
“You fought alongside him?”
“Aye.”
Hulda studied him, letting her gaze move from the mane of fire-kissed brown hair to the tense face, to his bared arms and knees. He bore scars in plenty. A warrior, aye, and it was not unreasonable to believe he was the man.
But something inside her, that bone-deep instinct, still was not certain. Or did not want to believe it.
As a woman, she was in the habit of listening to her instincts. They set her apart, often called disrespect down upon her, yet she’d learned to heed them.
Somewhat here was not quite right.
“Quarrie MacMurtray,” she said solemnly, her tongue tripping over the unfamiliarity of the name, “I have come here to right a wrong that was done. My faeir, a powerful warlord, has sent me with many longboats to accomplish this. So I make you this offer. Hand yourself over to me and we will, as I have stated, spare your settlement. You will have my word as a Norsewoman on it.”
His face tensed to white and a hard green light glittered in his eyes. “Why should I hand mysel’ over to ye when we might well fight ye off, as we did last year? Come at me wi’ yer warriors, and it just may be ye who lies down on those stones wi’out yer head.”
Hulda made herself shrug. “You may fight us off, you may not.”
“We did, as I say, last time.”
“Last time we came with but three boats. This time I have six.”
“Where are they, then?”
“They lie off behind yon island.” If he knew these waters, as he must, he would know there was an inlet there, and that she could well speak the truth.
If he did not believe her—why, still he must doubt.
“If you choose to fight and we attack,” she told him forcefully, “it will cost you. In blood. In fire and destruction. If you give yourself over to me, the punishment will land only where it belongs—upon the man who took my brother’s life. ”
He was not a stupid man, this Scotsman. He would have some inkling as to what must befall him if he turned himself over into her hands. The voyage to Avoldsborg in chains. The march through that settlement. The tribunal, the sentencing. The torture.
By the time he died, he would be praying for it.
Had he the courage to hand himself over for that?
She leaned toward him slightly. “Surely you wish to spare your settlement our fury?”
“Fury, is it?” He stared into her eyes, deep. She could still see the thoughts moving there, but no fear.
No fear. A warrior, this man, to the heart.
How could she, daughter of countless warriors and no frail flower herself, fail to respond to that? To admire it?
“Ja,” she said, ignoring what surged within her, or trying to. “All up and down these coasts you have felt our fury.”
“As your brother felt ours, mistress.”
It felt like a slap in the face, or as if he spat in her eye.
“Your brother came here seeking a fight. ’Tis what he got. He paid the price.”
Dismay seized Hulda by the throat. She could not fail in this. She had argued long and hard with her faeir for this opportunity and the lend of the one boat. The crew. She could not return home empty-handed.
By the same token, having seen this settlement up close and having met its defender, she was certain she could not best them with but one boat.
In hatching this plan, she had counted on the honor inherent in these men who inhabited the islands, many of whom had in the past stood and sacrificed themselves. She had not imagined a standoff.
She pushed to her feet, abandoning her mug of ale. “I will give you until tomorrow morning to make your decision. Talk with your advisors, your chief.” If he was here. “Contemplate what is best for your people. I will return for your answer.”
He said nothing, though those bright eyes narrowed.
She jerked up her chin. “My safe conduct will hold till then?”
“It will.”
She turned and stalked her way out of the hall, her spine tingling. This would be the moment he would sink a dirk into her back, if his honor broke. In truth, this would tell her what ilk of man he was, this Quarrie MacMurtray.
Her hand hovered over the hilt of her sword. She was very quick, and if it came to single combat, here and now, she would have to do Jute proud. She would not get away after she killed Quarrie MacMurtray, but it would be a debt paid.
He did not attack her from behind. They went out into the beautiful morning and she stood for a moment seeing it for the first time from a defender’s perspective.
The strong gate. The slope leading down to the sea.
She could see her two men waiting there, and the faering.
The longboat beyond, floating on the mirror of the sea like a dream.
She must walk down that slope to rejoin her men looking unafraid, even though there would be five score blades waiting to take her life along the way.
Beside her, Quarrie MacMurtray raised a hand. A gesture, was it, providing her protection? Whatever the case, he did not accompany her back to the shore, only so far as his gate, and by the time she reached her men, her legs wobbled.
Sure she was, that she had lost.
“Well?” Kettel’s eyes stabbed at her. “Have you finished your negotiations?” Clearly he disapproved, but she must forgive him that. His wait on the shore, prey to all those swords, must have felt a long one.
“For now, Kettel. Only for now.”
“Let us leave here,” Garik said. “My flesh is creeping.”
“Ja,” Hulda agreed. In her heart, she knew she would be back again.