Chapter Eleven
In the great hall with his father’s advisors once more gathered around him, Quarrie related all that had been said in the meeting with the Norsewoman, omitting nothing.
They listened with incredulous, disbelieving faces and barely waited for him to finish before bursting out with objections and opinions.
“Six longboats, ye say? But we dunna see them.”
“Hidden behind Oileán Iur, so she says they are. Waiting.”
Several of the older men shuddered. They had seen enough of Norse invaders to dread the very idea of such an attack.
“They will cut us to pieces,” said Borald.
“Nay so!” cried Morchan. “They will no’ find it so easy as that.”
“I did no’ say ’twould be easy.”
“We maun send the women and children off at once. Why should this Norsewoman keep her word and wait for morning to attack?”
“And—a woman!” cried another man. “Why would they send a woman? And what kind o’ leader should she be for a fleet o’ six boats?”
“A competent one, fro’ what I could see,” Quarrie managed to fit in before they were off again.
He let them rage for a time, getting the most of it out. Ma had come in and stood quietly at the door that led to Da’s quarters.
“We maun ready our defenses,” said Morchan at the last. “Call up all the men. Distribute weapons. The armory is well stocked. If we reinforce the gate—”
“Yet most the dwellings lie outside the walls. They will come wi’ fire, as they always do.”
“Aye, we maun resign oursel’s to losing much o’ the settlement—”
“Unless we gi’ them wha’ they want.”
Quarrie said it quietly, but it silenced everyone there. Ma took a step forward into the room.
“This woman,” Quarrie went on far more calmly than he felt, “has asked for only one man.”
“Ye canna believe her, lad!” Morchan cried earnestly. “’Tis a ploy. A way to get us to lower our defenses.”
“How? How would it lower our defenses to hand over one man?”
“Ye are talking about a sacrifice.”
“Aye.”
“And wha’ makes ye think if ye hand over one man, they will no’ tak’ him and then burn us to the ground anyway?”
Quarrie did not have an answer to that, not one he could present to these men. He simply believed Hulda Elvarsdottir.
He did not know why.
“’Twould be an agreement founded in honor.”
“A Norseman has nay honor!” Morchan howled. “Yer wits must be addled if ye think different.”
“’Tis a gamble,” Quarrie agreed. “A risk I am willing to take.”
“Nay.” Ma spoke for the first time.
“Lad”—Morchan stepped up to Quarrie—“think on it. ’Tis a sentence o’ death, whether they come back and attack us or no’.”
It was a sentence of death. A quite painful and horrific death, without a doubt. One more terrible than Quarrie could likely imagine. Looking at it squarely, he asked himself if he had the balls. He loved his home, but—
Had he the balls?
“Besides…” It was Borald who once more stepped up to face Quarrie. “They want the man who slew their leader down on the shore, last year.”
“Nay,” said Ma again.
This time Quarrie glanced at her. “No’ to worry, Ma. I will no’ turn Da over to them. I told them ’twas I who killed yon leader.”
“But ’twas no’ ye,” Morchan said doggedly.
“The Norsewoman does not ken that. She was no’ there. Besides”—a spasm passed through Quarrie—“I think they want a scapegoat. Someone upon whom they may loose their displeasure and hate. It need no’ be Da.”
“’Twas your father took that young man’s head.”
“And received in return the blow that besets him yet. Is it no’ my duty as his son to accept this in his place?”
“I am no’ sure it is.” Borald looked angry now. “’Tis your duty to defend this clan.”
“As I will be doing.”
“Mayhap, mayhap no’, depending on the honor o’ some woman who thinks she is a warrior! This clan needs a chief, Quarrie.” Borald shot an apologetic look at Ma. “Ours is dyin’.”
That statement hung in the air of the hall the way a curse might. Aye, they had all thought it. Worried over it. Whispered it, mayhap. Even discussed it in ones and twos. But…
“All the more reason,” Quarrie said determinedly, “for me to tak’ responsibility. I canna hand over to torturers a man already at his last.”
“Torturers,” Ma repeated.
“Mistress Einid,” Morchan said, “’twill no’ be an easy death in Norse hands. We ha’ heard the accounts o’ wha’ they’ve done to the monks. To their prisoners and to their slaves. I say”—he turned to eye Quarrie—“we should fight. Who says we may no’ win?”
There were mutters of agreement.
One of Da’s old friends said, “Aye, when she returns in the morning, let us meet her wi’ cold iron.”
“Six longboats,” Quarrie said.
Again, Ma stepped forward. She was not a tall woman—not like Hulda Elvarsdottir—and looked tiny there surrounded by hulking men. She raised her gaze to Quarrie’s face and spoke clearly. “I say we put the matter to yer father. Is he no’ still chief? Should he no’ have a say?”
“Nay, Ma. He is no’ fit.”
“He is no’ well, perhaps, and he is suffering. Ye, son, have been taking many o’ his duties. But for ye to make a decision o’ this importance wi’out so much as consulting him—well, he would never forgive ye.”
Quarrie writhed beneath these words. With Da so ill, he had sought to trouble him as seldom as possible with clan matters. He did not want to take this to him now, mainly because he knew what Da’s decision would be.
Everyone in the chamber watched him, avid to hear what he would say.
“Nay,” he told Ma, struggling with it.
“Son”—she stepped up and touched his arm—“should ye turn yoursel’ over to this woman in his place, if they haul ye awa’ to death or worse, wha’ am I to tell him? Wha’ when he asks for his lad?”
His lad. That nearly brought Quarrie to ruination.
“Tell him I serve this clan. And him.”
Slowly, Morchan shook his head. “Mistress Einid is right. We canna go behind the chief’s back in this. He is, for good and all, still chief.”
“Let us tak’ this to yer father,” Ma said. “Master Morchan, yoursel’, and me. Quarrie, ’tis his right to ha’ a say.”
Quarrie’s every protective instinct rose in protest. But he could feel the will of each man there, his father’s advisors, align with that of the aging Morchan.
They wished to protect him, these men who had known him from a child. Who had helped to raise and train him.
“Aye, so,” he said, wondering how he might persuade his father, a man who, despite the changes that had come over him this past year, possessed a valiant heart.
A sigh went around the chamber. Ma looked relieved—and agonized.
“Meanwhile,” Borald said, “we will use the time to prepare. Alert all the men, ready the families to leave. Organize the armory.”
Prepare to fight. Borald’s words told Quarrie he too felt certain what Da’s decision would be when the matter was put to him.
If ever Quarrie had argued anything with his father, it must be now, when he argued his right to spend his own life for this place he loved.