Chapter Twelve
The swirl of water around the oars sounded loud in the quiet as the faering made its journey over the sea, quiet as a pond, and back to the waiting longboat. No one spoke on the way, though Hulda’s companions shot her close looks.
Was it regret that kept them silent? The fact that they thought her three parts mad?
As mayhap she was.
She had not been quite right in her head since Jute fell.
It was as if, upon his death, a force had been set loose inside her, one that insisted she seek justice.
Now that she had seen the place where he had died, her tall, bold brother—when she’d beheld the very gate where his severed head had been displayed until the crows finished with it—she lusted even more strongly after that justice.
It would not be easy to attain. The settlement was a strong one. She should have begged more ships from Faeir, at least two, and more likely the six she’d told Quarrie MacMurtray she had.
Quarrie MacMurtray. What to make of him?
An attractive man, and no mistake. She had not expected, nei, to feel drawn to him, one of these folk responsible for the death of someone dear to her heart. The very man responsible.
Having battled all her life for a place of honor, of legitimacy among men, she did not waste much time desiring them. Ja, there had been Haakon. And only look how that had ended. She had sworn never, never again.
Just as she would ask no man to fight her battles for her, she would trust no man ever again with her heart.
Yet there was something about Quarrie MacMurtray. What was it?
As they rowed steadily and strongly to the longboat, she pondered it. Was it his appearance?
No question but that his appearance was pleasing, in an odd and foreign kind of way. All that copper-brown hair, and those eyes, glinting with green. But more, much more than anything about his appearance, it was the feel of him. A certain steadiness. A strength. A familiarity…
But nei. It could not be so. A man from outside her world. Beyond her blood and her understanding. It could not be.
He it was who had taken her brother’s life. The brother who had known her best. Who had indulged her, who had trained her when no one else would.
For this man, she could afford no feelings besides hate.
Then why did he pull at her so? Was it, after all, because she wanted revenge upon him? Had her mind twisted it into something more?
So it must be, for she could not want the man who had quite likely killed her brother.
The faering bumped gently up against the side of the longboat and ready arms helped her aboard, even as the smaller craft was drawn behind.
Anxious faces met her gaze, and she wished—ach, by Odin’s eye she wished—she might have just a moment to settle her mind before having to make explanations to them all.
“Wait,” she told Ivor, who had been hanging over the side as they came up, his expression hard as flint. He did not agree with this scheme of hers. He had made that much clear. “Let us return to the island before we speak.”
He ignored that. “Where is the captive?” he called almost before her feet hit the planking of the deck. His voice held a sharp edge of sarcasm. “Has your great plan gone awry?”
“Not yet.” She hated having to explain herself to any man, and Ivor more than most. “It is called negotiation, Ivor, because it is not accomplished all at once.”
He nearly spat with derision. “And so we are left languishing here? Waiting again?”
“How long?” asked another of the men, and Hulda realized how edgy they all were.
“I have given him—the leader there—until morning to decide whether he hands over the man who killed Jute to me.”
“Such leniency,” Ivor exclaimed. “This is what happens when a woman is put in charge. Our blades become rusty.”
“Your blades,” she retorted, “are still plenty keen. We will have our prize.”
“And if he does not hand the man over, this leader?”
“Then we will attack and your blade will no longer thirst for blood.”
They exchanged looks, this crew of hers.
Trym spoke. “I say we go ashore and explore this isle. I am tired of sitting and playing at draughts.”
“There is naught on that island,” Ivor objected, “but thistles and chiggers.”
“I would like a fire tonight,” Trym said, “if we are staying.”
“Go ahead and build your fire,” Hulda said. “Build several of them.” The smoke would be visible from the settlement across the water and would lend verisimilitude to her claim of a large force.
That was, if Quarrie MacMurtray was watching. And she believed he would be.
*
Da was up and pacing his chamber—if painfully—when Quarrie, in company with Ma and Morchan, went in.
An astonishing sight, since it had been days since the chief had found the strength to leave his bed.
He had even managed to get himself partially dressed, which made Quarrie wonder if he meant to venture out.
He and Quarrie looked enough alike to leave no question they were father and son.
They had the same tall, lithe build, Airlee having gained a little more bulk over the years than Quarrie had yet attained.
The same heavy, thick mane, though Airlee’s showed more gold than copper, Quarrie having got some of his red from Ma, and since his injury Da had grown a crop of gray.
They had the same far-seeing, hazel eyes, Quarrie’s tending more to green. The same effortless strength.
That was, Da had possessed that strength.
He whirled now to look at them, moving on his good leg. Quarrie, who had seen the condition of the other, could not imagine how Da managed to stand. Fever burned high on his cheekbones.
“Wha’ is going on? Somewhat is. I can feel it.”
No doubt he could. He was a fine chief with good instincts. And the madness that sometimes claimed him when his fever burned high in the night did not appear to beset him now. His eyes looked clear and sane.
When none of them answered him, he demanded, “Are we under attack?”
“Nay, Chief Airlee,” Morchan said. “Though sails ha’ been sighted off shore.”
“Sails?” For most Da’s life, the Norse had been a threat, a promise of loss and destruction. “How many?” When again no one answered him, he switched his gaze to Quarrie’s face. “Quarrie?”
“We believe there are six longboats.”
“Six.” Except for the spots of fever, Da’s face paled.
“I ha’ had words wi’ the Norse leader, who wishes to negotiate.”
“Wha’?” Da waved a hand, a sweeping gesture. “There is nay negotiating wi’ those savages. All they want is plunder.”
“This is different.”
“Pray sit down, my love.” Ma urged Da to a rug by the fire. It must pain her as much as Quarrie, seeing him on his feet.
Da went down with a grunt, every movement agony.
Ma spoke into his face. “Ye should no’ be up.”
“No one came when I called. No’ even the servant.”
“I am sorry, my love. We were all in the hall. Here, will ye tak’ the draught the healer left for ye?”
“I am no’ a child to be dosed. The draught clouds my mind. If attack is imminent—”
He could not fight, much as he might wish to. All three of them there could see that.
“When were these sails sighted? Why did ye no’ come to me at once? Morchan? Am I no’ still chief o’ this clan?”
“Aye, Airlee,” Morchan said.
“We are here now,” Ma continued, “fresh fro’ Quarrie’s meeting wi’ the Norse leader.”
Da grunted, leveled his hard gaze on Quarrie’s face. “Tell me.”
Quarrie did, pulling no punches with it. In his opinion there was nothing to be won in doing so. As chief, aye, Da must have his say.
Whether that say would hold sway was another matter entirely.
Da listened with a hectic frown coming and going on his brow. “But,” he said immediately when Quarrie finished, “’twas I who killed the man. The Norse leader.”
“Aye, Da.”
“Everyone who was there fighting on the shore knows ’twas I. How can ye suppose to tak’ the blame?”
Quarrie said nothing.
Airlee MacMurtray went on, “If anyone should be turned o’er to these savages, it is me.”
“Nay, Da.”
“This woman…” Da’s eyes quickened. “Ye say she is a warrior?”
“Aye.”
“A curious thing. There ha’ been strong women in our own past, if the old tales are to be believed.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Those who wanted to mak’ their own way in the world. But a Norse marauder—”
“However unusual it may be,” Morchan said, “she is here and making her demands. Chief Airlee, ye will agree wi’ me that Master Quarrie canna be allowed to hand himself over—”
“That I do agree.”
“He is far too valuable to us. Especially—”
“Especially wi’ me dyin’.” Da’s gaze met that of his friend and ally, unswerving. “Nay, Einid,” he said to his wife, “do no’ weep. D’ye think I do no’ ken my fate?”
“Ye will grow well,” Ma insisted. “’Twill but take time.”
“There has been time,” he told her savagely. “A fall, a winter, a spring. I do no’ grow well.”
It was indisputable. Against his orders, the tears in Ma’s eyes overflowed.
“Long ago,” Da said in a much calmer voice, “I swore mysel’ to this clan. As a lad, I did. To live for this place and the people who dwell here, a family. I swore to die for this place, if I must.”
His fevered gaze touched each of the three faces in turn, those closest in the world to him.
“It seems that time has come.”