Chapter Sixteen
Hulda Elvarsdottir’s two boatmen did not look happy with her when Quarrie watched them go over the side of the small boat. They did not want to row to the settlement through the rain.
In fact, none of the Norsemen looked particularly happy with her, and the one who had argued it so vehemently—a big, rawboned man whose wet hair looked dark brown—wore an ugly grimace of dissatisfaction.
Was he the one who had witnessed the death of her brother? Likely so. He had the look of a warrior, with scars on his hands.
They searched Quarrie for weapons, taking his sword, the knife from the small of his back, and the sgian-dubh from his boot before lashing him to the mast. He sat there, legs thrown out before him in the pelting rain, and regretted the loss of his sword.
Da had given him that when he turned sixteen, replacing the poorer weapon with which he’d trained up till then.
He wanted that sword back almost as much as he wanted his life. Not as much as he wanted to preserve Da’s life, though.
He figured things were about to end for him. Here on the deck of this boat, or mayhap on the island. Better on Scottish soil than foreign oak planks. His spirit would have less trouble journeying home.
Curious, though, for he’d thought to have more time. The wheel of his life had barely turned. And yet if this was the purpose he was destined to serve, he would dree his weird, and serve it.
The Norsemen stood around him and conversed in their own tongue. They seemed to be complaining about the course things had taken, or perhaps about Hulda Elvarsdottir’s actions. Mayhap they argued about what to do with him.
Aye, he had heard the stories. They could cut out his beating heart. Haul his lungs from his body. As a final insult, castrate him.
They argued over it a while, the brown-haired man working himself up to quite a fervor, during which time the rain pounded down. Their tongue sounded guttural and strange. Odd, he could not even discern what would be coming to him.
At length, the brown-haired warrior—had Hulda called him Ivor?—hunkered down in front of Quarrie and spoke in Gaelic so heavily accented, Quarrie could barely understand.
“You will tell us all you know, eh, stupid Scot? Who killed my friend.”
His friend, had Hulda’s brother been?
Not giving Quarrie much time to answer, the Norseman struck him in the face. It was a hard blow that bounced his head off the mast and made him see shooting lights.
So it begins, he thought before the man struck him again. Again. Face. Head. Body. Quarrie fought the desire to vomit and sought to keep his senses. Set himself to endure. This was just the start.
The battering—for it could not truly be called a questioning—went on for some time. Ivor—if it was indeed his name—did ask a few questions. Who killed Jute? How many are your warriors? But his clear intention was to work out his aggravation.
The rain washed the blood from Quarrie’s face and down his tunic. The other Norsemen did not take part in the battery but stood and watched.
Quarrie did not speak. He did his best not to grunt when the blows landed. He spat and swallowed blood, raised his gaze to the skyline and tried to imagine himself home.
When Ivor grew tired and pulled a knife, one of the other men stepped forward.
They began to argue in their own tongue, an argument not difficult to follow.
Ivor wanted to cut him. The other man, younger, objected and at length went so far as to spread his arms in front of Quarrie in a gesture of protection.
Ivor turned away in disgust.
The deck rose and fell. Quarrie fought down his sickness and thought about the fact that he was not going to die—yet. How long would Hulda be gone?
Would whomever she spoke with at home bargain for his release? This had not gone at all the way he had intended.
What if Da, in turn, gave himself over? Those at home still did not know the Norse claim of six ships was a ruse. Da would want him released.
Nay, this had not gone the way he’d meant, at all.
After a time, the rain slackened. Even here in Scotland, among the isles, it could not continue so forever. Quarrie shivered as a wind blew across the deck and found him. The skin around his eyes swelled. He ached.
The Norse settled down to argue some more, to play at draughts, and eat. Though they directed glances at Quarrie, they did not approach him again, not until the young man who had forbidden Ivor from cutting him came and hunkered down with a cup in his hands.
He let his gaze slide over Quarrie doubtfully before he jerked his thumb at himself and said, “Garik.”
Quarrie nodded.
Garik held out the cup. “Drink?” He clearly possessed very little Gaelic. What he did have was rough.
The liquid in the cup could well be poisoned. Yet…this fellow had defended him.
“Aye.”
The man held the cup to Quarrie’s battered mouth. It contained sour ale. It stung, but Quarrie gulped it down anyway.
The kindness performed, the young man rose and left. Quarrie closed his eyes and prayed.
Funny, how quick the prayers came in such circumstances.
Before a battle or, indeed, during one when a man stood knee-high in the water fighting off intruders—or when, as now, his life teetered on a knife’s edge—he tended to try to bargain.
Only let my strength hold out. Let me be quick enough. Let me live.
Only now, he did not know for what to bargain. His end here would not be good. But the last thing he wanted was to see his father hauled up over that rail and put in his place.
And still Hulda did not come. She did not come.
*
Hulda stood knee-deep in the surf, arguing with a member of Quarrie MacMurtray’s guard. A line of them had gathered, but one of them spoke, a tall, rangy young man with light-colored hair and a veiled expression. He did not want to let them land the faering.
Not even to negotiate.
Stubborn these people were, and apparently thick as an oak plank. That was, Quarrie MacMurtray did not appear to be stupid, despite the fact that she’d succeeded in deceiving him over the number of her ships. Stubborn? Mayhap.
Right now, aggravation had her longing to kill them all. The day wore on. She was getting nowhere. And her crew—that was, Ivor—could be doing anything to MacMurtray in her absence. Any cruel and vicious thing, to afford some amusement. MacMurtray could be dead by now.
She called upon her patience and, fighting to keep her hand from her weapon, tried again.
“I wish to see your chief.”
The tall guard muttered something she did not hear, speaking to the man next to him before spitting at her, “And I ha’ told ye, ye canna. Ye ha’ had all ye will get fro’ us.” Something dark brewed in his eyes. “Save the edges o’ our swords.”
Odin curse the man! “List to me. We hold one of your men.”
“I ken fine ye do! I watched ye tak’ him away from here against our liking, if ye maun know.”
“I wish to negotiate now for his release.”
“Ye be mad.” The man repeated it to his companions. “She is mad.”
By Freya’s heart! “I have told you”—tried to tell him—“he is not the man we seek. We would trade him for the man we do seek.”
Could he not understand?
“If you will not deal with me,” she went on, hard as iron, “we will call out our fleet of boats to attack.”
He blinked at her.
“Do you not want your man back?” Fool, Hulda added in her head, though she did not allow the word past her lips.
“Aye, we want him back. He is a good friend o’ mine and one o’ the foremost men this clan can boast. But ye made yer bargain, ye bitch, and ’tis all ye shall have of us.”
Hulda turned and pointed dramatically out toward the island. “He shall be slain. And then we shall fall upon you and yours like wolves. Is that what you want?”
The guard’s face grew stark. “Quarrie MacMurtray knew when ye hauled him awa’ out o’ here that he would die. It seems his courage is brighter than yer honor. Did ye no’ promise to leave our settlement be, if he gave himsel’ over to ye?”
“Ja.” Hulda was forced to admit it. “Only because we thought he was the man.” With dignity, she added, “I do not wish vengeance for vengeance’s sake, upon the head of one who did not commit the deed.”
For the first time, the fellow hesitated. Imagining the fate that might befall Quarrie, perhaps. Stark grief stood in his eyes.
For a moment—just a moment—Hulda hoped. They would negotiate on. She would find a way to release Quarrie MacMurtray.
Then the tall guard said, “We promised him no’ a one o’ ye would set foot on this shore again.” He stepped forward and drew his sword. The other Scots who formed the line stepped with him. Hulda had no choice but to step back in the water.
“Begone,” the guard said. “And God ha’ mercy on that brave hero ye hold.”
Hulda stole a glance at her two men who held the faering behind her. If they tried to fight it out here, they would all die. Three of them against all the swords of the settlement.
She would end her life on the selfsame strip of Scottish shore as Jute.
Was his spirit here? Did any part of him linger? His head, so Quarrie claimed, had gone into the fire.
A fit end.
Surely his spirit had flown away with the Valkyries. There was little to fear in death, save a loss of honor, and failure to fulfill one’s promises.
She had promised her faeir vengeance. She had promised it to herself. Now, unaccountably, Quarrie MacMurtray stood in the way.
She spoke to her men in her own tongue. “We will go.” And louder to the stubborn guard, “You have brought your fate upon yourselves.”
Nei, she could not defeat them with the crew she’d brought. But the season was early, and she could always return.