Chapter Twenty-Three
Quarrie healed slowly, his efforts aided little by his refusal to keep off his feet. Drachan implored him; his mother scolded him. None of it mattered a whit. Not even the complaints of his own body could hold him.
He became obsessed with keeping watch and might be found upon the walls at any given time, day or night. He forgot to eat and very nearly forgot to sleep. He hounded the men until they began to look at him tight-lipped with strain in their eyes.
He knew that if—when?—Hulda Elvarsdottir and her men returned, it would not be with a single boat but enough to storm the settlement.
He must be ready. No excuses for it.
When he resumed training with the rest of the men, everyone protested. Borald did, and the men themselves, perhaps because they could see what it cost him.
He did not care for the cost.
They heard tales of Norse attacks farther south, at Gallanach and Balliemore. A church was destroyed there and the resident monks slain. A settlement burned. While spring proceeded inevitably into summer, Quarrie’s eyes searched ceaselessly for sails.
One day following training, when Quarrie still dripped with sweat, Borald took him aside. A warm, fair day it was, though Quarrie barely heeded the bonny weather.
“Let me ask ye somewhat,” Borald began when the last of the men had slogged off.
Quarrie withdrew his gaze from the sea. “Aye?”
“Are ye tryin’ to kill yoursel’?”
“Nay. Why should ye—”
“Because ye’re doin’ a fine job o’ it.”
Quarrie focused on his fellow warrior. Friend. For aye, Borald was that. “What are ye on about?”
“Just that it hurts watching ye train. When is the last time ye slept? Och, I am no’ talking about a nod here or there, but a full night’s sleep.”
“I—” Quarrie could get no farther.
“I will tell ye, then. Since before the Norse came. Quarrie, man, I understand yer caution. Yer vigilance. It does ye credit, but ye maun trust the rest o’ us to tak’ some of the weight.”
“They will be back.” Quarrie stared into Borald’s blue eyes. “I know it.”
“Aye, I do no’ doubt that. Them or others like them. We will be ready when they do.”
“They are destroyers.” He thought of Hulda pressing her lips to his, her strong fingers clutching the front of his tunic. “Bad enough when they are seeking plunder. When they come in vengeance—”
“Aye, so. D’ye no’ think we are ready?”
“I am no’ sure we can ever be ready.”
“Quarrie”—Borald drew a breath—“all our lives we ha’ been aware o’ what lies out there in that sea. We are no’ about to forget now.”
Forget. Forget the feel of her lips against his, soft in contrast to the strength of her? What would it be like to lie with such a woman? He could almost feel it.
Borald was eyeing him strangely. “D’ye ha’ the fever, man?”
“Nay.”
“No shame in admitting, if ’tis so.”
“I do no ha’ the fever.” At least, not the kind Borald meant.
“Good, for ye do no’ want to end up like the chief.”
Nay, he did not. Da still fought hard. Up on his feet one day, grim and determined, awash in sweat the next night.
“Take the rest o’ the day,” Borald suggested. It was already late afternoon. “Ha’ a few drinks, get some sleep. Eat somewhat, for God’s sake. I do no’ want to see ye up on the walls before morning.”
Quarrie grunted. If he rested, the thoughts would pounce upon him. He would think of her.
But aye, Borald had a point. He hurt, he did constantly. He did not want to end up like his da.
He collected a jug of heather ale on his way home, not favoring the company to be had in the hall, and once in his quiet quarters drank more than he should, considering he did not remember what he’d had to eat that day.
He could not—absolutely could not—be sickening for want of a Norsewoman. One clad in men’s clothing and armor, who fought with a sword. Madness.
Yet her pale-gray gaze haunted him. The flicker of light there when she looked at him. The deeper meaning behind it all.
He lay on his bed with his arm bent over his eyes. He slept.
He dreamed of her. He felt sure it was her, though once again, she was not Hulda Elvarsdottir. That is, she was and yet she wasn’t. More, she was not the woman of whom he’d dreamed before, who’d stood with him in the sun by the washing place.
This young woman was strong like Hulda, aye, and had a bold eye. A flame about her. Hair of rich honey-blonde and eyes deep blue, like the far sea between Alba and Erin.
Now, why should he make that comparison?
Bradana. The name sounded in his mind as the woman in the dream turned to face him, desire flaring in her eyes. His strong, Alban lass.
An ocean divided them. Distance. Time. Nothing love could not span.
He reached out for her. Adair, she whispered into his mind, and came to his arms.
The scent and the feel of her at once inflamed and also satisfied him. The expression in her eyes stole his breath. He lifted each of her hands in turn and dropped kisses into the palms. Leaned to kiss each corner of her mouth, her cheeks. Her brow.
He awoke and lay trembling. No light in his chamber, no light anywhere save in his mind, which was full of her.
What did it mean? Two women. He had dreamed of two women who were somehow one, and a love that—
But he had no words for it.
Lying there staring into the darkness, seeing only her face in his mind, the love felt like pain. The pain felt like life, the one thing for which he might reach in all these days and nights he’d been given.
He needed to see Hulda Elvarsdottir again.
An impossibility. He did not know where in the wide world her boat had sailed. If he saw her again, it would mean she returned of her own accord. And if she returned, it would be with score upon score of Norse warriors to destroy him.
He would have to fight against her then. It was his duty and his birthright.
She had gifted him with his life there aboard her longboat. Mayhap that meant she would not return. For why come back merely to destroy what you valued enough to spare? There were targets aplenty along this rocky coast for her and her kind, if she would spare him.
That did not mean other marauders would not come from other places to the north and east. Vikings not Hulda Elvarsdottir. He must still be vigilant and watch for dark sails on the horizon.
Which meant he must get himself in hand, and start with taking better care of himself. He could not fall apart for want of a Norsewoman he’d met only twice.
Kissed only once.
Nor could he let himself malinger for the sake of two women he’d glimpsed only in dreams—two women who pulled at his spirit, who were somehow also Hulda.
He must put it all behind him, thank his stars he still drew breath, and go out to fulfill the duties that belonged to him. Live for this place as he had always done. Forget Hulda Elvarsdottir if he could.
Having lectured himself sternly, he rose and lit a rushlight by feel, against the darkness.
He washed in his basin, thrusting away from him the memories of the bright dream and the woman beside the roundhouse.
He put on clean clothes, groaning a little over his bruised ribs, and braided his hair, which had grown wild.
Then he went out into the dark and walked the settlement, quiet in the dead of the night.
By the time dawn broke in the east, he was on the walls again, looking out to sea for a glimpse of danger.
Not Hulda’s sails, he assured himself. She would not return. But any others that could come swooping in like a dark bird above a battlefield, wings spread, looking for death.
All else was fancy and must be thrust away from him. He had been born to defend this place, naught more.
Best make his mind up to it.