Chapter Twenty-Seven
The settlement at Murtray had become a kind of touchstone for Hulda, a place past which they sailed repeatedly following their various victories. She never paused there. She did not dare. But her longing grew.
She did not understand this longing. One man, just a man.
One kiss, just a kiss. She had the world by the tail.
Every raid they launched had been wildly successful.
The men, despite their youth, fought well and sailed even better.
She was one of them, treated as their leader rather than a woman.
She’d returned home twice, carrying enough wealth to let her thumb her nose in Faeir’s face.
The men—her crew—remained eager for more, and said the Freya sailed under good enchantment.
Hulda had all she wanted. How dare she want for one more thing?
It was impossible anyway. He was her enemy. His people—if not him personally—had killed her brother.
That thought, even as she entertained it, tweaked something in the back of her mind. As if it had all happened before, long ago.
She concentrated on moving through her days. On her successes. When the men asked why they sailed always past the one Scottish settlement, she said since it was where Jute had died, she paid him tribute.
Forgive me, bróeir, for the lie.
Life aboard the cramped ship was not always pleasant.
The Freya still had her idiosyncrasies with which they all learned to deal.
But Hulda had the pleasure of watching her young crew grow and begin to harden.
They learned difficult lessons, turned from overeager boys into men.
They were learning the price of what they did—the costs of greed. The weight of taking a man’s life.
She came to realize she was the eldest among them, at a score and three. The venture should not have gone so well, with a green crew and a patched-together boat, though old Frode had done a good job. They had done a good job working together.
She and Garik, who had always got on well, became fast friends. He and Helje were her second- and third-in-command. She liked Helje full well, but it was to Garik she turned in her rare leisure moments, and to whom she looked to share a laugh.
Often, as when Quarrie MacMurtray had been captive, she shared watch with him.
They were together one such night while the rest of the crew slept, not anchored but sliding through the dark as if, ja, Freya could see her own way with her wooden dragon eyes. A rare moment of peace, for these days Hulda’s heart rarely stopped questing.
Quietly, barely above a whisper, Garik said, “Can you believe how well we have done? Mayhap it is true—this vessel is spelled for good.”
“I never paid for any charms,” Hulda returned, “before we left home.”
“Some of them may have.” Garik jerked his head at the sleepers and grinned. “A superstitious lot.”
“Not too superstitious to have a woman aboard.”
“I think we have laid that to rest. They do not think of you as a woman.” He grinned still more broadly. “No disrespect meant.”
She barely felt like a woman.
“They adore you,” Garik told her. “They would die for you. I hope you know that.”
She looked at him, startled. “Nei. Why?”
“You gave them a chance, did you not? Younger sons, many of them are, and waiting in line for their faeirs’ attention.”
Even a younger son—or dottir—deserved a chance.
“They are as loyal a crew as you will find.”
“I know that, ja.” But she thought about it, there in the dark, about the power it gave her. Most members of a crew answered not only to their captain but to the man who backed the venture, often one who remained at home.
They, as a crew, had no one looking over their shoulders. They had an agile boat and a measure of—well, freedom.
Could she use that? Could she use it to return to Quarrie MacMurtray?
“Our targets have all been small ones,” she mused aloud. “And have fallen to us easily.”
“So far.”
“So far,” Hulda repeated. “I think it well that we do not reach too far above ourselves. If we have a good season and do not get too greedy, we may be able to afford another boat, in time.”
“The men back home,” Garik said with some relish, “are talking of us.”
“Oh?”
“They have never seen a venture such as ours, where the ownership as well as the wealth is shared. They wait for us to quarrel and fail.”
“Mayhap then,” Hulda said, gazing into the dark, “mayhap if they hold for us such ill will, Freya should cease with going home.”
“Eh?” Garik cocked an eye at her.
“What is the goal, Garik? The greater goal?” When he did not answer, she went on, “Land. Land here, where the weather is kinder and we do not need to cover great distances of ocean to get where we need to raid.”
“Land? But…us?”
“Why not? Others have done it. In Orkney. In Shetland. Look at York—”
“We are not the powerful jarls who hold sway in York. Far from it.”
“Not yet. We do not need to be. Garik, what if we could offer the men a base here? Not just a share of wealth, but land.”
“It is mad,” he breathed. “And wonderful.”
“Fortune has been on our side so far. What if we tried to deal with the people here? Come to them not in violence but in a desire to bargain.”
Garik considered it for a moment. “They would never trust us.”
“They have accepted Norse chiefs elsewhere.”
“After being conquered, ja. We have not the might for that. And yet…” Garik focused on the stars overhead. “Land. If we could achieve that, we would take a step up on our faeirs, eh?”
“We would.”
“That”—Garik gestured to the sleeping crew behind him—“might mean more to this particular lot than any wealth we have taken so far.”
“Ja.”
“But how?”
“I have been thinking on that.” Thinking much. “We cannot hope to conquer by fire, nei—not yet. But by bargaining—ja, mayhap. There is a man here among these lands who owes us for his release. Possibly for his life.”
An image of Quarrie MacMurtray burst upon Hulda’s mind. A prize more tantalizing than any gold, silver, or lands.
“The Scot you let go.”
“Ja. Him.”
“You think he would deal with you?”
“I do. Think on it, Garik.”
“I am.”
“We might return to that isle where we sheltered before. Make it our temporary base.”
“And then?”
“I will request to meet and talk with him. He has some authority there. We will bargain.”
“Ja, but he and his kind will not want us there on his threshold, hovering like buzzards over a killing field. What is to keep him from murdering you out of hand? You and whoever goes ashore with you. The ruse we used last time will not fly. He will never believe we have a fleet of boats.”
“He will not murder me out of hand.”
“Why not?” Garik said forthrightly. “In his place, I would.”
“He will not murder me,” she repeated with absolute certainty. Other words circled her mind. I will find ye. I will always find ye.
Nei, but this time it is I who will find you. Wait for me. Wait right where you are.
“It is a risky venture,” Garik whispered into the dark. “But so was buying Freya in the first place. I will have to speak with Helje.”
“Do you think he will agree?”
“I do not know. He is stronger-headed than me. It is possible.”
“You must convince him. I have a feeling about this.”
“Hulda…” Garik hesitated, and she looked at him. “Is there something between you and this man? This Quarrie MacMurtray?”
He was her best friend, was Garik. Surely she could say. Yet something held her back. “How could there be?”
“I do not know. Only—the way you let him go. And the farewell you gave him.”
“I did that because I knew without knowing that we would need to deal with him again. Do you not see? We need his goodwill now.”
“I am not sure how much goodwill there is. We are Norse and he is Scot.”
Ja, there was that. Did it matter? She would not allow it to.
“Convince your brother,” she said. “We will take it one step at a time.”