Chapter Thirty-Seven
Any number of eyes located and followed Hulda long before she reached camp. Ja, they had been watching for her, had her men, and several came forward through the morning to meet her, Garik among them.
He examined her with concern, head to boots and back again. She strove to appear calm, as if naught much had happened last night, even though her very world had changed.
“Hulda!” he called. “Where were you? We had begun to worry.”
“That the Scot had killed you,” said Helje, who followed him.
She tossed her head in a vain attempt to seem casual. “Ach, nei. We walked too far and took shelter in a ruined hut from the rain. Thought it best to wait for daylight. But we have a good hunting ground. I can show you today.”
Helje lifted his eyebrows. “It is well. I will tell the others.” He loped off toward camp.
Garik did not move. Again, his gaze prodded her. “Is that what truly happened?”
“Ja, sure.”
“You did not spend the night with the Scot?”
“I just said we sheltered together.”
“Hulda, do not lie to me. I saw you with him back on the boat, when you let him go. I see the way you look at him. And your tunic is not tied properly.”
Her fingers flew to the laces and arrested there.
Softly, Garik added, “I ask as your friend as well as your fellow viking.”
“We spent the night together, ja—as you suppose.”
Garik swore, addressing Loki grievously.
“I understand it is unwise. I could not help it.”
“Hulda.” Garik seemed to grope for words. “I like you. I admire and respect you. I would not be here on this venture if I did not. But I have to say—”
“It is madness? I know.”
“He could well have throttled you. You are strong, ja, but he is stronger.”
“He would never harm me.” Gentle, callused hands moving over her skin. Touching her everywhere.
“You cannot be certain of that. I understand the flesh wants what it wants—”
“It is not just the flesh involved, Garik, but my heart.”
“That is worse.” He gazed at her, troubled. “A woman—or a man, for that—directed by her heart may be led astray. Could this man, this stranger—for he is that—be using your feelings against you?”
“You think because I am a woman, I toss away all good sense?”
“I think anyone in your place might.”
Hulda sighed. “I do not think he takes advantage of me.”
Garik said nothing.
They had been walking as they spoke and now drew near the camp. Hulda could see everyone milling about.
“List to me,” she said. “We are in a goodly position. It is a haven here. We can go hunting today. We can go out raiding if we wish. Where is the disadvantage?”
He shook his head. “I feel trouble. In my bones.”
Trouble might well be coming, but Hulda could not feel it. Only the desire.
“I ask you, Hulda, to keep the welfare of your crew in mind.”
“Would I do aught else?”
Again, he did not answer. But ja, she felt his doubt.
They did go hunting that day, once the weather cleared. Hulda herself led a small group in order to show them the range they’d been granted, though she would have much preferred to hang back.
She wanted time to herself. A chance to sort out her thoughts and her emotions. Her body felt sore. Ja, Quarrie had been gentle with her, tender. Yet they had joined frequently and she was not accustomed to such activity.
How could she want him again so soon? It was the memory of the tenderness, she decided, that would prove her undoing. The way he kissed her. The way he suckled at her breast. The care with which he entered her.
She kept her hunting party well away from the half-ruined hut in the forest. She wanted no one to know of its exact location, save the two of them.
*
“Where were ye?” Quarrie’s mother unknowingly echoed Garik’s words to Hulda almost exactly. “I was worried half to death.”
Quarrie put aside his weapons as he entered the hall and made his way to the fire. He had already run the gamut outside—the guards down on the shore and more at the gate. Borald waylaying him with concern in his eyes.
“We were about to send out a party for ye,” Borald had said.
Aye, he had been inconsiderate. Incautious. And, given the opportunity, he would be again.
“Were ye at the Norse camp all night?” Ma asked. “We nearly went there to ask.”
“Nay.” He did not look at his mother as he replied. “I ha’ given the Norse leave to some land for hunting. ’Tis well north of our usual tract. I will tell the men—”
“Quarrie!” she interrupted him.
He had to face her then. He could see worry in her eyes that mirrored Borald’s, and more distress than he liked. He never wished to cause this woman distress.
“Son, what are ye about? This is no’ like ye.”
Nay, it was not. He was steady, reliable. Predictable. Folk always knew where he was, usually tending to his duty. He did not disappear off on wild nights with a woman he barely knew, who had unaccountably got inside him.
But och, he did know her.
In their discovery of each other last night, there had been an undeniable wealth of remembering. It was as he’d told her—the ancients had believed their souls might return to this world again and again. Given that, one might—almost—expect to meet someone known before.
Had the cauldron of rebirth—if, aye, such a wonder existed—spat him and Hulda out and woven their fates together so that, having known each other in the past, they might meet once again?
Difficult to believe otherwise. This ancient song, sung again, might be meant for her. For him.
Could he explain any of that to the worried woman standing before him? Nay. She had lost her love. She was hurt and wounded and uncertain.
“Forgive me, Ma. I did no’ mean to worry ye.”
“Quarrie, I do no’ ken what to mak’ o’ this. Land granted to the Norse and—”
“Ye must try to trust me.”
“I do, son. I do. But can ye no’ see? Ye have invited a wolf to sleep on our very doorstep.”
Aye, Hulda was a wolf of sorts. A she-wolf, with her pale-gray eyes and fierce spirit. And if anyone else had done as he had, he would denounce them for foolishness, or worse.
Patiently he said, “For years uncounted, Ma, we have watched the horizon for dark sails. Lived life always on guard. Met every spring and summer with the threat of attack and destruction. We can, aye, go on fighting and dying.” As Da had.
As Hulda’s brother had. “Or we can try another way. If we hold to this alliance I ha’ made, we may win a season o’ peace. ”
“Do ye truly believe that? Even if this woman—this Hulda—holds to her agreement, there is a whole sea of other invaders out there. And wha’ of our neighbors? Ye toss them to the wolves like carrion, do ye?”
“Nay. I mean to negotiate with Hulda for the welfare o’ the others wi’ whom we hold alliances.”
“And ye think she will agree?”
“I do no’ ken. But I do believe we must be welcoming to her group. Lower our barriers and cease hostilities wi’ them.”
“And if they break the agreement and attack?”
He shrugged. “If that happens, we will crush them. We ha’ the greater numbers.”
“I do no’ like it. Yer father would no’ ha’ liked it.”
Quarrie closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the pain of those words. “I am sorry. But I believe we ha’ an opportunity here. One that reaches beyond killing and dying. I would tak’ advantage o’ it.”
His mother, a gentle woman with a compliant nature not unlike his own, said nothing. But he had rarely seen her look so mutinous.
“I suggest,” he said softly, knowing full well she would not like the prospect, “we arrange a feast for the Norse. A kind of welcome. A chance, mayhap, for our folk to see they are people no’ unlike ourselves.”
She stared at him as if his head had fallen off and rolled across the floor.
“Food, drink, and entertainment. Music.” He reflected on it. “Limited drink, mayhap. We do no’ wish for tempers to rise. Will ye help me to arrange it?”
“Ye ha’ gone mad. Yer father’s death has unhinged yer mind. Grief has. And the responsibilities ye have assumed.”
“I am no’ mad.”
“Ye maun be, to invite those beasts into our hall. Ask our folk to sit down beside them, that ha’ killed their brothers and sons and even their wives—”
“Ye will arrange it,” he insisted softly, the gentle tone covering iron.
“Mad,” she whispered again.
But nay, he was not mad. Merely in love.