Chapter Thirty-Nine
The messenger arrived amid a knot of guards, all of them heavily armed. Their appearance along the shore had Hulda’s entire company up and bristling, more than ready for a fight.
She had to bellow at them. “Nei! This is an envoy, not a war party.”
To her disappointment, Quarrie did not make a member of the group.
Two full days had passed since she had seen him, touched him, and the ache grew to unbearable proportions.
The time had also given her young crew an opportunity to think.
Inactivity was not good for them. They felt exposed and vulnerable here, and began to reconsider the wisdom of the alliance.
She’d been just about to suggest a foray out to raid when the Scots party was sighted. She ran out with Garik at her side.
The Scots came walking up as if they owned the place, which in truth they did. Wariness and a good measure of hostility filled their eyes. The messenger, whom the guards surrounded, was a young man surely no older than her own crew.
“I am looking for Hulda Elvarsdottir.”
Hulda stepped forward. “I am she.”
The young man examined her closely. “I ha’ for ye a message fro’ my chief.”
Quarrie. Her pulse leaped.
“He bids ye welcome at a feast in his hall this night.”
“What?” Hulda blinked. She could not have heard that right.
“A feast o’ welcome. In his hall this evening.”
The men behind Hulda stared. Most of them could not understand Gaelic beyond a few simple words and commands. Some, like Garik, could. He shot her a sharp look.
“A feast,” she repeated. “Of welcome.” And she said it over in Norse.
What was he about, her braw Scots lover? Was it an excuse to see her? Or something more? If he ached for her one part as fiercely as she ached for him, he might well do near anything to arrange an encounter. But this?
From the sour expressions on the Scots’ faces, they did not approve. From the muttered comments behind her, neither did her men.
She lifted her chin. “Pray tell Chief Murtray we shall be honored to accept.”
An explosion of mutters from both sides. Had the Scots been hoping she would refuse?
The messenger inclined his head. They turned and left with all due speed, several looking back over their shoulders, presumably to see if the Norse chased after them.
Hulda’s men closed around her.
“What does it mean?”
“A trap, you think?”
“It has to be a trap.”
“He lures us there to fall upon us and cut our throats.”
“Hulda.” Garik touched her arm. “Why did you agree? It must be a trap.”
Ja, to be sure, that was what they would think.
Madness, with just under a score of them to go walking into an enemy’s hall.
Unlike her, they did not trust Quarrie MacMurtray.
Ach, how she wished she could speak with him for just a few moments.
Ask what he was about. But he chose to do this thing properly with a messenger and a certain amount of ceremony.
“Do not worry,” she told Garik. “All will be well. We will go hunting today, that we might bring a contribution to the feast.” It would be Quarrie’s own game, but that was neither here nor there.
Helje muttered disagreeably, “A last feast before dying, it may well be.”
*
Sometime later, Hulda stood in her tent struggling to get a glimpse of her image in—of all things—the blade of her sword before giving it up as a bad bet.
Seldom had she wished to be other than what she was—a woman striving to succeed in a man’s world.
She gave little thought to her appearance and was comfortable in her skin.
Until now. For she went to attend a feast given by the man she loved. Ach, ja, she could not deny that she did love him. Her love for Quarrie seemed to have come to her like a memory full blown. It felt as natural and as ancient as her existence, or nearly so.
Much to her surprise, she wanted to look beautiful for him. He had called her beautiful during their night together. At least, she thought that was what he’d said in passionate whispers. Bonny hair. Bonny breasts.
She had braided her hair, and could scarce go to him now with the other attributes he’d admired on display. She had nothing to wear better than her rough tunic and leggings. Her sword.
There had been a sharp argument over the wearing of arms to the feast. She had suggested they lay aside their swords, if not their knives. Her men had objected vociferously. The men had won.
They went armed in a visible effort to prove they might defend themselves. Though if MacMurtray and all his warriors turned on them there in his hall, they were as good as dead.
And her men knew it. A wonder they were willing to accompanied her.
They trudged southward in a ragged band while the sun was still high in the sky. The days lengthened as the season stretched out. At home there would be very little other than daylight, as opposed to the dark winter when men were confined and tempers grew ugly.
Midsummer may well have come and gone. She had lost track of the days.
Guards had been stationed to keep watch for them and soon went running. Her men began to grumble again.
“It is a death trap,” Helje declared. “We walk to our doom.”
“How foolish of us,” Varg agreed with the dark humor that marked Norsemen, “to make it so easy for them.”
“When the fight begins,” said Brynjar, “I want the Scots chief’s head.”
“There will be no taking of heads.” Hulda spoke as if to children. “We are guests. Have you no manners?”
She had to admit, a chill ran up her spine when they entered the settlement and started up the slope that led from the shore to the keep. The staring eyes unsettled her, as did the similarity of expression on every face: fear mingled with hostility.
Then she saw Quarrie standing at the gate waiting to greet them, and she forgot everything else.
Ach, but he looked fine. Dressed richly, as she was not, in a grand cloak that swirled around his tall, lean form, his hair flowing upon his shoulders.
She had buried her face in that hair. Breathed its essence while he came inside her.
She needed to touch him, a desire so intense it near overwhelmed her. She could not, but had to act composed and dignified, as if he meant naught to her beyond a fellow leader.
Quarrie stood where he was till her small band reached him, an undeniable advantage in position. She could feel the uneasiness of her men shifting behind her. It would not take much to cause a massacre here. Just one man drawing his weapon.
Only she—and possibly Quarrie—could prevent such a disaster.
She lifted her head high and said clearly, in Gaelic, “Chief Murtray, thank you for calling us here to feast. We are honored.”
He nodded in a very formal, lordly fashion. “We welcome ye here in peace.”
No one smiled. The faces of the people grouped around Quarrie, a woman close beside him and an elder who might be an advisor, remained wooden. A veritable cluster of guards.
Hulda could feel her men vibrating with tension. But Quarrie held out his hand to her.
That hand—broad and callused in the palm with long, supple fingers—had touched her breast. Had slid up the inside of her thigh. Ach, how was she to behave like a sane woman?
She took his hand, and his fingers tightened on hers in a sudden squeeze. Did he seek to lend her reassurance?
They entered the keep. She could hear her men chattering behind her, no more than a few muffled words. Usually when they entered such a place it was with weapons raised and throats howling.
The great hall lay directly ahead, and it had been prepared lavishly for them. Torches flared on every hand, and the tables had been laid with food and drink.
“Mistress Hulda, I hope ye and your principals will sit at the high table wi’ me and my lady mother.”
He indicated the woman who had kept pace on his other side. Clad well if somberly, she had the look of him about the eyes. She nodded at Hulda, but still gave no hint of a smile.
“Ja,” Hulda responded. “Garik, Helje, with me.”
“The rest of your men may have the first of the side tables. I thought they would be most comfortable together.”
“That is considerate.” And wise. Why strain tensions to the point where something had to break?
Quarrie escorted her to the high table. Her men all rolled their eyes at her as they filed past.
She sat with Quarrie on one side of her and his mother on her other. Garik sat beyond that lady and Helje beside a younger woman, farther on.
Hulda looked out upon a sea, a veritable ocean, of hostile faces, wondering what she had done.
If they got out of this alive, it would be by the grace of Father Odin, alone.