Chapter Forty-Six
It had taken nearly all summer. Most of the killing season, anyway. It had been a time apart, aye. A time of dreams. From the moment Quarrie first spied Hulda’s sail on the horizon, his life had acquired a mystical quality that defied the ugly truth of his world.
Truly, so he thought as he stood on the wall above the keep, staring out across the sea, he should have known better.
Life was all about ugliness, endurance, loss, and dying. Had his da not perished so in ugly agony after months of suffering? Had Quarrie not lost his own brother and countless childhood companions, grown into fine warriors, in these years just past? Was he not himself first and foremost a warrior?
Standing there with his eyes narrowed against the descent of the afternoon sun, he no longer knew quite who he was.
The man who’d been born for this place, who would likely die in defense of it? Or the man who lived to be in Hulda’s arms? The two had become so twisted, as had the emotions of loyalty and desire, that he could no longer tell them apart.
But with the appearance of dark sails on the horizon, Hulda had once more become the enemy. No more, for his folk, of an imposed alliance. No more the uneasy tolerance of Norsemen, and one woman, in their settlement. They knew death when they saw it coming.
As did he.
The Norse had been clever, coming out from the distant islands when the glare of the westering sun would be in the defenders’ eyes. Four ships, there were. Four.
Could they defend against so many? And would the Norse attack now, or wait for morning? The gloaming would last long enough, as the men aboard those boats well knew, to afford a battle straight away.
Such a battle, against so many invaders, would be crippling. They might well lose.
Someone pressed into place at the rampart beside him. His mother, it was.
“Ma, ye should no’ be up here.”
“Nay? Where should I be?” Without giving him a chance to answer, she asked, “How many?”
Too many. “Four ships.”
“By God!”
“If ye want to be o’ help, go organize the women. Get them ready to flee for the hills.”
For the briefest instant her eyes met his, and he beheld her distress.
She had seen her beloved husband take his mortal wound in just such a battle as would now come.
And, Quarrie reflected, if there could be one thing worse than fighting such a battle, it would be standing by and watching, as good as helpless.
“Already underway,” she told him. “I am sending three o’ the older men wi’ them along wi’ the harper. He is far too precious for us to lose.”
Quarrie’s head swam. This too seemed familiar. Had it all happened long ago? Aye, it had, all his life fighting against the Norse. He should not have a moment to think of Hulda, not at such a time, yet she held a place in his mind. What would she do when the settlement came under attack?
He could not worry about that now. He could not worry about her.
He could not seem to do anything else.
But aye, he thought of that as, leaving the ramparts in Borald’s hands, he ran down the stairs with Ma at his heels into the confusion.
Men hurried everywhere, bristling with arms. Women and children flooded the bailey, many of the bairns crying and the women trying to find their men to speak a farewell.
He was not the only one who risked losing his love.
That was why they fought, was it not? Not for greed or power, but for love.
Someone ran up to him and seized him by the arm. Blinking fiercely, he saw it was Norah. As before when he’d encountered her, she had her wee babe on her shoulder and she looked frantic.
“Wha’ is happening?” she barked at Quarrie. “Tell me.”
Surely she had heard, the foolish lass. “The Norse are attacking. Headed in for shore.”
“How many?”
“Four sails.”
“Where is Corban? I canna find him. I maun find him!”
Quarrie tried to rein in his impatience, wondering in that moment what he’d ever seen in the lass. She was bonny, aye. But she was not Hulda.
What if he’d wed with her and only met Hulda after? What would have become of his heart?
He told Norah as calmly as he could, “There is no’ time for that now.”
“Ye will no’ let him die, Quarrie MacMurtray. Do no’ let my man die!”
She loved Corban truly, Quarrie thought, and that took away any remaining sting. If any had endured the light that was Hulda.
“Get yer bairn safe awa’,” he told her shortly, and pressed on.
Down to the shore. Here would be their first line of defense, and every man there knew it. This was the attack they had dreaded all season. For which they’d prepared and drilled. Against which they’d prayed.
The longboats looked more threatening from down here at the water. And closer. Bigger than Freya and somehow finer. They no doubt belonged to some great jarl or warlord who had been raking the coast all season long.
Like a shoal of sharks, they were. And like sharks, not much could stand before them.
He must. He’d been born to do so. He must now step firmly into his father’s boots, stand as bravely as Da had ever done.
Even if the cost be the same.
“They are moving in,” said someone beside him. Borald had come down from the walls. He had drawn his sword and taken a shield from two lads handing them out. “No doubt about their intentions.”
“Nay,” Quarrie agreed.
“They are comin’ for us.”
Dread and doubt and certainty made a horrible soup in Quarrie’s gut. He could not fail.
“Form up!” he bellowed to his men, these that were his friends and neighbors, that he would have to watch die. He could not let himself think of that, only of the settlement at his back.
Let none through. That was what Da had said to him before his first battle against a Norse raiding party, when Quarrie had taken the place at Da’s side. And Quarrie had thought then, Aye, how hard is that? I need no’ let anyone past me.
It had been hard. He had killed his first opponents on that day and watched friends perish.
But no one had got past.
The same today. Only that.
The quartet of Norse boats drew closer. They would anchor offshore, where the water began to grow shallow, and come pouring over into the ocean, weapons raised and howling.
He lifted his voice. “A line! A line! Shoulder to shoulder.” He repeated Da’s words. “Let no one through. Ye ken for what we fight.”
They fought for love. But what of the other love in his heart?
The men on the shore began to yell. At first Quarrie thought it was in response to his words. Then Borald, beside him, squawked, “Look. Look!”
Quarrie did, trying to push back his fear, to disregard the confusion still pouring from the keep behind him.
He looked and nearly failed to believe.
Another longboat sailed out into the water, driven by half a score pairs of oars, streaking from the northern shore and on a direct course to intercept the Norse ships.
Freya, it was.
A cry was going up all down the line of defenders. Men did not know what to make of this. Aye, Hulda had intervened for them before, earlier in the season. Acted as their hound. But this, here, would be a large-scale battle. Did she mean to fight for or against them?
He could see the men aboard, Hulda’s men, pulling hard at the oars. He could see Hulda standing near the prow, tall and straight, dressed in her armor. From this distance, she looked like another warrior.
“Wha’ are they doing?” asked Kenneth, the man standing on Quarrie’s other side.
“Betraying us!” someone else bellowed. “They are goin’ out to join their fellows in the attack!”
Nay, that could not be it, Quarrie thought. Surely Hulda would not betray him. But what of her men?
A silence fell then, one so complete that Quarrie could hear the hiss and gurgle of the waves at his feet. Even the noise from the keep seemed to dampen. The defenders on the walls had seen.
The Freya looked small and weather-worn as it approached the four proud vessels. Across the water, Quarrie heard Hulda’s voice as she called a command to her men.
He heard her voice.
They shipped their oars.
She hailed the men on the nearest of the Norse ships.