Chapter Fifty
Hulda lay huddled down in the furs of her sleeping place, a refuge she had known all her life, and waited for the axe to fall.
After her outburst and her condemnation, Móeir had calmed down a little. Offered Hulda something to eat. Told her with some asperity to await her faeir’s arrival.
Which was what she did now.
Her mind insisted on chasing itself, running over all the things she had done wrong. The things her society would insist she’d done wrong.
For in truth, she regretted naught of what she’d done. Taking up a sword and begging Jute to teach her how to use it. Sailing with Faeir and, ja, with Jute after. Acquiring her own boat and hiring her own crew.
Falling deep, deep into love with Quarrie MacMurtray.
But that last—ja, it proved she was a woman after all. As did this babe in her belly, the product of their love.
She folded her arms over that belly in a gesture of protection and stared at the wooden slats overhead. She did not see them. Instead she saw a stretch of rocky shore and Quarrie with his hair blowing in the breeze, his gaze fixed on her in that look he gave to her alone.
The other half of her being. Of her heart.
Ach, it must indeed be an act of Loki, all of it. How ironic that she’d left Quarrie only in an effort to repay her crew for their loyalty and mayhap avert some of the disgrace Ivor was likely to level upon them. She’d brought disgrace instead.
What had she done wrong, besides love?
Love the wrong man.
And yet…and yet he was the right man, the one man, the only man. She might live a hundred lifetimes only to find him.
She battled—rightfully or no—because it was the way she was made. She would ask no man to sacrifice his life for her. Better to make her own way.
Only, she could not see a way now. The season drew swiftly to a close. Her crew, even if she could persuade them, would not want to venture out again till spring.
By spring she would be great with child. Able to sail? If so, not a man among them would countenance taking her.
She heard a ruckus at the far end of the longhouse, and voices raised. Faeir was home.
She got to her feet and girded herself for a battle she dared not lose.
*
Sometimes her faeir listened to her quietly.
When she could present a reasoned argument, one that appealed to the practical—or even better, the avaricious—side of him, he might hear her out and even, as when she’d first asked to go viking with him, lay aside his own misgivings in favor of her wishes.
Not so this time.
Móeir had reached him first, getting to him and pouring her version of the tale into his ears as soon as he arrived home. No chance at all for Hulda to apply reason.
By the time she went out to join him and Móeir beside the hearth, he was spitting flame.
Indeed, all the household but Móeir’s own serving woman fled. She, at least, had enough loyalty to stay and, having been with Móeir since her marriage, had heard enough arguments to withstand this one.
Hulda shot the woman a look as she joined her parents. Any sympathy there? For ja, Rota would have heard already what this concerned. But Hulda saw no sympathy, only a face kept carefully blank.
“There she is!” Faeir roared as Hulda stepped up. “The dottir who has betrayed me.”
How? How had she betrayed him? By loving?
“Faeir,” she began steadily, “let us come to terms over this.”
“Terms?” His eyebrows jerked up violently. “As if we bargain over plunder? There will be no bargaining, Hulda. Your móeir has told me what you’ve done.”
Hulda drew breath to speak. Before she could, he raged on.
“Bad enough you should come home with a babe in your belly.” He made a gesture with his hand, like an axe falling. “But a Scots brat? Nei, and nei. It is not acceptable.”
“Yet the child exists.” Safe within her. Cherished.
“How could you be so foolish, Hulda? How could you lie down with one of those…swine? Did he force you? Tell me he forced you and I will send five longboats back there to take his head.”
Hulda went hot and cold in turns, because she knew he meant it. He had the wealth and he had the might. Come spring…
“He did not force me,” she said quietly. “I lay down with him because—” Could she mention the word love while Faeir ranted at her? “Because I wanted to. As a free woman, I chose to.”
“A free woman,” he repeated, staring as if he had never seen her before. “You might have the pick of any man, and you choose that? I quite see where I have gone wrong.”
“Where?”
“I have spoiled you, dottir. Overindulged you. I take responsibility for that, but, by Odin’s eye, it will be difficult to hold up my head if that child is born.”
“It happens, Faeir. Between our people and slaves—”
“Not in my home! Not to me!”
“I am sorry for bringing you shame. I never meant to.” Quite the opposite.
“Who knows of this? Your crew?”
“Only Garik.”
“He is a clever lad. He will not speak. The gift of a heavy pouch will assure it.”
“You have no need to bribe Garik. He is a friend and loyal to me.”
Faeir eyed her. “Will he marry you? Take the brat as his?”
“Nei. I do not want—”
“Hulda, do you not see I no longer care what you want?”
“I do, Faeir, ja.”
“That is what got us to this dreadful place. If you will not take Garik for husband—”
“I will not.”
“—then I see we have but two choices. I can beat the brat out of you. You are not far along. It should not be difficult.”
“Nei.” Hulda shifted her feet. She should like to see him try.
“Or you can go to see Roskva, as your móeir has suggested.”
Móeir had wasted no time telling him that, had she? Hulda turned accusing eyes on her móeir, who looked away.
“Faeir, I will not do that. I want this child.”
“Impossible. Not under my roof.”
“Then”—Hulda drew another breath—“I will not remain under your roof.”
“And where will you go?”
She did not know. She purely did not. Certainly not to the warriors’ quarters where she’d been before, not carrying a child. She might stay a while with a friend, mayhap. Though the disgrace would follow her soon enough.
As if he heard her thoughts, Faeir said, “And how will it remove the disgrace, having you wandering the settlement?”
She must find a way back to Scotland, to Quarrie. But how? Ach, if she’d known she carried his child, naught could have persuaded her to leave him.
“It will not, and I regret that, Faeir.” She repeated, “I never intended to bring shame upon you.”
“You should have thought of that before you spread your legs for a Scots savage. Will you go to Roskva?”
“Nei.”
“Then get out of my sight.”
“I will.”
Hulda looked at her móeir, who said nothing. Stiffly she turned and went back to her sleeping place, where she gathered her belongings into a bundle. Clothing. The wealth she had earned. Her weapons she would have to carry separately.
It made a staggering armful, but she wanted to take it all. She would not be coming back here.
“Farewell,” she said to the little haven of her childhood, and walked out.
She would not cry. She would not. She was too angry to cry. But she did hope at the last, when he saw she meant it, Faeir would change his mind. Call her back.
He did not.
With her belongings clutched in her arms, she stepped out into the wide world. Night had fallen.
Night, and she had nowhere to go.