Chapter Nine #2
“Here,” she said, handing them out to him.
“Thank you. Here.” He handed her the bowl and was pleased to see her smile when she saw it.
“Thank you. And you said there is some for storing?”
He grinned at her, realising she probably had no idea how much meat even a single deer produced. “Enough for many days,” he assured her. “I will wrap this and bury it in the snow, then go and wash up.”
It didn’t take long to wrap the rest of the butchered meat and offal.
Then he disposed of the rest of the remains a safe distance from the shieling.
It was a shame to waste it, but here, in these circumstances, it was too difficult to make use of it.
He headed towards the stream at the edge of the woods to wash.
At the stream, he knelt down and scooped water up with his gloved hands, then rinsed his leathers with the cold water.
The sound of distant laughter made him lift his head from his work. He nearly stopped breathing. Ahead of him, further north, was a group of men. Hunters, most likely. And they had seen him.
He watched as they approached, although he stayed kneeling and continued to wash the blood from his leathers. He was torn between running back to the shieling to warn Gemma and not wanting to draw the hunters’ attention to the place. He prayed she would remain indoors.
From their dress, most of them looked Norse. Once they were close enough, he recognised one of them. Njal, a man he had raided with several times. A good fighter, reliable, neither an enemy nor a friend. Another was dressed more like a Gael than a Norseman.
“Arne Olafsson. I had heard you were living on the shores of the Clut,” Njal greeted him.
“I am. I was out hunting, and when the snow started last night, decided to take shelter here,” said Arne.
“The shielings are not fit for winter use. It will snow heavily today,” said a younger man. Arne had thought his clothes looked Dal Riatan and although he spoke Norse, his accent certainly marked him as a Gael.
Njal nodded and nudged the younger man with his elbow. “Nechtan here is our local guide. He has a sense of the weather, very useful when up on the mountains.”
“These are hardly mountains, Njal,” Arne said. “Not like the ones at home.”
“These are moors. The mountains are further north,” Nechtan said a little defensively and Arne hid a smile.
Njal laughed and slapped Nechtan on the arm.
“Yes, you are right. There are many mountains north of here, although none as high as the ones we have left behind. Perhaps one day, Nechtan, you will accompany us to the Norselands and see for yourself.” Njal smiled at Arne.
“We were heading for home in Tairmbert and, like yourself, decided to do some hunting. Supplies have grown short, as it has been a bitter winter and many have over-wintered at the isthmus.”
Arne said nothing, but noted their lack of carcasses. Perhaps they had camped nearby.
“You are living there?”
“Yes. There is good money to be had from those who require assistance and accommodations when portaging.”
“Today you are heading south?”
“Not as far as Kirkjaster,” Njal assured him. “Our boat is on the shore but there are more deer in the woods higher on the moors. A pity the Britons do not always appreciate either the Dal Riatans nor the Norse hunting on their lands.”
“You have allies amongst the Dal Riatans, then?”
“We do. Nechtan is one, along with his family. And I also have a Dal Riatan wife. Which brings many advantages. I may never go home.” Njal grinned. “And what of Kirkjaster? Will you stay?”
“I will stay as long as Tormod wants me to and as long as our alliance with the Britons holds.”
“There is no dividing the Brothers of Thunder, is there? Oh, in case you see them—”
“See whom?”
“There were Britons in Tairmbert a few days ago. The king’s soldiers, or so they said.” Njal stopped and frowned as if something had just occurred to him.
“Oh?” Arne did his best not to react in any way that might draw suspicion.
“They are looking for a woman and her child. A boy. They are offering a reward if they are returned to the king of Strath Clut in Perthawc.”
“The king is looking for a woman and her child?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure it is the king who is looking for them?”
“King Rhun, yes.” Njal tilted his head to one side.
“And do you know why?”
“The soldiers said the king was concerned for their safety. More likely he is tired of his wife. Let us hope the Dal Riatans do not discover this. King Causantin would not be pleased if anything happened to his sister.” The hunters all laughed, with the exception of the Dal Riatan, and Arne joined in.
“King Causantin will not be happy if anything happens to Queen Eithne of Strath Clut,” Nechtan said, shaking his head. “I doubt a woman and child would survive alone on these moors in weather like this.”
“Probably,” agreed Arne. He noticed many of the others were watching his reactions carefully. “Well, if I do come across a strange woman and her child, I will be sure to claim the reward.”
“Not if I find them first,” Njal said, laughing. “You have not seen them in Kirkjaster? I had heard there were Britons living amongst you.”
“There are indeed some Britons living there.”
“What about a boy?”
Arne frowned, as if deep in thought. “There is a boy… a Briton… of around nine years. His mother is maid to the jarl’s wife. Could it be him these men seek?”
The hunters looked at Njal, who frowned and shook his head. “No, they were looking for a younger boy. Around four years old. And the reward they are offering is substantial. Well worth your while if you do see them.”
“I will most certainly keep a look out,” Arne said.
He smiled at the hunters, but kept a close eye on them as they headed off, continuing their journey southwards.
One man at the rear of the group lingered, however, and turned back.
Arne glanced at him, edging his hand to rest on his sword.
The man seemed familiar, although he couldn’t place him.
“Given what happened the last time you got involved with a woman, Arne, I’d consider leaving her to someone else. You don’t want to end up with more scars.”
Arne tried to suppress the shudder running through him. While he didn’t recognise the man’s face, he did recognise his voice. Njal had paused a short distance away and was looking back, puzzled.
Arne tightened his grip on his sword, but the other man laughed.
“Come now, there is no need for you to end up with more injuries. Besides, it did not even take a sword to bring you down before. You followed Ingrid into her trap so easily. How is your son, by the way?”
Arne drew his axe and pointed it towards the man. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think I do. And I think that not many others know. Wouldn’t Jarl Tormod be interested to find out—”
“Orm!” shouted Njal. “We have no time for personal feuds. It is important we remain on good terms with Jarl Tormod’s settlement. And one such as you would not fare well by taking on the Brothers of Thunder.”
“There are no brothers here. Only one man. Alone. At least this time there is no woman to betray him.” Orm smirked, and it took all of Arne’s self-control to lower his sword.
“I don’t need the help of my brothers to defeat someone like you,” Arne said.
Orm’s sneer suggested he believed otherwise, but Arne let him turn and walk away.
He wouldn’t take the risk of fighting him or even challenging him here and now.
Keeping Gemma and Caelin’s presence a secret was important, and now there was another problem.
He had thought that was a secret which Ingrid had taken to her grave, but Orm had been there when he was tortured, although he’d clearly left before Tormod, Ulf and Bjorn arrived.
He sighed. A reckoning was coming. That much was clear.
He stood and watched as the group walked northwards, his knuckles white on his axe. Snowflakes fell faster and faster, soon obscuring them from view in a swirling blanket of white. Arne wished he could erase their meeting from his thoughts as easily.
Orm’s mocking voice took him back to a time he usually tried to block out of his memories.
He’d loved Ingrid and believed she had loved him in return.
And although he had tried to warn his cousin, there was no reasoning with him, as he was besotted with her.
When Einar had been born six months later, full-grown, he’d known the child was his and not Tormod’s.
By then he had seen Ingrid for what she really was and didn’t want to risk his own relationship with his cousin by telling him the truth.
At least now he was a father to his own son, even if it remained a secret.
And maybe one day he would tell Einar the truth.
He remembered Gemma’s comment—she had noticed the resemblance between them.
How strange that it took a woman who barely knew them to notice something that none of his friends or family had.
Especially when she had only ever seen him scarred, while they had known him as a boy of Einar’s age.
He struggled to push the memories away. He’d woken to the sound of Ingrid shouting, and it took him a minute to realise he was in pain.
In agony. His clothes had been cut from him and when he tried to open his eyes, they were full of blood.
He heard them, though. Talking and laughing while they cut him repeatedly. Shallow cuts all over his body.