Chapter Thirteen
Later, Arne brought in more wood to last them through the night.
It had finally stopped snowing, but it was growing much colder and he was worried.
It would be treacherous underfoot if the deep snow froze, but deciding whether to risk staying here or trying to return to Kirkjaster was a difficult one.
If they did attempt to return tomorrow, they would head for the shore.
Maybe they would be lucky and Ulf would arrive with horses.
He stacked the last of the wood against the wall, safely out of the reach of sparks from the fire. Caelin was asleep beside the cubs, and Gemma had finished clearing up and putting everything away. Now she stood watching her son sleep, a frown creasing her brow.
Arne moved over beside her and looked down at the boy, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. “What’s wrong?”
“What if he wakes up and they are dead?”
He turned her to face him, took her hands in his own and squeezed them reassuringly. “Then he must accept it. Animals die. He needs to learn to understand the world.”
“I know, but it will remind him of…”
“Of his father?”
“Yes.” She looked down at their joined hands.
“And his sister?” He let her go and for a moment thought she would reach for him, but she didn’t. Instead she sat, staring down at her sleeping child.
Arne sat on the other chair. “What happened?”
“It is hardly a tale worth telling.”
“Still, I would like to hear it.”
“Why?”
“Just to know more about you.”
“Really? Or will it just give you more reasons to distrust me?” Did she think he would use the information against her somehow?
He was rightly suspicious of her, but the more time he spent actually talking to her, the more his curiosity was growing.
But how could he persuade her to trust him with the truth?
Gemma was frowning at him. She had as much right to distrust him as he did her.
Perhaps it was time for them both to try something else.
To try trusting. He took a deep breath and reached for her hands.
Initially she pulled away, then swallowed and let him wrap his hands around hers.
“I… One of the reasons for my suspicion is… I’m not sure… I don’t really understand how someone like you ended up here.” He kept his eyes on hers, pleased when she held his gaze.
“Someone like me?” She tilted her head to the side and the movement was so regal he nearly laughed at the irony.
“A princess… running away and sleeping in a shieling on the moors in the snow with one of your enemies. One who is not equal in status.”
“You followed me,” she said with a sigh. “And I have very few options. No one else wants us. Rhun sent us away. I assumed when he sent the traders to rescue me that Lord Cenydd would take me in, but he sent me directly here… with you.”
Arne nodded. “Lord Cenydd has never explained his request. He merely asked for a favour from Tormod.”
“Our peoples are supposed to have an alliance.”
“We have. And our alliance with Lord Cenydd is clearly more substantial than the one with your brother. Did you think Lord Cenydd would wish to marry you?” Arne didn’t want to consider why the thought angered him.
“If he wanted that, then he would not have sent me here,” Gemma said. “I don’t think. Unless Cenydd was worried Rhun or Marcant would find me too easily at Car Cadell?”
“When Bjorn was looking after the fort on Lord Cenydd’s behalf, we had concerns there were traitors in our midst.”
“From amongst the Britons?”
“Yes, but whether they were loyal to your brother or to Marcant, we never knew. Marcant, most likely. And they may still be there, within Cenydd’s household.”
“I see.” She was silent for a moment. “No wonder you don’t trust me.”
He shrugged. “Tell me about Caelin’s father. What happened to him at Alt Clut?”
“I don’t really know. I was expecting a second child and had not gone to my father’s feast. It did not seem wise to travel even though it wasn’t far across the firth.
” Her voice was soft and carried the emotionless tone of one who had retold a painful story enough times they knew how to steel themselves against the agony of the telling.
“It was a stressful time. Our lookouts saw the ships, but it was too late for them to warn those at Alt Clut. One boat went out, but it never returned. I don’t know why…
” She frowned and shook her head introspectively.
“It seemed like there was no advance watch for Alt Clut. I have never understood why not.”
Arne did not reply. By the time the main Norse fleet had arrived, the Britons watching the river had been quietly dispatched by a forward party.
Only the guards within the citadel had been there to warn of the attack, and by the time they had seen the ships sailing upriver in the early dawn light, the only thing they could do was close the gates and defend Alt Clut itself with the resources they had.
She leaned forward, pulling her hands from his, and smoothed Caelin’s hair, smiling down at her son. The tenderness in her expression evoked an emotion inside him he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Arne remained still, hoping she would continue to speak.
For some reason, he needed to know what had happened to her before.
The Norsemen would not come out well from this story, he knew.
He had been at Alt Clut. Not for the whole four months of the siege, but for the start and again soon after the end, when every building and defence of the rock was still smouldering.
It was the way of their world. Conquest and attacks happened everywhere, all the time.
The Norse had been coming here to raid for four generations now and many Norsemen had been born and raised in the islands off the coast of Dal Riata or on the nearby island of Ireland.
Many who lived there spoke both Norse and Goidelic, and many came from families of entirely mixed parentage.
It had taken much longer for them to make headway into the kingdom of Strath Clut.
Until the siege had destroyed the royal seat, the more land-based kingdom had held firm against their raiders, and it had been impossible to breach the River Clut by force.
Now the kingdom was much reduced in power and prestige, and while Rhun had moved the royal residence upriver to a safer point where Gorfaen and Perthawc sat at a fording point, and held onto his lands, things were not the same.
With their superior ships, the Norse had a distinct advantage over the native populations in the coastal areas.
However, the Strath Clut Britons were less vulnerable to Norse attacks from the water and they had recently proved interested in trade.
They coveted the items the Norsemen brought from far distant places.
The Britons had few ships, just smaller boats more suited for coastal travel than crossing wide expanses of sea.
The holy men who preached throughout the many kingdoms told tales of reaching far distant islands in the north in such boats. Arne did not envy them those journeys.
The attack on Alt Clut had been more difficult than they’d expected.
The Norsemen had known how impregnable the rock was rumoured to be, but they had not anticipated the four-month long stalemate that had developed.
The Norsemen couldn’t get past the defences, the Britons could not successfully defeat the Norse forces surrounding them.
It was not until the Britons finally surrendered that the Norsemen realised how terrible the situation inside the walls of the fortress had become.
The people had had no food for many days, perhaps weeks, but the king had held out until the well had run dry.
Any water had been given to the soldiers and the king’s family for far longer than others.
The Norsemen had taken more than two hundred prisoners away to the slave markets in Ath Cliath afterwards, and it was the first time Arne had seen people leave the ships in better condition than they had boarded them.
At least they had fed them and given them water.
Some had even managed to buy their own freedom. The thought gave him pause.
“Was your husband one of those who managed to buy his freedom?” Arne asked.
Gemma looked up at him, surprised. “I bought his freedom. When we saw the ships begin to leave, I sent boats out. One of your ships landed, and we discussed terms. I paid for his return.”
“But?”
She sighed, shook her head and was then silent so long he thought she wasn’t going to answer, but finally she said, “He was never the same. He barely spoke after his return. Within days, he developed a fever and became sick. Perhaps the starvation during the siege or conditions onboard your vessel?”
“To cross the firth takes only a short time.”
“Still.” She glared at him, and while he felt for her, he would not take the blame for a situation not entirely of the Norsemen’s doing.
“Gemma, King Artgal could have surrendered long before he did. He refused to despite the suffering of his own people…” He stopped, aware it was her father he was talking about.
But how could she possibly agree with what Artgal had forced his people to endure on the rock?
He cleared his throat. “Dead slaves are generally not a valuable commodity. And as he was married to the king’s daughter, I imagine he fared better during the siege than many. ”
She looked away from him quickly and he wondered if perhaps the opposite was, in fact, true.
“So, you paid his ransom, and we gave him back, alive,” he prompted.
“Barely. For three days the fever raged, and I tended him. Until I, too, became sick.”
He noticed she had resumed touching Caelin’s hair, careful not to wake him.