Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was an unforgiving way to end his wretched day.
The winds from the sudden gale pushed the boats off course, and with the casualties of his last raid, he had to man his ship alone back to the isle.
It would be a gift from the gods if he didn’t succumb to their rage.
As he limped back home along the coast of Scot Land, the waves frothed and churned, smashing against the hull of his wooden ship.
It would be a matter of time before it was shattered onto the rocks.
He detested the place called Scot Land—and the man, more detested, named Laoch.
He was an unforgiving pike in the eye who likely had the blood of a thousand Danes in his veins.
He’d been a fool to sack that fishing village, to have believed the rumor that Laoch protection didn’t cover that wealthy port.
Never again. He would kill Laoch if it was the last thing he did in this star-crossed existence.
A gust blew salt water into his face and made the sea roar with anger.
The sails caught, and the canvas filled, tipping the dragon-headed longboat dangerously sideways. Cursing the gods for having forsaken him, Ormr downed the main sail and, with two hands on the steering oar, gave up on completing the journey home today. Instead, he would end this day now.
Ahead, a narrow inlet could be seen over the tops of the waves and through the driving rain. Shifting tack, he turned toward the inlet. He prayed it was deep and that he could control the ship through the narrow opening. He would either live to see the morning or be crushed against the rocks.
Feet braced, he gripped the wooden handle of the rudder and held on tight.
The next wave in the frothing set of three, one under and two directly behind, caught the Viking ship and sent it scuttling down its front and toward the cliffs.
He leaned back, keeping the bow from catching the wavefront.
Just as he seemed doomed to plunge straight into the depths, his momentum faded.
The wave left him behind in the ocean foam, and the second in the set was directly behind.
He felt the ship lift, and bracing his feet once more to the boards, he rode the wave thirteen feet in the air.
The precarious position of being solo in a vessel that required a team to drive as well as being under the command of the ocean gods were acutely felt by Ormr. Then there was the thrill, the wild abandon that his future was out of his hands, and for a moment, just that moment in the driving rain and frothing sea, he’d succumb to his fate.
The ocean drove him toward the rock face, and like threading a needle, he was blasted through the narrow inlet.
Too late did he see it was a short ride to the rocky shore.
The bottom of the hull struck, and he was thrown forward.
He felt weightless arcing through the air, salt water in his nose and mouth, and he thought to himself that there was more, much more, that he wanted to do.
But his life beyond this one, he hoped, would be one of riches.
After weeks trapped inside by the weather, Lady Orabilia had had enough of domestic work. Just as the mere sight of the stones of the inner keep was about to make her go mad, the sun dawned bright and blissful. It was as if the near month of foul weather had been only in her imagination.
Back into the kitchen, she slipped her foraging apron on and her sturdiest leather boots.
The cook was in desperate need of fresh stock to feed the many hungry mouths.
She pulled up her skirts and knotted them to keep them dry from the dampness of the meadows as she moved along the muddy trails to her favorite spot an hour’s walk into the hills.
With a bladder of water on her hip and a leather satchel over her shoulder, no one would know her to be the firstborn daughter of the fierce Skye chief: Laoch.
Her black hair was pulled back and plaited; she was ready for the day’s work.
Other wealthy clans across the high- and lowlands boasted servants for every one of their needs; she prided herself on her dedication to her people, that her back would know hard work and her hands would know how to heal the wounds of both the body and the heart.
In a half day’s work, her leather bag and medicine bottles were full: herbs, roots, leafy greens of burdock, wild garlic, and nettles filled the satchel to bulging.
The weight of the pack and the day’s muggy weather caused by the rare bright sun made her undergarments stick to her skin.
It also brought on Orabilia’s thirst. Looking over the meadow, butter yellow and frothy white with flowers, she emptied the contents of the skin into her mouth.
“Och,” she grumbled. How she wanted to stand beneath a waterfall.
Atop the farthest hill, she looked down upon the ancestral land, watching small wisps of smoke rise from the hearths of the village far below.
Orabilia knew the path back would be unnecessarily arduous without water, so she set course for the coastal path that would wind her down and back over a burn or two.
Sweat dripped into her bodice and pooled under her breasts.
It was hot work carrying her load home, so thankfully, there was just time enough to stop at her secret cove—her private spot to gather the small red crustaceans, clabaidh-dubha, and other ocean delights.
After a long hard winter and a moody wet spring that refused to succumb to summer, spending the rest of the daylight at the cove made her insides jubilant and her muscles relax. Peace would soon be upon her.
At the hidden path that headed toward the cliff face and the narrow trail down, Orabilia picked her way through the shrubbery. When she broke through the greenery, her cove was not hers. A Viking ship lay on its side like a bloated beached whale, the casualty of a war with the ocean gods.
She felt panic surge through her limbs. Vikings? She should run. Now.
But behind the panic was reason. She felt her heartbeat pulse under her burning skin. If it were just dead men, she’d not want to waste her chance for at least a good dousing of icy water down her bodice.
Leaving her heavy bags at the top of the cliff, she moved carefully down the steep path. Orabilia looked keenly at the wreckage as she descended. Even half-dead Vikings were dangerous. The trail ended at a short stone cliff not much higher than a farmer’s stone wall.
She leaped down onto the rocky beach and froze, listening.
The water lapped against the rocks and echoed in the empty wooden ribs of the Viking ship.
Her spine tingled, and Orabilia knew she had to be quick.
She rushed across the short beach to the spring, swollen from the rains, that gushed from between the rocks and soaked her bodice and filled her mouth and waterskin.
Still sensing no one, Orabilia took a chance to observe the wreckage. Her father’s men would want details.
She inspected the beach, then the water. There were no bodies. They’d been drowned at sea, she assumed, and the ship tossed up onto shore. The ship was shattered at the nose but easily salvageable. Painted in Laoch red, it would make a fine addition to their arsenal.
Just then, the bird calls ceased as another sound rose. A deep groan came from behind the boulders against the cliff face.
Orabilia felt the tingle of danger move up her spine. With a light foot, she made it back over the rocky beach to the short wall and up to her things. She pulled the short blade from her waist.
The voice rose again, echoing through the cove below; the agony of the human was palatable.
But it was surely a Viking, and leaving him to the ravens was his due justice.
She picked up her things and put them back on.
Vikings rarely traveled alone, and where there was one injured, there’d be a ship of them coming to collect what remained.
Cooler now, she had to get back to the keep and warn the clan.
Her father and a few of his men were still in the south at the Uig fishing village, assuring the Uig people that Vikings wouldn’t be so bold as to travel that far south into Skye territory.
On the trail, her boots slipped in the mud as she moved swiftly back toward home.
The forest was dark, blotting out the late-afternoon sun.
Another chill ran up her spine, and this time, she thought she heard a voice in her ear: Help.
She skidded on the mud and turned sharply, holding out her short blade. The path behind her was empty.
Fear moved her; she began to run until the forest broke out into a sunny meadow.
She ran and ran until she could see the keep ahead.
With her heart beating a steady tattoo, she slowed then paused in the daylight to catch her breath.
Walking to the cliff’s edge, she peered down to the calm lapping of the ocean waters against the rocky face below.
There were no ships crashed, nor were there any on the horizon clear to the north or far south.
The green humps of the isles off her father’s lands looked happily situated as if nothing of consequence had ever happened there.