Chapter 4 The Landing That Refused Them
Leif saw the landing before the others did: a gray slash between black cliffs, where the sea flung white water over a shelf of rock.
“Keep the wagons moving,” he called. “Do not stop on the road.”
The wind tore his words thin. Behind him, the convoy groaned through the salt-stiffened track, wheels sinking to their hubs in blown sand.
Maeve rode near the lead wagon, her black curls lashed beneath her hood, one gloved hand gripping the rail.
She had found the reef knot and the wax mark among their supplies; since then, she had watched every man in the convoy as though treachery might show itself in the set of a mouth.
Leif understood the impulse. He felt it himself.
At the foot of the slope, men waited beside the landing. Not fishermen. Their spears were upright, their shields rimmed with iron, and their cloaks bore the red-brown stain of a local lord’s household. A timber barrier had been dragged across the narrow approach to the water.
Beyond it, two boats lay hauled above the tide line.
The sight struck Leif with the force of a fist. Passage had been promised. Without it, the truce existed only on land, where every enemy could reach them.
A broad man stepped forward as Leif dismounted. His beard was threaded with frost, and a scar ran from his right ear to the corner of his mouth.
“Name yourself,” he called.
“Leif Gunnarsson, captain of the Sea-Wolf.”
The man’s gaze slid to the iron at Leif’s hip, then to Maeve. “Cormac Brennagh commands this landing. No vessel leaves Inis Mór until its passengers prove their right to cross.”
Leif walked closer, boots grinding over frozen shells. “We have a sworn agreement with the O’Clery house and the men who hold the southern shore.”
“Then show me the witnesses.”
“The oath was sworn before both households.”
“Names.”
Leif’s jaw tightened. The wind carried the smell of kelp, tar, and horse sweat. Behind him, one of the wagons creaked as a wheel slipped. The men were tired. Maeve had barely slept since the road, and the provisions would not last long if they were forced to wait.
“Darragh Kavanagh witnessed it,” Leif said. “So did Maeve’s kin.”
Cormac gave a humorless smile. “Darragh’s word is worth less than a wet torch. As for her kin, half claim she was never empowered to bargain. The rest claim the Norse captain put a blade to her throat.”
Maeve’s horse came forward before Leif could answer. She dismounted with care, her boots striking the stones. Her gray-green eyes were bright with anger.
“No blade touched me,” she said.
Cormac studied her. “Maeve O’Clery?”
“I am.”
“Widow. Twenty-six years. No living husband to speak for you.”
Leif felt heat rise beneath his cold-wet collar. Their temporary marriage oath had been made to prevent men from speaking over her. Yet here stood another one, measuring her like a disputed field.
“She speaks for herself,” Leif said.
Cormac looked at him. “And you speak too quickly for a man who claims a lawful union.”
Maeve’s fingers closed around the edge of her cloak. “The oath-stone was beneath my hand. Leif’s hand covered mine. The terms were spoken before those gathered.”
“Were they written?”
“No.”
“Were three recognized witnesses named before the stone?”
Maeve’s gaze flicked to Leif. The question unsettled her; he could see it in the slight lift of her chin. Not fear. Calculation.
Cormac reached beneath his cloak and drew out a strip of parchment, protected by oiled leather. “I have a list of those who were present. None is named as witness to a marriage between Maeve O’Clery and Leif Gunnarsson.”
The parchment snapped in the wind.
Leif stepped toward it. “Let me see.”
Cormac held it away. “You will see it when the harbor steward permits you within the fort.”
“Harbor steward?” Leif’s laugh held no amusement. “We came for passage, not permission to kneel.”
“Then you may kneel to the sea.”
The men behind Cormac shifted their spears. Leif counted twelve, perhaps more among the rocks. His crew had only the guards who had survived the road, and the wagons carried women, servants, and the few provisions spared by the sabotage. A fight here would spill the truce into the surf.
Maeve moved beside him. Her shoulder brushed his arm through their cloaks, a small contact that steadied and irritated him in equal measure.
“Who supplied that list?” she asked.
Cormac’s eyes hardened. “It came sealed from your cousin’s hall.”
Eamon.
The name struck through Leif’s thoughts. Not merely a man stirring old hatred, but one who had prepared a weapon against the oath itself.
Maeve went still. “My cousin had no right to speak for me.”
“Perhaps not,” Cormac said. “But forged names have a way of becoming true when men are paid to read them aloud.”
Leif turned toward her. Her face had paled beneath the windburn, but her voice remained level.
“Eamon arranged this.”
“You knew he might,” Leif said quietly.
Her eyes cut to him. “I knew he meant to break the truce. I did not know he had forged witnesses.”
“You should have told me.”
“I told you enough to keep us alive on the road.”
“And now we stand before armed men with no proof they will honor our oath.”
Her expression tightened. “You think I made the forgery?”
“I think you withheld danger.”
The words landed between them harder than he intended. Maeve looked away first, toward the boats rocking above the tide. He wanted to take back the accusation, but Cormac was watching, and Leif had learned that apologies offered before enemies became handles for them to seize.
Cormac pointed at the wagons. “Unload the provisions.”
Leif turned. “No.”
“Your food and water will be held under guard until the steward hears your petition.”
“You will not touch what belongs to my people.”
Cormac lifted two fingers.
The militia advanced.
Steel did not flash. That was worse. They moved with the confidence of men who expected obedience, spear shafts knocking against wagon boards. One guard tore open a sack of barley. Another seized the cask of water. A woman cried out from behind the hides, and a child began to wail.
Leif’s hand closed around his sword hilt.
Maeve caught his wrist.
Her glove was cold, her grip fierce. “Not here.”
“They are taking our stores.”
“And if you draw, they will take more than stores.”
He looked down at her hand. The marriage oath had made her his ally before it had made her anything else. He hated that she was right. He hated more that he wanted to trust her judgment.
Cormac watched the exchange. “Wise wife.”
Maeve released Leif and faced him. “You will not call me that as though I am a possession.”
A flicker of respect crossed the man’s face, quickly buried. “Then give me a reason to call you lawful.”
“Bring us before your steward.”
“You will wait.”
“For how long?”
“Until the tide turns twice.”
Leif looked toward the water. The tide was already drawing away from the rocks, leaving weed gleaming like black hair.
Twice meant two days, perhaps more in this weather.
The convoy could not endure that delay. Eamon would have time to spread his forged list through every hall between here and the winter market.
By the time they reached the far shore, their marriage might be dismissed as a lie.
Maeve stepped closer to Cormac. “You know my name. You know the oath was sworn. Why deny us passage?”
“Because a woman’s word does not bind a feud’s dead.”
“My word binds the living who still draw breath.”
Cormac’s scar pulled with his smile. “That is a fine saying. It will not fill a belly.”
Behind him, a militiaman rolled the water cask toward the fort. Leif saw the last of their smoked fish disappear beneath a guard’s cloak.
He moved before anger could choose for him. “You will return half the provisions.”
Cormac’s men raised their spears.
Maeve turned sharply. “Leif.”
“I am bargaining.”
“You are threatening.”
“I am reminding him that hungry men do not remain peaceful.”
Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “You came to our shore with a foreign crew, a disputed bride, and an oath no witness will confirm. You will surrender your weapons before you enter the fort.”
“No.”
“Then you will not enter.”
The wind drove salt against Leif’s face. Somewhere beyond the barrier, a gull shrieked and vanished into the white sky.
Maeve spoke more softly. “Let us enter unarmed.”
Leif stared at her.
She did not look at him. “If we remain outside, we have no audience. If we enter, we may learn who forged the list and why.”
“You would put yourself inside their walls.”
“I am already inside their judgment.”
That silenced him.
He had wanted to carry her across the water by force of will, to make the ship wait and the oath stand because he commanded it. But the coast had its own law, and men like Cormac knew how to use delay as a blade.
Leif drew his sword halfway, then sheathed it with deliberate care. “My crew keeps their weapons.”
“Your crew remains with the wagons,” Cormac said. “You and Maeve may have a brief audience with the steward. No more.”
“And our provisions?”
“Confiscated until the matter is settled.”
Maeve’s breath shuddered once. Not from cold.
Leif leaned near her, keeping his voice beneath the wind. “I am sorry.”
Her eyes met his. “Do not spend that word yet.”
It was not forgiveness. It was not trust. But she did not step away.
Cormac ordered the barrier opened. The timber dragged over stone with a grinding shriek. Leif and Maeve passed through while the militia closed around the convoy, separating them from the wagons, their exhausted horses, and the people who had placed their safety in the marriage oath.
At the fort’s gate, Maeve’s hand brushed his again.
“Whatever he asks,” she murmured, “do not let him make you deny that I chose this.”
Leif looked at her crescent birthmark, barely visible where the wind had pulled her collar aside, and felt the old enemy between them change shape. He had thought the danger lay in whether she would betray him.
Now he understood the sharper truth.
Someone else meant to make the world believe she had never possessed the right to stand beside him at all.