The Norse, whatever their opinions, ate heartily. Opportunists, he supposed, who would take food—or aught else to benefit them—where offered. Even though he had limited the amount of drink, Hulda’s crew grew louder as the evening wended on.
If they all got out of this without drawn swords, it would be a wonder.
That was his last thought before Danoch arose. The harper had been afforded a place at the end of the head table as, Quarrie believed, he richly deserved. Now he took up his instrument and moved to the cleared space beside the fire.
Would the Norse quiet to listen to him? Or would they be rude enough to keep up a racket?
To Quarrie’s surprise, it was Hulda’s right-hand man, Garik, who leaned forward from his place beside Ma and barked a single word in Norse.Listen,it might have been.
Young men all, they shot Garik startled looks and obeyed.
The music began. Only it was not just music. Here in this tumultuous place, Danoch gave them ripples of sound as calming as rivulets playing on the hillsides or waves kissing the shore. Wisely, he did not, as was his want, begin with a tale that their guests might not be able to follow. He gave them instead the magic of ancient songs, which no man could fail to heed.
He wove memory with his old hands, and longing. The tears of loss and the laughter of reunion. If the Norsemen had a place in their hearts where warmth resided, the tunes surely found it.
When Danoch lifted his voice in words, there was not another sound to be heard. He gave them an old, old tune of praise. Not for any gods, but the things all men must love. The song of birds and the softness of the south wind. The blessing of sunlight. The gift of a new morn.
Down between them, Hulda’s hand brushed Quarrie’s again. Her pinky—only that—hooked his and held tight. Very nearly enough.
For he could almost—almost—hear what she was thinking. As if the music, and the tremor in Danoch’s voice that was somehow both old and young, conveyed it.
I love you.
Did she? With everything in him, he longed to gaze into her eyes, to behold the truth there. Instead he kept staring straight ahead, listening to the music and pretending his whole being did not hang on the answer, connected to her by her finger twined through his.
While Danoch played, the servers quietly took away the dregs of the ale and began removing the scraps of food. When the aged harper arose at last, to stomps of wild approval from the Norse—apparently not too drunk to appreciate his playing—Hulda rose also.
“We thank you for your warm welcome this night, Chief Murtray, and for the wonderful playing of your harper. We go now in peace.” She looked at her men. “Ja?”
They rose with a clatter, as did Garik and Helje from the head table. Suddenly everyone was on his or her feet.
This would be the moment, with the peace of Danoch’s harping shattered, when trouble would break out. But Hulda moved down the length of the hall, gathering her men the way a hen might her chicks.
Quarrie hurried after.
At the top of the outer stairs, she paused and turned to him. “I think that went well.”
“Better than I expected.”
“Ja, sure. I much enjoyed your harper and would like to hear him again. Much as—” She caught herself and lowered her voice. “When? Where?” She repeated her earlier suggestion: “The same place?”
“’Tis dangerous,” he said with reluctance.
“Ach, by Odin’s eye, I must—” Again she caught herself.
“If this alliance holds,” he told her very softly indeed, “we may be able to see one another more often.”
She gave him a tight smile, just visible in the flaring torchlight. “And here I thought you acted on behalf of your people.”
“I do.” And, so he prayed, his own.
She left him. He stayed at the top of the stairs and watched her go at the head of her men, off into the endless dark.
Chapter Forty-One
Hulda’s men werefull of questions. All the way back to their camp, the path lit by moonlight, they spewed those questions while barely giving her leave to answer.
Most of the queries, as she determined, came down to one.
