“They are coming in,” someone said in total disbelief.
“Get men on the shore,” Quarrie called, but men were already there. Members of the guard and some clansfolk all staring.
Quarrie said, “Get yer weapons. I am going down.”
*
The settlement grewlarger as the færing approached, rowed by strong arms. Hulda had chosen two of her best men, level headswho would not go off before she commanded, but good fighters in a pinch.
They might all three be about to die.
She watched the scrambling on the shore—brought about by their presence—and marveled at the fear produced by one longboat. Such was the reputation earned by her countrymen.
Order and chaos she saw before her. Armed men chased away what must be the ordinary occupants of the place. Her fingers played about the hilt of the sword she wore.
One man emerged onto the rocky shore, standing firm at the place toward which the færing headed. She eyed him closely. Her opponent?
Was this the man who had killed Jute?
His stance argued authority, legs wide and feet planted on the stones.Hisstones, that attitude seemed to say.You shall not pass.
“Hulda,” Garik said from behind his oar, “are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Ja,” she lied. The closer she got, the less certain she felt.
Details came into view. The stronghold, up on the rise and out of reach from the sea, was a fine one built all of stone, the thatch on the roof weighted down with more rocks. Many were the other dwellings scattered around it. A stout guard stood backing the man who waited for them, and she could see they were heavily armed.
She could not see their faces clearly as yet, but would bet they held distrust.
The man waiting for her had brown hair lit to red where the sun struck it. He wore no helm but had a sword at his side, his hand on the hilt. He was tall, gracefully built.
A typical Gael, she told herself. One she would have no difficulty killing if it came to that.
Just a Gael. One on a rocky stretch of Scottish shore. Who had likely killed her brother.
“Halt,” she told the men, and they shipped the oars. The small boat drifted. Everything on the shore froze.
“Who is leader of this place?” Hulda called over the waves, bellowing so the words would carry. She called in the Gaelic tongue, not considering them intelligent enough to know hers. “I would speak with him.”
The man with the brown hair took a step forward, which put his toes in the foam. “I am he. What do ye want?”
Familiar was the cadence of his speech. Hulda’s own nurse, Aoedh, had been a captive who spoke so. Like music, sometimes.
She tossed back her head. “I have five more ships waiting behind yon isle. If you wish to spare your settlement, you will speak with me.”
A man dashed up to the brown-haired commander. They conferred briefly before he stepped away again.
“We ha’ naught to say to ye. Be on yer way.”
“You would prefer to watch your homes burn? Your people die?”
“Only try for it,” he said.
He possessed confidence, she had to give him that. Ja, he it must be who had taken Jute’s life.
“You would let me kill scores, when I want but one?”
“What one?”
