A breath escaped her, one that betrayed her emotions, though she kept an iron control. “Then you can hand over the man to me. We will go. Leave you in peace.”
“Ye will leave us for the season.”
“For the season.” She waved a hand. “You have my word on that.” Her tone implied that her word was cast in iron. “After that, I cannot say. My faðir has many warriors, many boats. They go where they choose.”
They were a plague upon the world, but he did not say that. A season was a season and could give them time to prepare. It might give Da time to recover. If he did not recover, he might at least die in his own bed surrounded by those who loved him. Not hauled away among strangers, subject to every sort of punishment they could devise.
Quarrie had heard stories. They all had.
Hulda Elvarsdottir shifted for the first time. “Do you know the man who killed my brother? You say you were there.”
“I was.”
“You saw.”
“I did.”
“Then name him.”
“’Twas mysel’.”
Chapter Ten
“You are theman who killed my brother?” From the moment she’d laid eyes on him, ja, Hulda had suspected it. The foremost among his men. A fine warrior, possibly fighting in his father the chief’s stead. Who else could have bested Jute?
Besides, the way she felt about him—that was her inner knowing telling her so.
But now that he admitted it, she did not want it to be him. Regret took hold of her by the throat, and for the first time she wavered in her resolve.
For if he handed himself over to her in order to save his people, what she had planned included debasement. Ridicule. Humiliation. Pain and, at long last, death.
His gaze held hers, unflinching. “Aye.”
She jerked up her chin. “Describe his death to me.”
That surprised him.
“I would be sure I have the man who should pay the price for Jute’s death.”
“I took his head. The battle fell apart then. When his men withdrew, they took his body but his head remained here.”
A particular source of grief to her. She had been away, ja, a member of Faðir’s crew, and not come home until Jule’s body had been laid out in state. Covered in wounds. As always, he had fought hard.
“Tell me what became of his head.”
He did not want to. She could see that. “A trophy, mistress. It remained above our gate for some time.”
Another long breath escaped her. “And then?” She wanted to hear it all, her brother’s fate.
“Burned.”
“At your orders?”
“Aye. ’Twas the decent thing to do.”
“Decent?”
“Mistress, I can give no part o’ your brother back to ye. I regret so, but that is the way o’ it. If ye come here to our lands seeking battle, ye maun reap the results.”
