“I am no’ sure it is.” Borald looked angry now. “’Tis your duty to defend this clan.”
“As I will be doing.”
“Mayhap, mayhap no’, depending on the honor o’ some woman who thinks she is a warrior! This clan needs a chief, Quarrie.” Borald shot an apologetic look at Ma. “Ours is dyin’.”
That statement hung in the air of the hall the way a curse might. Aye, they had all thought it. Worried over it. Whispered it, mayhap. Even discussed it in ones and twos. But…
“All the more reason,” Quarrie said determinedly, “for me to tak’ responsibility. I canna hand over to torturers a man already at his last.”
“Torturers,” Ma repeated.
“Mistress Einid,” Morchan said, “’twill no’ be an easy death in Norse hands. We ha’ heard the accounts o’ wha’ they’ve done to the monks. To their prisoners and to their slaves. I say”—heturned to eye Quarrie—“we should fight. Who says we may no’ win?”
There were mutters of agreement.
One of Da’s old friends said, “Aye, when she returns in the morning, let us meet her wi’ cold iron.”
“Six longboats,” Quarrie said.
Again, Ma stepped forward. She was not a tall woman—not like Hulda Elvarsdottir—and looked tiny there surrounded by hulking men. She raised her gaze to Quarrie’s face and spoke clearly. “I say we put the matter to yer father. Is he no’ still chief? Should he no’ have a say?”
“Nay, Ma. He is no’ fit.”
“He is no’ well, perhaps, and he is suffering. Ye, son, have been taking many o’ his duties. But for ye to make a decision o’ this importance wi’out so much as consulting him—well, he would never forgive ye.”
Quarrie writhed beneath these words. With Da so ill, he had sought to trouble him as seldom as possible with clan matters. He did not want to take this to him now, mainly because he knew what Da’s decision would be.
Everyone in the chamber watched him, avid to hear what he would say.
“Nay,” he told Ma, struggling with it.
“Son”—she stepped up and touched his arm—“should ye turn yoursel’ over to this woman in his place, if they haul ye awa’ to death or worse, wha’ am I to tell him? Wha’ when he asks for his lad?”
His lad.That nearly brought Quarrie to ruination.
“Tell him I serve this clan. And him.”
Slowly, Morchan shook his head. “Mistress Einid is right. We canna go behind the chief’s back in this. He is, for good and all, still chief.”
“Let us tak’ this to yer father,” Ma said. “Master Morchan, yoursel’, and me. Quarrie, ’tis his right to ha’ a say.”
Quarrie’s every protective instinct rose in protest. But he could feel the will of each man there, his father’s advisors, align with that of the aging Morchan.
They wished to protect him, these men who had known him from a child. Who had helped to raise and train him.
“Aye, so,” he said, wondering how he might persuade his father, a man who, despite the changes that had come over him this past year, possessed a valiant heart.
A sigh went around the chamber. Ma looked relieved—and agonized.
“Meanwhile,” Borald said, “we will use the time to prepare. Alert all the men, ready the families to leave. Organize the armory.”
Prepare to fight.Borald’s words told Quarrie he too felt certain what Da’s decision would be when the matter was put to him.
If ever Quarrie had argued anything with his father, it must be now, when he argued his right to spend his own life for this place he loved.
Chapter Twelve
The swirl ofwater around the oars sounded loud in the quiet as the færing made its journey over the sea, quiet as a pond, and back to the waiting longboat. No one spoke on the way, though Hulda’s companions shot her close looks.
