“I would like a fire tonight,” Trym said, “if we are staying.”
“Go ahead and build your fire,” Hulda said. “Build several of them.” The smoke would be visible from the settlement across the water and would lend verisimilitude to her claim of a large force.
That was, if Quarrie MacMurtray was watching. And she believed he would be.
*
Da was upand pacing his chamber—if painfully—when Quarrie, in company with Ma and Morchan, went in. An astonishing sight, since it had been days since the chief had found the strength to leave his bed. He had even managed to get himself partially dressed, which made Quarrie wonder if he meant to venture out.
He and Quarrie looked enough alike to leave no question they were father and son. They had the same tall, lithe build, Airlee having gained a little more bulk over the years than Quarrie had yet attained. The same heavy, thick mane, though Airlee’s showed more gold than copper, Quarrie having got some of his red from Ma, and since his injury Da had grown a crop of gray. They had the same far-seeing, hazel eyes, Quarrie’s tending more to green. The same effortless strength.
That was, Dahadpossessed that strength.
He whirled now to look at them, moving on his good leg. Quarrie, who had seen the condition of the other, could not imagine how Da managed to stand. Fever burned high on his cheekbones.
“Wha’ is going on? Somewhat is. I can feel it.”
No doubt he could. He was a fine chief with good instincts. And the madness that sometimes claimed him when his fever burned high in the night did not appear to beset him now. His eyes looked clear and sane.
When none of them answered him, he demanded, “Are we under attack?”
“Nay, Chief Airlee,” Morchan said. “Though sails ha’ been sighted off shore.”
“Sails?” For most Da’s life, the Norse had been a threat, a promise of loss and destruction. “How many?” When again no one answered him, he switched his gaze to Quarrie’s face. “Quarrie?”
“We believe there are six longboats.”
“Six.” Except for the spots of fever, Da’s face paled.
“I ha’ had words wi’ the Norse leader, who wishes to negotiate.”
“Wha’?” Da waved a hand, a sweeping gesture. “There is nay negotiating wi’ those savages. All they want is plunder.”
“This is different.”
“Pray sit down, my love.” Ma urged Da to a rug by the fire. It must pain her as much as Quarrie, seeing him on his feet.
Da went down with a grunt, every movement agony.
Ma spoke into his face. “Ye should no’ be up.”
“No one came when I called. No’ even the servant.”
“I am sorry, my love. We were all in the hall. Here, will ye tak’ the draught the healer left for ye?”
“I am no’ a child to be dosed. The draught clouds my mind. If attack is imminent—”
He could not fight, much as he might wish to. All three of them there could see that.
“When were these sails sighted? Why did ye no’ come to me at once? Morchan? Am I no’ still chief o’ this clan?”
“Aye, Airlee,” Morchan said.
“We are here now,” Ma continued, “fresh fro’ Quarrie’s meeting wi’ the Norse leader.”
Da grunted, leveled his hard gaze on Quarrie’s face. “Tell me.”
Quarrie did, pulling no punches with it. In his opinion there was nothing to be won in doing so. As chief, aye, Da must have his say.
