Just passing? Quarrie did not pause to ask. His feet already moved, carrying him from the field to the steep stairs with a train of others following.
He never later remembered climbing those stairs. Only the harsh texture of the stone wall under his hands when he reached it and stood leaning out, following Borach’s pointing hand.
There.
Aye, it was a boat. Disappointment hit him like a punch to the gut. Not Hulda’s ship, the one aboard which he’d been held captive. But…
It might be the other he’d seen sail past, aye, earlier in the season. The one aboard which he’d fancied—fancied—he’d spied her.
Had it been but fancy?
This boat was agile, like the other. Light in the water. The dragon at the prow appeared to be staring them down.
That was because the boat was heading in to shore.Heading in.
“They are heading in!” Borach called. “Everyone to arms. To arms!”
The men on the wall scrambled. Those below in the bailey, most of whom had followed Quarrie from the training field, including the youngsters, froze and gazed to sea.
Quarrie raised an arm and called, “Halt. Halt!”
This was no attack. The boat came in gracefully without haste, the crew at the oars and not a sword or axe in sight.
Not an attack. Something else.
Men on the shore ran to the place whence the boat headed. As before, when Hulda had come for her answer, it paused just offshore, the boat having a shallow draught.
Quarrie could see figures moving about on deck. He could also see his own men looking up to him for direction.
“Hold!” he called again, and to Borach, “They want to talk.”
“Aye, but—” Borach began.
Quarrie, his eyes narrowed against the glare of light on the water, barely heard him. He watched the figures moving about on the boat and fastened on one in particular. He went abruptly light in the head and had to clutch the wall to remain upright.
It washer.
She had returned.
To him.
None of those three thoughts made any sense. No more sense than the dreams he’d been having or the sudden conviction that the woman from those dreams would soon stand before him.
Again.
He floated down the stairs and along the lengthy path to the shore, even as she and a single companion leaped over the side of the longboat and splashed through the tide.
They met just where the foam kissed the shingle, two elements that could scarcely differ more coming inevitably together.
“Hulda Elvarsdottir,” he said.
*
He spoke hername, and it sounded like music in Hulda’s ears. She had wanted this so long, she’d been more than half convinced that when she saw him again, when he stood before her, it would all come crashing down in bitter disappointment, for naught could match her imaginings.
She’d been wrong.
For he stood here before her whole and alive, and he looked good. Ach, by Freya’s heart, better than good. Tall and bare-chested, wearing only a checkered kilt with the sun shining full upon him and turning his brown hair to copper. Her eyes feasted upon the sight of him and her spirit also, something that had all the while been yawning and hungry becoming satisfied.
