“And you shall. But it will be done my way.”
“Women,” he mumbled under his breath, but meant for her to hear.
Ja, to Hulda’s knowledge he had extensive acquaintance with women. Young maids, older widows, even the jarl’s daughter, so it was rumored, and all manner of slaves. Jute used to speak of it when he thought Hulda could not hear, and sometimes when she could.
She narrowed her eyes at him. Faðir joked sometimes that his daughter had the most intimidating stare of all his warriors.
“Pity the fellow she weds,” he’d said, “if ever she deigns to accept any husband.”
She had no time for following after men. They made her impatient with their bluster and their insistence on being right. Rarely, since she’d grown from a girl to a woman, had one turned her head.
There had been Karl. That thought arrested her where she stood. Karl had betrayed her. And then he had died. Swift justice, that, but it just went to show…
She did not need a man.
“I thought,” Ivor said roundly, “we came here to attack.”
“You thought that, did you?”
“Ja. It is why I came.”
Hulda deliberately took a look over one shoulder and then the other. “Do you see a fleet of longboats?”
Ivor’s expression settled into a glower.
Hulda went on, “That is a strong settlement out there. So strong that when my brother came last year with three boats, he met with defeat. You think we can batter them with one?”
“Then why are we here?”
The rest of the crew, with the boat at rest, had moved in close and listened. Hulda spoke to all of them.
“We are here to take revenge on the man who killed Jute. But we will be clever about it. I mean to negotiate.”
“Eh?”
“Those who were there at Jute’s death—you yourself, Ivor, say they think it was the leader of the settlement who struck Jute down. The chief. That man will not know how many ships we have hiding here.
“A good chief will surely sacrifice himself to save his people. It is what these Scots do.”
Ivor studied her face. “You are mad.”
“And once he agrees to deal with us, we shall betray him.”
Chapter Four
All day long,Quarrie could not shed his feeling of disquiet. As if trouble hung off on the horizon, waiting for him.
Half a score times he climbed up on the walls to look out over the blameless sea. He questioned the guard until they began eyeing him doubtfully.
The days had been growing longer, and that was an advantage for them. Just as the Norse could get their boats to sea come spring, so also did the gloaming give defenders hope of spotting the longboats. Yet as evening drew down, Quarrie’s uneasiness merely increased. He could not claim to have the Sight. And he was not sure what he’d seen—thought he saw—that morning, but…
Something was out there.
He remained worried enough to bring it up in the meeting of council, the one Ma had requested to discuss Da’s condition. They met just at nightfall, there in the hall.
Not a council as such, naught so formal as that. These were but men who over the years had become Da’s advisors, and his friends. A few aging warriors. The smith, Ronold. The persistent wee priest who insisted on saving them all.
They exchanged glances with one another before turning their eyes on Quarrie.
