“Ye will arrange it,” he insisted softly, the gentle tone covering iron.
“Mad,” she whispered again.
But nay, he was not mad. Merely in love.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Quarrie went tovisit the harper, Danoch, once he’d taken a meal and something to drink. His body wanted sleep, but he could not make an excuse for it, and anyway, he was much too unsettled to find rest.
He could feel the physical effects of a night’s long lovemaking. Indeed, at random moments he could still feel Hulda’s mouth, her fingers upon him, to devastating effect. But the spiritual effects reached far deeper. The longing deepest of all.
He received a lot of pushback on his decision to feast the Norse, first from Ma, then from the seneschal, who came to him nearly in tears as soon as he heard of it.
“Chief Murtray, ye ask me to spend our stores to celebrate our mortal enemies?”
“Nay, but only to celebrate an alliance wi’ them that will prevent more dyin’.”
“I maun say”—Kalen had to fight for the words—“I do no’ like it.”
A sentiment shared by everyone else Quarrie met. Such word traveled swiftly in an enclosed community. Even before he went to see Danoch, folk approached him to protest.
As calmly and kindly as he could manage, he heard them out and turned them away.
Old Danoch lived with his daughter, a widow whose husband had been slain fighting other Norsemen. Quarrie had alwaysliked Danoch, whom Da had taken on after years of traveling bards had come and gone. A slender man who did not look his years, with a charming tongue and a quick smile, Quarrie liked his music even better.
This one, quiet household, so it seemed, had not heard of his perfidy in choosing his guests. Danoch’s daughter, Raisa, invited him in with courtesy and visible surprise.
“Chief Murtray. Father, ’tis himself come calling.” She addressed the old man sitting by the fire.
Danoch greeted Quarrie warmly. Quarrie sat while Raisa fussed around them for a time, providing hospitality. Not until she withdrew did Quarrie speak.
“Master Danoch, I ha’ come to ask your advice.”
“Have ye, then?” Danoch’s hair had once been black and his eyes were still bright blue.
“Aye. Ye ha’ traveled much during your time on the road, ha’ ye not? In yer role o’ shanachie.”
“Och, that I have. In my youth, before I came here to your father, I was all over Scotland and Ireland, and much o’ Wales also. On foot that was, mostly. I carried all I owned on my back, and the main o’ that my clarsach.”
The instrument in question stood not far away, another presence there in the room.
“A fascinating life that must ha’ been.” Quarrie found himself distracted for the moment from his purpose.
“Aye, so it was. And often a difficult one. But I lived for the music, ye see. And och, but I collected some songs and stories.”
“And we ha’ benefited from those.” Quarrie could not help but smile. “Wha’ made ye settle here?”
“I ha’ Murtray blood, way back. And I would come here often on my yearly rounds. Your father always made me most welcome.”
A bard provided wondrous entertainment, and a chief could not always afford to keep one of his own. They tended to move with the seasons.
Danoch smiled. “On one such visit, I fell in love wi’ a Murtray lass. Raisa was born not long after. Eventually, your father was good enough to offer me a place and a home here. He was a fine man, yer da.”
“He was,” Quarrie replied gravely. “Tell me, wha’ d’ye ken o’ the Norse?”
The enthusiasm in Danoch’s eyes cooled a mite. “Ye mean, besides the fact that they love to wet their swords and axes wi’ Scottish blood?”
Quarrie’s lips tightened. “Besides that, aye.”
