“Back in the days when I traveled, I saw the damage they did in Ireland as well as here in Scotland. Families broken and folk taken for slaves. I was nearly captured myself, once. The Norse chief decided he wanted a bard o’ his own. I barely escaped wi’ my clarsach.”
“Ye ken a little o’ their ways, then?”
Danoch gave him a long look. “In Dublin, they ha’ established a kingdom and hold sway there. Wexford and Waterford also. They ha’ their own culture, one o’ boasting and drinking, mainly.”
“And music?”
“And music,” Danoch replied.
“I would like for ye to help me. I ha’ decided to feast the band o’ Norsemen that ha’ taken up the wee bay to the north o’ here. I ha’ made an alliance wi’ their leader”—and had given her his heart—“and wish to celebrate that agreement. I thought wi’ all ye had seen, ye would best know how to honor them.”
The old man blinked at him. He took so long before answering, Quarrie began to wonder if he would.
At last he spoke. “Honor them, ye say?”
“Aye.”
“Chief Murtray, even if ye invite a wolf in beside yer fire, ’tis still a wolf.”
“I understand that.” He had heard almost the selfsame warning from his mother.
“I am no certain—wi’ all respect—ye do.”
“For generations, as ye say, there has been killing. I seek to change that.”
Danoch sighed. “Since coming here to settle, I ha’ learned much o’ the history of Clan Murtray. ’Twas my duty to do so, and to sing wha’ I know in honor and respect. A chief likes to hear his ancestors praised.”
“Aye.”
“Did ye know yer heritage goes back all the way to Ireland? To the great Ardahl MacCormac himsel’?”
“I did know that, aye.” Quarrie wondered what this had to do with the Norse.
“He was a warrior wi’out compare, back in those ancient days.”
“So they do say.”
“His clan would ne’er ha’ survived wi’out his sword. And later, after your ancestors came here to Scotland—it was called Alba then—they had to fight for this land. Fight for what became dearer to them than their ancestral Irish lands.”
The old man had fallen into a storytelling rhythm now, his rich voice taking up the cadence of the tale.
“So I ha’ heard.”
“They fought each other, clan against clan, and the Caledonians also.”
“And one o’ them wed a Caledonian princess, did he no’?” Quarrie added deliberately, “To end the fighting.” Why could that not happen again? Love and war. Which might prove the stronger?
“Aye so, that is true, and there is Caledonian blood in yer veins. My point is, all these who came before ye were warriors. I would caution ye about laying yer sword aside too quickly or too soon.”
“I do no’ intend to lay my sword aside. Just, mayhap, be sure I do no’ need to use it before times. The Norse leader has promised that in exchange for a berth here, there will be no conflict between us.”
“And ye believe him, do ye?”
“Her. I believe her, I do.”
Danoch’s gaze sharpened. “The Norse leader is a woman? This had no’ come to my ears. I must be getting old.”
“I wish to honor this alliance—to mark it with a feast. I thought ye might best know how.”
