What was he about, her braw Scots lover? Was it an excuse to see her? Or something more? If he ached for her one part as fiercely as she ached for him, he might well do near anything to arrange an encounter. Butthis?
From the sour expressions on the Scots’ faces, they did not approve. From the muttered comments behind her, neither did her men.
She lifted her chin. “Pray tell Chief Murtray we shall be honored to accept.”
An explosion of mutters from both sides. Had the Scots been hoping she would refuse?
The messenger inclined his head. They turned and left with all due speed, several looking back over their shoulders, presumably to see if the Norse chased after them.
Hulda’s men closed around her.
“What does it mean?”
“A trap, you think?”
“It has to be a trap.”
“He lures us there to fall upon us and cut our throats.”
“Hulda.” Garik touched her arm. “Why did you agree? It must be a trap.”
Ja, to be sure, that was what they would think. Madness, with just under a score of them to go walking into an enemy’s hall. Unlike her, they did not trust Quarrie MacMurtray. Ach, how she wished she could speak with him for just a few moments. Ask what he was about. But he chose to do this thing properly with a messenger and a certain amount of ceremony.
“Do not worry,” she told Garik. “All will be well. We will go hunting today, that we might bring a contribution to the feast.” It would be Quarrie’s own game, but that was neither here nor there.
Helje muttered disagreeably, “A last feast before dying, it may well be.”
*
Sometime later, Huldastood in her tent struggling to get a glimpse of her image in—of all things—the blade of her sword before giving it up as a bad bet. Seldom had she wished to be other than what she was—a woman striving to succeed in a man’s world. She gave little thought to her appearance and was comfortable in her skin.
Until now. For she went to attend a feast given by the man she loved. Ach, ja, she could not deny that she did love him. Her love for Quarrie seemed to have come to her like a memory full blown. It felt as natural and as ancient as her existence, or nearly so.
Much to her surprise, she wanted to look beautiful for him. He had called her beautiful during their night together. At least, she thought that was what he’d said in passionate whispers.Bonny hair. Bonny breasts.
She had braided her hair, and could scarce go to him now with the other attributes he’d admired on display. She had nothing to wear better than her rough tunic and leggings. Her sword.
There had been a sharp argument over the wearing of arms to the feast. She had suggested they lay aside their swords, if not their knives. Her men had objected vociferously. The men had won.
They went armed in a visible effort to prove they might defend themselves. Though if MacMurtray and all his warriors turned on them there in his hall, they were as good as dead.
And her men knew it. A wonder they were willing to accompanied her.
They trudged southward in a ragged band while the sun was still high in the sky. The days lengthened as the season stretched out. At home there would be very little other than daylight, as opposed to the dark winter when men were confined and tempers grew ugly.
Midsummer may well have come and gone. She had lost track of the days.
Guards had been stationed to keep watch for them and soon went running. Her men began to grumble again.
“It is a death trap,” Helje declared. “We walk to our doom.”
“How foolish of us,” Varg agreed with the dark humor that marked Norsemen, “to make it so easy for them.”
“When the fight begins,” said Brynjar, “I want the Scots chief’s head.”
“There will be no taking of heads.” Hulda spoke as if to children. “We are guests. Have you no manners?”
She had to admit, a chill ran up her spine when they entered the settlement and started up the slope that led from the shore to the keep. The staring eyes unsettled her, as did the similarity of expression on every face: fear mingled with hostility.
