CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“That’s the third merchant vessel in a fortnight. Headin’ south past the headland wi’ her hold full and nae so much as a backward glance at Uist.”
Freyr tossed the patrol report onto the table between them like a man discarding a hand of cards he didn’t trust. The parchment slid across the map, catching on the iron weight Ragnar used to pin the northern coastline flat.
“And the fishin’ boats?” Ragnar asked.
“All accounted fer. The Norse traders out of Bergen pulled anchor three days past and havenae returned. Even that stubborn Orkney crew that’s been lingerin’ near the southern strait’s gone.” Freyr dropped into the chair and stretched his legs toward the hearth.
Olaf grunted from his seat near the fire, his gnarled fingers wrapped around a cup of ale that had remained untouched forthe better part of an hour. “A month without incident. I cannae recall the last time Uist had a stretch this quiet.”
“Summer before the border dispute wi’ the MacLeods.” Bjorn supplied without looking up from the ledger balanced on his knee. “But even then, we had sheep thieves.”
“So either the world’s gone soft,” Freyr said, “or somethin’s about tae go very wrong.”
Ragnar stood at the window with one shoulder braced against the stone frame, watching the harbor where two fishing boats rocked gently at anchor. Late morning light danced across the water, and the air carried the mineral tang of low tide and drying nets. A pair of children chased each other along the pier, their laughter thin and bright against the crash of surf.
The island breathed easier. He could see it in the way the villagers moved through the square without glancing over their shoulders, in the children playing near the water instead of being kept inside, in the guards who leaned against their posts with the loose posture of men who’d begun to believe the danger had passed.
They want tae believe it. I want tae believe it.
“I’m easin’ the watch in public areas,” Ragnar said, turning back to the room. “Markets, the pier, the lower village. Nay sense in suffocatin’ our own folk wi’ nay reason. The guard around the keep stays as it is,” he continued, and the brief ease in the room died. “Around Isolda, naethin’ changes.”
No one argued. That particular battle had been fought and lost weeks ago.
“So.” Olaf set his untouched ale on the arm of his chair. “Has Douglas retreated? Or are we just too tired tae see what he’s up tae?”
“Silence is more dangerous than attack, Olaf.” He met the old man’s gaze. “When a man like Douglas goes quiet, it means he’s thinkin’. And when he’s done thinkin’…” He let the words trail into the crackle of the hearth.
“So fer now, we enjoy the peace,” Ragnar said, quieter now, “but we dinnae trust it. Nae fer a second.”
He moved to the table and tapped a point on the map where the southern strait narrowed between Uist and the mainland. “There’s a coastal trade comin’ in three days. Shipment from Bergen—timber, iron stock, salt. ‘Tis the last scheduled passage before the autumn currents shift and the route closes fer the season. After that, there shouldnae be any foreign vessels in our waters.”
Before anyone could respond, the solar door swung open and a young lad Ragnar recognized as one of the outer settlement runners stumbled in, flushed and breathing hard.
“Me jarl—” The boy bent double, hands on his knees. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but there’s trouble at Dunmore and Creagach.”
Ragnar exchanged a glance with Freyr. “What kind of trouble?”
“Supply dispute, me jarl. The families that sheltered at Dunmore durin’ the raids—they’re movin’ back tae their crofts, but Dunmore’s elder says they ate through half the winter stores while they were housed there. He’s demandin’ compensation. And the Creagach folk are sayin’ they worked the fields and mended the walls in return, so the debt’s settled.” The boy straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. “Rolf sent me tae ask fer yer judgment before someone starts throwin’ punches.”
Ragnar rubbed the bridge of his nose. He glanced at the maps, then at Freyr. The coastal defenses needed restructuring before the Bergen trade arrived. If Douglas had scouts watching the shipping lanes, the next three days were critical.
“I cannae leave the defense plannin’. Nae with the trade comin’ in.”
Bjorn cleared his throat. “Lady Isolda handled the grain redistribution well enough. And Rolf’s come around tae respectin’ her since.”
Aye. He has.
“Send fer me wife,” Ragnar said.
Isolda heard the knock while she was mending a tear in Ragnar’s tunic—a task she’d taken up without being asked and would deny enjoying if pressed.
The summons came from Bjorn, brief and businesslike: the outer villages needed mediation, and Ragnar was occupied with defense planning.
By the time she reached Dunmore, the argument had already reached the point where grown men pointed fingers like children fighting over the last oatcake. Rolf stood between the two men with the weary expression of a man who’d spent hours listening to the same grievances repeated in increasingly creative ways.
“Me lady.” Rolf’s bow was deeper than it had been previously, when he’d barely managed civility. “Thank ye fer comin’.”
