She hurried on as if she did not hear him. “Because I think yer father should be taken awa’ wi’ the women, if they are sent to the hills. He canna fight. He can barely stand. But—”
“Ye will ne’er persuade him of it,” Quarrie told her. Abandon the keep during a fight? Was there a force on earth that could convince the chief to leave?
“But he canna fight,” she repeated wildly for her. A composed sort of woman, this, she had lifelong been a foil for her husband’s intensity. Driven beyond that now.
“He would ha’ to be carried,” Quarrie said. “Can ye see him letting his men carry him awa’ to the hills?”
“Nay.” Her hands twisted together. “Nor do I wish to see him slaughtered in his bed.”
“Ma, I promise ye I will do all I can to defend this place with my own heart’s blood, if that is what it takes.”
“I know ye will. And ye are a fine warrior. The best we ha’ seen, so yer father always says, for generations.”
Da was not so bad himself, before his injury, so Quarrie reflected. Witness the fact that he had taken the fierce Norseman’s head last season.
“Then trust me,” he bade Ma. “We do no’ even know as yet that this is an attack.”
But when the call came from the walls, aye, his entire being ran to the defense, even as his feet carried him up to lean out and stare just like the guards.
Borald was there, leaning out so far he looked to tumble over, and turned a burning gaze on Quarrie.
“There,” he said. “Look!”
The sail was back, a dark shape now against the early afternoon light.
“It came out fro’ behind the island,” said one of the other men. “We were all watching.”
It hung there as it had before. And then it began an approach.
Narrowed eyes followed it with fear and dread. A single sail. Not so intimidating except for the fact that, as it drew closer, the silhouette became unmistakable. The big, square sail. The long, sinuous shape of the craft raised at bow and stern.
“Wha’ in God’s name are they doing?” someone wondered aloud. “Showin’ themselves in broad daylight.”
“Is there but the one?” another man asked.
Only one they could see. Anything could lurk behind the island.
“Wha’ should we do, Master Quarrie? Send the women and bairns awa’?”
“No’ yet.”
A single ship. It might be overflowing with Norse warriors the way a grain store overflowed with vermin. But he should be able to hold them off. He should be able to protect this place he loved.
He barely breathed as they watched the longboat come in. It sailed gracefully over the still water, catching its own reflection. Like something out of a dream.
Or a vision.
When they could see it clearly, it paused. Quarrie noticed then that though the sail was up, there were men at the oars. He could see other men on deck. One at the tiller, a couple hurrying about. One standing beside the prow, gazing landward.
Staring at them.
The commander of the vessel, no doubt. He wore a helmet that caught the sun and a fine cloak, and was no doubt heavily armed. He gave no audible commands, made no gestures. Stood like stone when the vessel halted and the men threw anchor.
“What is this?” Borald asked.
Quarrie could not imagine. Not an attack. Not anything he comprehended.
The men on the longboat hauled something around. A curragh it was that they had towed out. Faint cries echoed over the water. Two men descended into the curragh before the commander, motionless till then, followed.
