“Master Quarrie,” said Fergus, who looked after the armory, “wha’ is this all about? ’Tis no’ the Norse already?”
It was, though Quarrie did not want to bring that up yet.
Before he could speak, the wee priest spoke up. “The blessed father who passed by yesterday—he is an itinerant fro’ Ireland, ye understand—said the Norse have sacked the church at Oban. No’ much to steal, but they left many dead.”
“Abominable,” old Morchan said. One of Da’s longstanding cronies, he would remain pagan to his grave, though that did not keep him from great indignation over any slight to a Scottish church. Any excuse to fight.
For the most part, the fledgling Celtic churches here in Scotland were not rich. Not like the ones farther south. But they were easy targets, and some of the brothers were taken as slaves.
Most men in Scotland would be hard pressed to say which was worse, slavery or death. As for the women…
“If and when the Norse show their sails,” Quarrie said, “we will be ready to fight. Wha’ I brought ye here to discuss is the chief’s condition.”
A moment of complete silence ensued. Quarrie found himself faced by almost identically dismayed expressions.
“He is getting better, surely?” said Fergus then. “I ken fine that wound he took was a dire one. I was fighting near him when he got it, and saw him take that Norse bastard’s head in spite o’ it.”
Another man, Connor, said, “The healer assured us all then, wi’ time and rest the chief would be right as rain.”
Aye, the healer had said that. But the blow, from not a sword but a Norse axe, swung hard, had cut nearly to the bone.
Quarrie looked the men in the eye. “Aye, so the healer did hope. So we all hoped. But ye ken poisoning set in. The wound did no’ heal clean. In truth, it refuses to heal at all.”
“Still?” The word came in a hush.
“Still.”
“The chief is a gey strong man,” declared one of the advisors. “A bull.”
He had been.
“I will no’ lie to ye,” Quarrie said steadily. “’Tis why I ha’ called ye here, to speak out the truth. My father’s great strength wanes. He canna stand on the leg, and the pain”—he did not want to speak out the rest of it, though it must be said—“the pain is driving him mad.”
Appalled faces turned to him.
Before any of them could speak, the door of the hall rumbled open and Ma slipped in. Her footsteps made no sound as she walked down the length of the chamber to the gathered men.
She did not strictly belong here in the midst of a meeting. Yet every man there knew Airlee MacMurtray adored her. They themselves honored her. They stood and waited for her to join them.
As if she’d been listening outside the door, she began, “I pray ye will listen to and heed my son. I believe ’tis time he should step into the place he has been holding these many months wi’out the title.”
“But, mistress, Airlee is our chief. We each and every one o’ us swore fealty to him.”
Ma looked around at them with her calm gray eyes. Eyes that had become unaccountably fierce. “As has Quarrie sworn fealty to him.”
“Aye, so. No one would question Master Quarrie’s loyalty or his heart. But ’tis Airlee we follow.”
“Ha’ ye followed him to his bed?” Ma asked. “When is the last time any o’ ye went there to see him? D’ye ken the state he is in?”
Not a man there, and they the leaders of the clan, said a word back to her. They must have heard the commotion coming, at night, from the chief’s quarters. Had they denied what that meant?
“Ye, Morchan,” Ma challenged the oldest of Da’s friends. “When is the last time ye called upon yer chief?”
“To tell ye the truth, Mistress Einid, it has been a while. The last time I did go, he seemed discomfited to see me. As if—” The man ran out of words.
“He is embarrassed and shamed that he canna get out o’ his bed. That he can no longer stand for his clan as he has for so long. The pain is unbearable. Nay draught nor drink can stem it. ’Tis I and Quarrie who ha’ been there day and night as he’s struggled beneath the weight o’ his injury.”
The men stared at her in dismay. Still, no one else spoke.
