“How do you know we are close? The moors all look the same.”
“I can hear the waterfall. The shieling is close to it. Just a little higher upstream once we are out on the open moors.”
They continued on, Gemma still hurrying to keep up with Arne. Her boots were soaked after so many hours of walking and she could barely feel her feet. Soon she would be much colder as they were no longer sheltered by the trees and the wind was piercing her clothing. She put her head down against the snow and focused on following in Arne’s footsteps as much as possible. It wasn’t easy—she was tired and he walked so fast.
After a few minutes, the snow started to fall faster. She couldn’t see him in front of her anymore and her mouth went dry. He had warned her the last time when she called out, so she decided to keep quiet. At least his footprints were still visible. The snow was not so heavy that it was filling them faster than she walked. Ahead of her she thought she heard a squealing noise, like a door being pulled open on rusting hinges. She kept putting one foot in front of the other and soon there was a dark shape in front of her. Arne put his arm around her and half-carried her the last of the distance to the shieling.
“Mama!” Caelin shouted, and hugged her. If Arne hadn’t still had his arm around her, she would have collapsed onto the floor. As it was, he steadied her, then simply picked her up and placed her on a wooden seat next to the fireplace in the centre of a small stone building. The door thudded shut behind them, leaving them in total darkness. Arne moved back towards the door and soon there was a sliver of moonlight as he held open the door and she heard him rooting around for something, a flint probably.
“Light the fire while I get some wood,” he said, pressing a flint into her hand. Even though her eyes were fixed on him, she barely saw him as he crossed the room and went outside. She was so cold that it seemed like nothing in the surrounding room was real and it seemed that it might be easier to simply let the darkness consume her. She put her hands over her face and leaned forward. Why had she done this? Her hands were frozen and her gloves soaked, but when she tried to take them off, they clung to her painful fingers and she gave up.
“Mama, are you all right?” Caelin asked, coming to stand beside her.
“Yes, Caelin.”
“Then you must light the fire,” he said.
The fire. He wanted her to light the fire. She could do that. She would do that. Slowly, she began to unfold herself from the chair. She shivered as she knelt on the cold floor. She kept her gloves on and was pleased to find that the last residents of the shieling had left a fire set. She struck the flint a few times but ended up staring stupidly at it when she couldn’t get it to spark. Caelin took it back from her and quickly used it himself.
As the dried gorse smouldered, she tousled his hair and kissed him on the head. It was the blast of cold air as Arne came back inside that finally helped the flame to catch. “Well done, Caelin. I didn’t know you were able to do that.”
“Elisedd and Einar showed me how. They like having a fire on the beach.”
“Oh, they do, do they?” said Arne. “I will have a word with them about that once we are home.”
“We will not be going back,” said Gemma, refusing to look at Arne.
“We’ll see,” was all he said.
She ignored him and focused her attention on the fire.
Chapter Seven
How could Gemma thinkthat the next morning they would be doing anything other than heading straight back to Kirkjaster? He gritted his teeth as he thought about the risks she had taken to both herself and her son by heading out into the gathering snowstorm with no clear plan. Tairmbert, indeed? They hadn’t even been halfway there when he’d found them. They would have died or been killed long before they reached it.
Was she telling him the truth? He still had his doubts. Everything he knew about Gemma made him think this was entirely out of character for her. Björn had every respect for her — no mean feat with his older brother — but this had been foolhardy. Had she really had no plan? Had the fishermen managed to speak to her, passed on a message telling her of a place to go where she would be safe?
It seemed unlikely. There was little in this area of the peninsula—only a few small settlements up near the isthmus. None large enough to be considered a village, and all were at least half a day’s walk from here. Most were odd places populated by those who rarely pledged allegiance to any one group of people, but who would deal with anyone — Briton, Gael, or Norse — who wished to use the isthmus to portage between the two lochs, Long and Llumonwy, often for a fee, sometimes in exchange for goods or even information. Perhaps she had thought to find someone thereto help her. Or else there was someone already there waiting for her.
He wondered whether someone would come in search of her during the night, but decided that for tonight at least he was safe. Such a heavy snowfall would keep most people at home until it thawed. Even if her kin were waiting for her somewhere, they would surely think she would have waited in Kirkjaster until the snows were over.
“Look, Mama!” Caelin clapped as the fire began to burn steadily.
“You’ve done well.” Gemma put her hands on the boy’s shoulders and they drew closer to the fire. At least she had dressed them both in warm clothes, but it had not been enough for the sudden change in weather and they appeared to be soaked through. His own clothes were much more suited to extended periods of time outside than either of theirs were. He watched them as he removed his own outdoor clothing and hung it up to dry. Even from across the room he could see how badly she was shivering.
“Do you have dry clothing with you?”
It took longer than he would have liked for her to turn to him and answer. “Yes.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Why had she been so foolish? If he hadn’t found her… But now he had, he must keep her alive. No matter what risk she posed to Kirkjaster alive, it would be disastrous if his people were blamed for her death. He needed to make sure she and her son lived long enough to return to Kirkjaster, and he did not want to spend any more time up on these desolate moors than necessary.
“Then you should put them on. Here.” He pulled a couple of blankets from a shelf. They were thick and warm. “Change your clothes and then wrap yourself in these.”
She lifted her pack onto the table and struggled with the buckles. Torn between his anger and concern, he pushed her hands out of the way and opened it for her. She yelped when he touched her hands, so he took them in his own and carefully pulled each gloveoff. The leather was wet and cold, her skin like ice. In silence, he took one hand and placed it between his own much larger ones. She tried to pull away, but he clamped his tighter. She moaned.
“It hurts,” she whimpered.
“Shh. You cannot do anything when your hands are so cold.” When their eyes met, something shifted inside him. She looked so sad, so forlorn, as if her whole world was ending. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and tell her he would take care of her, that everything would be all right and no one would ever hurt her again. He pushed those thoughts away. The only future Gemma offered was one of danger and uncertainty. He loosened his grip on one hand and transferred it to the other. A single tear slipped from her eye. She dashed it quickly away and turned her head towards the fire.
When Arne let go of her hand, she reached into the pack and awkwardly removed the clothing inside. Arne noted the obvious care and attention that had been given to every neatly folded item.
