“When Björn was looking after the fort on Lord Cenydd’s behalf, we had concerns there were traitors in our midst.”
“From amongst the Britons?”
“Yes, but whether they were loyal to your brother or to Marcant, we never knew. Marcant, most likely. And they may still be there, within Cenydd’s household.”
“I see.” She was silent for a moment. “No wonder you don’t trust me.”
He shrugged. “Tell me about Caelin’s father. What happened to him at Alt Clut?”
“I don’t really know. I was expecting a second child and had not gone to my father’s feast. It did not seem wise to travel even though it wasn’t far across the firth.” Her voice was soft and carried the emotionless tone of one who had retold a painful story enough times they knew how to steel themselves against the agony of the telling. “It was a stressful time. Our lookouts saw the ships, but it was too late for them to warn those at Alt Clut. One boat went out, but it never returned. I don’t know why…” She frowned and shook her head introspectively. “It seemed like there was no advance watch for Alt Clut. I have never understood why not.”
Arne did not reply. By the time the main Norse fleet had arrived, the Britons watching the river had been quietly dispatched by a forward party. Only the guards within the citadel had been there to warn of the attack, and by the time they had seen the ships sailing upriver in the early dawn light, the only thing they could do was close the gates and defend Alt Clut itself with the resources they had.
She leaned forward, pulling her hands from his, and smoothed Caelin’s hair, smiling down at her son. The tenderness in herexpression evoked an emotion inside him he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Arne remained still, hoping she would continue to speak. For some reason, he needed to know what had happened to her before. The Norsemen would not come out well from this story, he knew. He had been at Alt Clut. Not for the whole four months of the siege, but for the start and again soon after the end, when every building and defence of the rock was still smouldering. It was the way of their world. Conquest and attacks happened everywhere, all the time. The Norse had been coming here to raid for four generations now and many Norsemen had been born and raised in the islands off the coast of Dal Riata or on the nearby island of Ireland. Many who lived there spoke both Norse and Goidelic, and many came from families of entirely mixed parentage.
It had taken much longer for them to make headway into the kingdom of Strath Clut. Until the siege had destroyed the royal seat, the more land-based kingdom had held firm against their raiders, and it had been impossible to breach the River Clut by force. Now the kingdom was much reduced in power and prestige, and while Rhun had moved the royal residence upriver to a safer point where Gorfaen and Perthawc sat at a fording point, and held onto his lands, things were not the same.
With their superior ships, the Norse had a distinct advantage over the native populations in the coastal areas. However, the Strath Clut Britons were less vulnerable to Norse attacks from the water and they had recently proved interested in trade. They coveted the items the Norsemen brought from far distant places. The Britons had few ships, just smaller boats more suited for coastal travel than crossing wide expanses of sea. The holy men who preached throughout the many kingdoms told tales of reaching far distant islands in the north in such boats. Arne did not envy them those journeys.
The attack on Alt Clut had been more difficult than they’d expected. The Norsemen had known how impregnable the rock was rumoured to be, but they had not anticipated the four-month long stalemate that had developed. The Norsemen couldn’t get past the defences, the Britons could not successfully defeat the Norse forces surrounding them.
It was not until the Britons finally surrendered that the Norsemen realised how terrible the situation inside the walls of the fortress had become. The people had had no food for many days, perhaps weeks, but the king had held out until the well had run dry. Any water had been given to the soldiers and the king’s family for far longer than others. The Norsemen had taken more than two hundred prisoners away to the slave markets in Ath Cliath afterwards, and it was the first time Arne had seen people leave the ships in better condition than they had boarded them. At least they had fed them and given them water. Some had even managed to buy their own freedom. The thought gave him pause.
“Was your husband one of those who managed to buy his freedom?” Arne asked.
Gemma looked up at him, surprised. “I bought his freedom. When we saw the ships begin to leave, I sent boats out. One of your ships landed, and we discussed terms. I paid for his return.”
“But?”
She sighed, shook her head and was then silent so long he thought she wasn’t going to answer, but finally she said, “He was never the same. He barely spoke after his return. Within days, he developed a fever and became sick. Perhaps the starvation during the siege or conditions onboard your vessel?”
“To cross the firth takes only a short time.”
“Still.” She glared at him, and while he felt for her, he would not take the blame for a situation not entirely of the Norsemen’s doing.
“Gemma, King Artgal could have surrendered long before he did. He refused to despite the suffering of his own people…” Hestopped, aware it was her father he was talking about. But how could she possibly agree with what Artgal had forced his people to endure on the rock? He cleared his throat. “Dead slaves are generally not a valuable commodity. And as he was married to the king’s daughter, I imagine he fared better during the siege than many.”
She looked away from him quickly and he wondered if perhaps the opposite was, in fact, true.
“So, you paid his ransom, and we gave him back, alive,” he prompted.
“Barely. For three days the fever raged, and I tended him. Until I, too, became sick.”
He noticed she had resumed touching Caelin’s hair, careful not to wake him.
“My fever broke just before I went into labour.” She took a shuddering breath in and he wanted to tell her to stop, that she didn’t have to relive the pain, that he was sorry he’d asked. But he didn’t. Because a part of him wanted to know, to understand. Was he hoping her words would allow him to trust her or prove to him he had been right to think of her as a danger? “My daughter never lived.”
She took another deep breath, then looked straight at him. “My husband died that night, too. Caelin came to sit beside me, touched her tiny hand, whispered to her the same way he’d been whispering to her as she grew. Nonsense, mainly. He was young. But it was clear it meant something to him. We buried them a few days later. Together. For months, when he spoke of her, Caelin kept saying she’d been cold. Over and over. She was so cold. I’m so afraid.”
Arne almost missed the last sentence. It wasn’t said in a different tone or at a different volume from the others. Neither did she turn to him. She simply sat there, staring down at the sleeping boy. He reached over and took both her hands in his own, drawing hergaze to his face. He felt a shiver run through her and she turned her head away.
“Gemma.” He waited until she looked back at him. They stared, each as shocked as the other as something passed between them, some sense that they might be able to share their pain.
“Everyone I love dies,” she murmured.
It was little more than a whisper, and yet he heard it. He stood, twisted his hands around and pulled her to her feet, then stepped in closer to her. Their gazes held as he waited. He felt her trembling, felt her heat through their clothes. His body began to respond, so he dropped her hands and moved away. This wasn’t what he’d been offering, and he refused to torture himself with a possibility that could never happen.
