by Cathy MacRae
Birk ground his teeth. “Get the lad food and clean clothes. Tend his wounds and find him a place to sleep. I will speak to him again later.” He brushed past Dugan who wheeled about and matched his pounding stride.
“Gather enough forces to scour the land. I want no bothy, croft or cave left unexplored. I willnae have this devil on my lands.”
Dugan gave a curt nod and peeled away to gather his men.
A powerfully built man with the remnants of shockingly red hair planted himself before Birk. “I heard ye refuse to name a wife from those presented to ye today,” he growled. “Seonag is a bonny lass, and well brought up.” James MacBrehon grabbed his daughter’s arm and dragged her between Birk and himself. “Whatever ye want, my lass will provide it for ye.”
Seonag risked a look at Birk but jerked away as if struck as his eyebrows snapped together.
“Can ye tend the lad’s wounds?”
Seonag glanced at her hands, the long fingers unmarred by work. Fury at the lass’ ineptness overtook Birk. He stepped closer.
“Can ye wield a sword? Rally troops to rid my lands of this scourge?”
She shook her carefully coifed head.
“Bah! Then find another man to work yer wiles on. ’Twill not be me.”
James shoved his daughter behind him, chest puffed out in righteous anger. “Ye will rue this day, Laird MacLean!” he proclaimed. “Ye dinnae deserve a wife to care for yer needs. Ye seek naught more than a warrior to fight yer battles—a woman like yer ma!” He pointed his nose into the air. “A Norsewoman when yer da could have had the pick of sweet Scottish lasses!” He jabbed a finger in Birk’s direction.
“Ye’re just like him!”
Birk’s fist arced through the air. Bone crunched beneath his knuckles and blood spurted from James’ broken nose. Not satisfied with the warning, Birk brought his other fist up, connecting firmly with the point of the other man’s jaw. For a moment, James stretched up on his toes. His eyes flew open wide an instant before they blanked, and he crumpled to the icy path.
Stepping over the fallen man, Birk continued to the hall, not sparing a speechless Seonag a second look.
CHAPTER THREE
Aboard the Seabhag
“Put yer backs into it, laddies,” Captain Ferguson bellowed over the cold, whistling north wind. “We need tae make land afore nightfall.”
They’d had a cloudy but mild day for their crossing of St. George’s Channel. As the vessel plowed through the waves, the chop sent sea spray over the bow, misting all aboard, making the mixture of exertion, stinging gusts, and frigid moisture bracing.
Carys had long ago removed her cloak, leaving her jerkin and leather cowl. She’d wrapped her hands in strips of wool to protect them from the biting cold and abrasion from the wooden oar. The wintry breeze held steady all day, pushing their craft through the water with ease. Considering their load, Carys was impressed with the Falcon’s speed. Ferguson did not exaggerate his ship’s prowess. The captain allowed the crew rest between rowing sessions, but kept a brisk pace to ensure the Seabhag made port in Éire by the end of the day.
“Drop the sail,” the captain ordered as they approached the docks, gliding in under oar. “That’s it. Easy now.” Ferguson manned the rudder as he coaxed the Seabhag into a slip at the port of Wexford. The coastal village appeared to be no bigger than the hamlet they’d left early that morn. Like many ports in southern Cymru, Norsemen and native people mingled over the years as the legacy of Viking settlements spread across the land.
“Wyn, secure the ship for the night. I’ll pay the dockmaster for our berth and be stayin’ at the inn if ye need me.” The captain rubbed the back of his neck. “Lads, Wyn’s in charge and will see tae yer supper. With any luck, I’ll be back on the morrow with a few buyers. Nae wanderin’ off. There’ll be plenty of chances for shore leave in the days ahead. Remain here and guard our cargo.”
Dewr waited by the rail for her orders.
“Dewr, stay with Tully,” Ferguson commanded. With a wag of her tail, the dog trotted to a spot next to the boy. She plopped her furry rump on the boards, ears pricked forward, as other sailors secured their vessels for the night. Her head peeked over the rail.
Wyn supervised the securing the enormous woolen sail to either side of the boat, adjusting the massive wooden spar holding the sail so it pointed fore and aft. Once they raised the mainsail spar a few feet, the sail created a tent tall enough for them to walk upright down the middle of the ship. Though they had nothing to cover the ends, they would be mostly dry and protected should a squall blow through.
Wyn opened three barrels aft of the last oars near the helm. “Gather round, men. Each gets a ration of salted pork, biscuits and ale.”
The crew formed a line and reached into one barrel for a wooden tankard, then filled it from a large tapped cask. When it was Carys’s turn, she selected from a stack of wooden bowls in the barrel along with the tankards suggesting hot meals in the future. This eve’s cold fare would do well enough, but as they traveled farther north, their bellies would crave hot food to ward off the wintry chill.
The twang of salted meat blended with the faint nose-wrinkling scent of the murky water sloshing against the dock. Carys buried her nose in her mug, inhaling the crisp aroma of ale.
Carys and Hywel strode toward the bow of the ship where they had stowed their gear. Wrapped in their cloaks and blankets, they settled in to eat. The salted pork tasted fresh enough, and the biscuits were sizeable pieces of unleavened bread made of flour and water—meager fare but filling. The ale was surprisingly good and held a hint of wildflowers. She and Hywel ate in silence, enjoying a moment of peace. The cries of gulls, paired with the sea lapping against the ship, wrought a calming effect.
Ferguson’s rotation for the watch and clean up meant all shared in the shipboard chores except the captain. Hywel and Wyn had first watch. Carys had second along with another. She and her brother would both sleep during third watch.
“How fare ye?” Hywel asked on a whisper.
“Fine. Though I’m a bit sore and fairly worn thin.”
“Do ye still agree with my decision to leave Cymru?” he asked, seemingly uncertain of himself, something Carys wasn’t used to hearing from her brother. She sought to reassure him.
“What else could we have done, Brother? Wait for Longshanks to march into our village and burn us out? Anyone identifying the soldiers who fought with the prince will be rewarded. Double the reward for the capture of those of us with noble blood. The same for the traitors who showed the English how to cross the Irfon River and flank us at Orewin Bridge. If we had stayed, we’d live as outlaws in our own country until captured. Ye’re right. ’Tis time we left home and made our way elsewhere.”
Hywel nodded, his shoulders relaxing. “What do ye hope to find in Scotland?”
Carys stared at the few stars visible and thought about how best to answer. “Peace. I think I’d be content simply with peace. Mayhap a small village where my skills would be accepted. Mountains, streams, forests and a place to settle amongst quiet people. What about you, Brother? ’Tis ye who gives up yer birthright by fleeing to the Scottish Highlands. What do ye hope for in the mountains and forests of Caledonia?”
Hywel quirked a smile. “A small patch of land to build a home and raise a few sheep like Da. Find me a lass to take to wife who’ll give me lots of children and keep my bed warm at night. What else would a man wish for?”
Carys shook her head. “Ye men are all alike. I assume ye expect her to cook and clean whilst ye tend a few sheep and bring home the occasional deer?”
Hywel’s smile lit up the night. “Why, of course. ’Tis what good husbands do.”
Carys’s mood plummeted at the reminder of what she’d lost.
“Worry not, sister mine. With Da gone, ’tis my duty now to find a man worthy of ye, and I swear to do so.” Sincerity rounded her brother’s eyes.
“I don’t know if I want another husband, Hywel. My dreams of ha
ving a family of my own died with Terwyn. After fending for myself these past months, looking out for ye as much as I have for myself, I’m not certain I need a man to care for me.”
“I understand yer grief, Carys, but ye are a young woman, and men find ye pleasing to look upon. Ye are of noble blood. Even in Scotland, that will be valued. There will be offers and expectations for ye to marry nae matter where ye settle. Allow your sorrow to have its way, then we will speak of it again. Ye are too young to give up yer dreams. Besides, who else can make me an uncle?”
The words from the old woman in Aberswyth rose in her mind. Carys swallowed against the fear drying her mouth.
Hywel patted her arm. “I won’t force ye to marry until ye are ready,” he said.
“’Tis not that, Hywel. ’Twas a brief encounter I had whilst fetching the meat pies.”
Carys told the tale of her moments with the old seer, and the thoughts and fear she’d had since.
Hywel frowned as he considered her words. “She said there was naught to be done?”
“Nae, only that by my leaving did I push my own death farther into the future.”
Hywel shrugged and flashed a smile. “We’ve placed ourselves in plenty of danger these past few months fighting for our royal cousin. Though we didn’t win, I wouldn’t change aught I’ve done, including boarding this ship. When our time comes, it comes. What can be done to change it? The Almighty will do what He wills.”
She nodded reluctant agreement, though her heart still ached. “Let me take yer watch,” she offered. “I am far from sleep.”
“Are ye certain?” Hywel asked.
She knew he could sleep anywhere, at any time. “Aye. Ye’ll sleep like a babe and I’ll wake ye in three hours so ye can take my shift.”
Carys walked the length of the ship and settled in the bow. Dewr left Tully’s sleeping form and curled up next to Carys, tucking her nose beneath her tail. Carys smiled and scratched behind the dog’s ears, earning a few laps from Dewr’s rough tongue before the dog sighed and buried her nose against the bitter night air. Carys welcomed the additional warmth of the dog’s body as she stared at the night sky. A light fog rolled in, reducing the countless stars to a few faint twinkles of light.
Three hours into her watch, Dewr raised her head, a rumbling growl low in her chest.
Carys placed a calming hand on her. “Easy, girl. What’d ye hear?”
Rising to her knees, Carys silently crept to the edge of the ship and peered into the darkness. Though not yet midnight, Wyn appeared to be asleep at his post, slumped against the stern, unmoving. Man-shaped shadows stalked the pier toward their boat. She counted ten, though the fog didn’t allow for a sure tally. Reaching for her bow, she placed one end against the hull and bent it backward to secure the string. She then slowly drew four arrows, taking care to make no more than a whisper of sound.
Silver reflected off the short swords the men carried from what little moonlight pierced the evening gloom. They quietly picked up the gangplank and made to bridge the short distance between the Seabhag and the dock.
Carys nocked an arrow, rose and fired, striking the first man under the arm as he held the wooden walkway overhead.
“To arms! To arms! We are under attack!” She cried.
She fitted and fired another arrow, hitting the second man who held the gangplank aloft. Dewr helped sound the alarm, barking loudly enough to wake the dead. The catwalk clattered onto the wooden dock as the men holding it collapsed. The remaining thieves retrieved the fallen platform and dropped it into place with a loud bang, no longer caring about noise.
Carys’s remaining arrows found a home in two more brigands. She dropped her bow, picked up her javelin and climbed to the edge of the rail. She leaped the distance, landing at the end of the dock, water on either side and behind her, enemies in front. Grasping the butt of her javelin with her right hand, she guided it with her left, braced firmly with her left foot forward. The robber nearest her drew a wicked seax the length of her forearm, hefting the blade in the manner of a seasoned fighter.
The man feinted, testing Carys’s reaction. She ignored his move and drove the shaft of her javelin with her right hand toward her left until they met, darting her javelin forward then snatching it back in a lightning-quick move. The small leaf-shaped blade sliced into the thief’s throat. He vainly grasped his pierced flesh with both hands and dropped to his knees, eyes wide in disbelief as his life’s blood poured onto the pier.
The rest of the ship’s crew had awakened and joined the fight. Hywel wielded his short sword and dagger while Wyn fought another robber. Hywel killed his man then helped Wyn finish his foe. Once it was apparent their attack had failed, the remaining thieves ran. Carys hurled her javelin, striking down one more, the last two fleeing into the night. Carys retrieved her arrows and javelin from the fallen men, then searched them for anything of value.
Hywel crossed onto the dock and assisted her as they’d done many times over the past year. The rest of the crew stared, some still half-asleep, mouths agape. Carys gave Hywel a grim smile as she nodded toward the crew. These were sailors, not warriors.
Wyn directed the rest of the men to follow Carys and Hywel’s lead. After gathering weapons from the fallen, they dragged the bodies to the end of the pier onto the shore where they discovered two watchmen dead, their throats slashed. Carys pulled the hood of her cowl over her head.
The first mate appeared shaken and indecisive from the attack and his grisly discovery.
“There’s nae need to disturb the captain, Wyn,” Hywel said. “We did what he ordered before he left for the night. We guarded the ship. If ye wake him now, there’s naught to be done that cannot be done come morn. Besides, he’ll have lost sleep and likely be in a foul mood. If anyone is to get a good night’s sleep this eve, I prefer it to be him.”
Several of the men grinned, and Wyn nodded with a faint smile that fell far short of any humor. Carys chuckled at her brother’s ability to ease even the most difficult circumstances. He’d make a fine bard.
“Agreed.” Wyn appeared to regain some of his confidence. “’Tis time for second watch. Good work. Get some sleep, ye’ve earned it.” He sent a flickering glance and nod to Carys. She nodded in return and quirked a smile, knowing he’d failed completely as first mate by falling asleep during his watch. She returned to the ship, accepting Dewr’s enthusiastic greeting.
“Good job, lass,” Carys murmured as she rubbed the dog’s sandy-colored head. “Ye’re the reason none of us are injured and the boat rests safe and secure. I don’t know what Ferguson feeds ye, but I’ll see to it ye’re rewarded an extra ration.”
Dewr strolled beside Carys, wagging her tail as they headed toward the front of the ship, passing Tully along the way. The lad grabbed her in a fierce hug as powerful as it was unexpected.
“Ye saved me da’s boat. Ye saved me,” he said with what looked too much like worship in his eyes for her comfort.
“Aye. Ye can count on me to keep ye safe.” Carys had no idea why the reassurance slipped out. She patted his shoulder as he let her go.
Tully grinned and nodded, his flame-red hair bobbing in the torchlight.
The rest of the crew eyed her with respect, some touching their forelocks. If they only knew they owe their lives to a woman and a dog. She gave a light shrug. They shall soon enough. We shall see how long their respect lasts.
Carys spread her blanket on the hard deck, then wrapped her cloak about her. Dewr tucked in beside her once again. Replaying the last half hour in her mind, she pondered her lack of regret over taking lives. Killing men, even the cursed English, had once filled her with soul-wrenching guilt. She’d lost track of how many lives she’d ended—with another six tonight. Knowing they’d have slaughtered the crew and stolen the ship justified her actions. Upon reflection, she meant every word of her vow to Tully. She’d protect him as if he were her own. When sleep finally came, it was peaceful.
Ferguson’s voice carried on the fo
ggy morning air as he sang a Gaelic sea ditty. His song and the thump of his boots abruptly stopped. Carys rose and pulled the hood of her cowl low over her head. She strapped on her short sword, placing a dagger in each boot, one under each sleeve of her tunic, another at her waist, and one that ran along her belt at her lower back. The seax at her waist was new, thanks to their attackers last eve. She organized her possessions in case Ferguson decided to take offense at her presence and demand she and Hywel leave.
Wyn met the captain on the dock and retold their tale, wild gestures adding impact. Ferguson met Carys’s gaze, motioning for her to meet him on the pier. Carys whistled for Dewr to follow, and the dog leapt to her feet, an action which caused the captain’s brows to fly upward to his hairline.
Hywel strapped on his sword and joined her.
“Wyn greets me with quite a tale this morn.” Ferguson frowned at his dog who remained at Carys’s side, her tail wagging gently. “He says the ship was defended with no loss of cargo, nor any crewman injured, though two of the dockmaster’s guards lay dead. Why was I not awakened?” he demanded with a scowl.
“What purpose would that have served, Captain?” Hywel asked. “Ye ordered us to guard the ship and cargo, and guard it we did.” His engaging smile eased Ferguson’s frown.
The red-haired Scot then pointed at Carys. “He says ye saw the bastards first. I’d have the tale from ye.” The captain crossed his arms over his barrel chest.
Carys knew she’d be found out with so much to say, so she did not bother lowering her voice to affect a young male’s tone. She patted the dog who sat beside her as if her allegiance had shifted. “Dewr heard them afore me, Captain. I spotted them in the fog, strung my bow and woke the men as I fired.”