by Lily Harlem
Esca cleared his throat. “I brought you these.”
“Mussels, that’s kind.” Ronan clapped. “Thank you.”
Duna looked with relief at the hessian sack full of glossy blue mussels still attached to their threads. Her stomach rumbled. She’d get them cooked up quickly, while they were fresh. She and her father would go to bed without hunger tonight.
“Can you spare so many?” she asked.
“For you, yes.” Esca set the bag on the cold stone floor. “I must go.”
“I’ll see you out.” Duna followed him through the low door and into the weakening sunlight.
Shadows stretched over the grass and a large oak tree had put the goat pen into the shade. Esca turned to her and ran his hand through his hair. It was vibrant red, much like the fluff that grew on his chin. “Have you thought about my proposal, Duna?”
She’d known this was coming. “Yes, I have.”
“So what’s your answer?” She turned to the west, looking out over the rocks and then the ocean. Marrying Esca made sense; he was kind and loyal and would be an asset to her and her father on their small plot of land should he move in with them.
But her heart... it made no sense to her heart. Her mother and father had loved each other from the first day they’d met, and until death parted them. She wanted that too; love, not practical solutions.
Esca was a practical solution.
“Duna.” He cupped her elbow and stepped so close she could feel his body heat radiating onto her shoulder. “Please say yes. I will be a good husband to you. I promise.”
“I know you will; you’re a fine man, Esca.”
“So the answer is yes?” There was hope in his tone.
She turned to him, suppressing a sigh as she did so. “I need to sleep on it, overnight.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” He paused. “To see if you dream of me in the future, as your husband?”
That wasn’t why. She simply couldn’t bring herself to say yes and was stalling for time. But now he came to mention it, she’d never had a dream about Esca in her future. Her dreams were packed full of Viking brutes and terrifying dragon boats. “Yes, I will see if my dreams tell me what to do, Esca.”
He released her elbow and held her cheeks in both of his palms, then stared down at her with earnestness in his pale eyes.
She wished her heart would skip a beat. That her body would lean into his, search for his kiss, be delighted when she got it. But none of that happened. Esca wasn’t the one for her.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly. “There’s wild garlic over by the river, I’ll bring you some.”
“You are too kind.”
“Only the best for my love.” He brushed his lips over her brow, then released her and stepped away.
She watched him round the single story cottage, his strides long and his arms swinging. A hen pecked around her feet, obviously hoping she’d dropped some crumbs. Esca was a nice, kind man, there wasn’t anything to dislike about him. Her situation could be worse.
Much worse.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned back to the ocean. There was the longboat again, way out in the distance. Or was it another longboat slicing through the waves, sails aloft, and packed full of Vikings with their iron swords and sharp axes? Were there scores of longboats out there?
Nausea clenched her belly. These were bad men, with bad intentions. They had no respect for people, or for land that wasn’t theirs. The stories she’d heard about war and rampage, theft and slavery were true, she knew it, in the very core of her.
Quickly she turned away. Perhaps if she didn’t look then it wouldn’t be true; they wouldn’t be getting closer each time they passed by.
“Duna, come in. Let’s cook these mussels to go with the broth,” her father called.
“I’m here now.” She stepped back into the house and tried to push thoughts of the menace out at sea to the back of her mind.
But as she feasted on the mussels, she couldn’t shift the frustration that no one was taking her seriously. She’d heard a few of the villagers talking about the gossip from the mainland. So why did Shet Isle believe itself to be immune?
It was only a matter of time.
With her belly full, she started on a leather tunic she’d been commissioned to make for the Laird. She was an expert at her craft, a skill passed on from her mother. It was enjoyable, creating clothing, bags, and occasionally shoes, boots, and tack. Also, Dougal McBray, the tanner on the island was exceptional at his job. The hides always came to her soft and pliable; getting the needle and thread through the leather didn’t make her draw blood from her fingers.
Her father threw another log on the fire, beech this time, then drew the curtain at the small window. “Have you shut away the hens?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Then put a coat on, it might be early summer but it’s cold now the sun has gone.”
“I’m not that old and delicate, don’t fuss.”
She looked up and raised her eyebrows at him.
“Well, I’m not.” He chuckled then shook his head. “You have to stop worrying about everything, Duna. We might not be rich, and we both carry our grief, but we’re surviving. We have a roof over our head, food on the table, and a fire to keep away the chill.”
“I know, Father, we’re surviving.”
He slipped from the cottage.
She sighed. Surviving. Was that the best she could hope for in life? What about happiness, thriving, and dare she even think of it…love?
“You’re a fool,” she muttered. “Love and happiness isn’t for girls like you.” She pulled her thread taut. “That’s for the daughter of the Laird, for the fancy women in their castles on the Borders, not for you.”
Listening to her father cajoling the hens past the window, she tried to beat down the sense of wanderlust that often gripped her. She’d heard of the Highlands and the Borders, and great settlements where people flocked to trade. What would they be like? How would she feel to be around so many others? What delights would she see?
Esca had told her, when she’d brought the subject up with him, that it was natural to wonder about far-off lands, but it wasn’t natural to travel to them. She was born here, this was her island, and where God wanted her to stay. And of course she knew she must always do what God had planned for her.
Even if it was a destiny that didn’t hold any excitement.
Chapter Two
Halvor pulled on his oar. His shoulders ached; the North Sea had soaked through his boots and he’d be damn happy to get off the longship he’d called home for weeks.
But that wouldn’t be for a while yet. Not with a captain who’d already made one detour to collect slaves and raid grain. It seemed if an island was on the horizon, the Jarl would claim it and everything on it.
“Fuck, this weather is enough to freeze the nipples off a Valkyrie.” Gustav grimaced and swiped at the sea spray collecting on his beard.
“And she’d whip your behind for saying such a thing,” Halvor replied.
Gustav huffed. “I reckon that would be better than being on here.” He nodded forward as he heaved on the oar. “Have they stopped bringing up their food?”
He was referring to the slaves they’d captured on a small strip of land situated on the northern coast of the Hebrides, mainly women, but a few men too. Currently they were huddled together beneath the prow. Occasionally bitterly cold water sloshed over them.
“They’re not seafarers, it takes a few days,” Halvor replied.
The longship lurched to the left as the sails billowed in a squall.
“Heave,” shouted the Jarl, as he held the mast. “Heave on the right.”
He’d spoken in Norse, and Halvor’s brain easily slipped back to his native tongue. But as he obeyed his order, Halvor translated it into Anglo-Saxon dialect, something he and Gustav had learned in order
to better communicate on their travels.
He dug his feet onto the wooden bar in front of him, and tensed as the boat pitched even further. All he could do was hope the keel would do its job.
“We need to get the damn sails down,” Gustav said, battling to hold his oar.
“I agree, my friend.” But the Jarl was stubborn, and continued to allow the dragon ship to roll on the waves, jostling the Viking crew and their captives to the point their bones rattled and their bellies clenched. The sails flicked and flacked, barely knowing which way to billow.
Halvor worked as hard as he could, as did the men around him. They all had one goal in mind—to reach their homeland. They’d raided and conquered without sending a single soul to Valhalla. Halvor wanted to keep it that way.
Night began to encroach. The already gray North Sea took on a deeper, more menacing shade, the curling white seahorse spray catching in the moonlight.
“Bring in the sail,” the Jarl shouted.
“What?” Gustav snapped. “The wind is easing, the sails are driving us forward now.”
Halvor was also confused.
What is the Jarl doing?
The huge red and white sail was quickly secured to the mast. The captives huddled tighter, a few women were sobbing.
Halvor felt bad for their current state—ripped from their families to work on farmsteads, they’d forever be the lowest class, thralls, as they were known. Bound to a life of duty to their new masters and subjected to harsh discipline if not obedient at all times. But equally, and what they didn’t know yet, was most slave owners were fair men, and the homeland was plentiful. They’d be well cared for if they worked hard and were loyal.
“I’m going to take the one with the red hair,” Gustav said suddenly.
“You are?” Halvor was surprised. Gustav already had two slaves working in his family’s longhouse; a male and a female who helped his elderly parents, his brother, and his wife and children.
“Aye, she’s feisty.” He laughed, a gruff chuckle that jigged his shoulders. “And she called me a hairy heathen when I grabbed her.”
“A hairy heathen.” Halvor pulled on his oar. “I think she’s clever rather than feisty.”
“Close your mouth, before I smack you into yonder waves.” Halvor laughed. Though he didn’t feel joyous, he was weary, hungry too.
“Forward bound.” The Jarl pointed at a strip of land ahead. “Heave. Heave.”
“Fuck, we’re having another stop off,” Halvor said.
Gustav spat over the side of the boat. “As if we can carry much more. We’re two bars down in the water as it is.”
“Greed, that’s what it is. Fucking greed.” Halvor shook his head. He didn’t feel like rowing to the distant island, but he had no choice. As a Viking warrior, he was duty bound to follow orders.
The sooner I’m back on my own land the better. Master of everything I survey once more, each and every day.
On and on, Halvor rowed, along with the rest of the crew. As he’d toiled on the sea these last weeks, Halvor had decided to give up his warrior shield and sword and work his land. It was good fertile soil, and he had livestock, currently being cared for by a neighbor.
By the time they’d navigated past several evil-looking rocks and drew up on a narrow strip of beach, the night sky had become a blanket of black velvet.
The base of the boat dragged on the sand. Halvor leaped out, along with Gustav and several other men, the water splashing up to his groin, and pulled on the boat.
“Hurry,” the Jarl said, still standing by the mast. “We may have been seen.”
“I doubt it,” Gustav said over the sound of the crashing waves. “This place is as dead as Odin’s eyes.”
“I saw a light, to the west,” one of the other men said, nodding at the tumble-down cliffs. “Might be a village.”
“Pull!” the Jarl shouted.
Halvor put more energy into heaving the boat up the sand. With the raided supplies on board, as well as the slaves, it took every ounce of effort from him and the other strong men.
The Jarl jumped to the sand, holding up a flame. Shadows danced on his rugged, weatherworn face. His big nose was hooked, and his beard twisted into a thin roped plait that hung from his chin. “We will return home victors,” he said in Norse. Narrowing his eyes, he looked around the group of twelve Vikings. “And also wealthy men. We have taken from the peasants and heathens who labor on these shores. And it is rightfully ours, for we are the masters of the seas, we are the people who are brave enough to traverse the land and the water. The gods reward us for this by making us strong enough to take what we want.”
Halvor stepped from the waves and placed his hands on his hips. He was breathing hard. “Now get your weapons, fill your hearts with courage, for we are going on one last raid.”
“And where will we put it?” Gustav asked loudly.
The Jarl stepped up to him, irritation flashing in his eyes. “We will put it on our boat, with our other gains.”
“She’s low in the water,” Halvor said, standing shoulder to shoulder with Gustav. “We can’t take much more and be certain to make it home.”
The Jarl spun on him. “Are you questioning me?”
Halvor knew damn well he should apologize, step away. But the Jarl’s unquenchable desire to keep on pillaging was becoming exhausting. “Aye, I am.”
“Halvor Stein of Gorstein, do you want to visit Valhalla on this night?” The Jarl placed his hand on the handle of his sword and squared his fur-draped shoulders.
“I will visit Valhalla when the runestones have decided it’s my time.” Halvor tipped his chin, and mimicked the Jarl’s actions by gripping his own sword, which hung sheathed from his belt. “And I will go gladly.” Halvor’s temper was flaring. He could feel it; heat beneath his cold skin, a tightening in his chest, and a narrowing of his peripheral vision.
Gustav shook his head at Halvor.
“You!” the Jarl said, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Will obey me, your Viking captain, and seek out the worth in the village yonder and bring it to me.”
“I have enough goods on the longboat to claim as mine when we land.” Halvor paused. Should he go on? Aye... “Grain, fur, hides, ale to name but a few.”
“To claim them you will need to get through me. I am master of all that sits on that longboat.”
Halvor knew this was true. He also knew the Jarl would continue to terrorize these lands long after he, Halvor, hung up his weapons and sought a quieter life. His fingers tightened on his sword, he pulled it, just a fraction, from its sheath.
The Jarl did the same, an angry grimace spread on his face.
I should kill him, now. Stop his marauding and pillaging.
“Halvor, my friend.” Gustav spoke in Anglo-Saxon dialect, knowing the Jarl understood not a word. “This is not the time or place. We are nearly home, a few more days and you’ll have this behind you. Do not risk punishment or retribution.”
Halvor swallowed. A bitter taste had filled his mouth. It was a mixture of anger and resentment. Being told what to do was not something he could continue with.
“One more time,” Gustav said almost cajolingly.
“What’s he saying?” the Jarl asked in Norse. “Tell me.”
“I am telling him to respect you,” Gustav said, slamming on his silver helmet and his nose protector sliding over his face. “For you are a fine captain with a fine ship.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” The Jarl nodded.
“We should go,” Gustav said, stepping away and reaching for another torch. “Before we lose the element of surprise.” With his gaze set firmly on Halvor he jerked his head toward the beach.
Now Halvor was irritated by Gustav as well as being angry at the Jarl. But there was little he could do about it. Staying back and watching over the slaves on the boat wasn’t an option. That was a weak job and he was arguably the strongest, bravest, and most skilled fighter on the longship.
“
Yes, go, and be fruitful,” the Jarl said, pulling his sword but making no move to leave his ship.
So he’s staying put.
Halvor threw him a glare, knowing he could do nothing about it. Then grabbed his horned helmet, turned and ran over the sand with the other Vikings, toward what appeared to be a cut through in the cliffs.
His legs were stiff; he’d have liked some food in his belly. But that would have to wait.
Under the shelter of night, they made their way over the rocky terrain until it turned into grazed land speckled with fruit bushes and ancient trees. A goat bleated as they ran past it, and an owl hooted from a nearby copse.
Halvor was breathing heavily. His furs and leather tunic weighing him down as his body heated. Add in the heft of his iron sword and shield and he was feeling the weariness of his travels.
But luckily they soon came across the village, which had given itself away to them with candlelight in the windows of small crofters’ homes.
A man to his left threw his torch on the first thatch they came to. Instantly it caught, lighting the sky.
Another Viking to Halvor’s right shoulder-barged a wooden door and drew screams from the occupants.
Within minutes the scene was chaos. Halvor shielded himself from the blow of an axe and then knocked the peasant to the floor with a bang on his head. The man groaned and turned away.
More cottages were alight. Women and children were fleeing like rats escaping a flood, toward the hills. Some made it, but not all. The Viking men he fought with were fast on their feet when it came to catching women.
To his left Gustav was clashing his sword with a tall thin man. Each were grunting and working hard. The local had fire-red hair and a long angular face. Despite appearing delicate, he was putting up a good fight.
Halvor turned to a cottage as yet unaffected by the terror in the village. He marched up to the small narrow door, lifted his leg, and kicked it in the center. It burst open and rattled against the wall.
“Get out, get out, you brute!” A woman’s voice.
But she wouldn’t be without company, he knew that. Females did not live alone in these parts.