Elizabeth McBride (5 page)

Drosten's grip tightened on the jug but he managed to
pour the ale without spilling a drop. Few people dared
speak Fionna's name in his presence. The ale must be loosening Alfred's tongue.

When Drosten settled himself on the bench again, his
face was as blank as a clear mountain loch.

He had intended to say nothing, but the words slipped
from his mouth. "She seems very like Fionna to me."

"Nay, man, think on it. Fionna lied as easily as a squirrel
runs. This one, even though she's been devious with her
father, has been honest with us. Stupidly so, if you ask me."

Drosten considered Alfred's statement. "She is honest,
isn't she?"

"If I were you, you know what I would do?"

Drosten lifted an eyebrow.

"I'd throw her over my shoulder and haul her to the
priest before this day was over."

"Alfred, my friend, even if you were the bonniest warrior
in the province, you'd never get on with a woman that
way."

"And you know a better method for dealing with a bullheaded bride?"

Drosten drained his beaker and stood. "I think I'll have
a talk with her."

"A talk?" Alfred's mouth fell open as he watched his
friend head for the door. "You think you know how to talk
with a woman?"

"Nay." Drosten looked back from the threshold. "But I
know how to wage a war. And that's what we have here."

Drosten's sleeping chamber was sparsely furnished, but
it did contain elements of comfort. The most prominent was
the woven rug that covered most of the stone floor. It had
been dyed a dark purple, and the moment Mhoire and
Grainne had entered the room, they had gazed at it in wonder. Purple dye, made from whelks, was rare and highly
valued; to have a rug of that hue signaled wealth and
prestige. The Picts, Mhoire knew, were a sea-faring people
who traveled far to trade with other countries. Their excursions had obviously brought them riches.

On one side of the chamber was a planked sleeping platform covered with a mattress that had been newly filled
with heather. A low wooden chest stood along the opposite
wall, and a full leather pack sat unceremoniously by the
door. By the worn look of it, Mhoire guessed it was Drosten's. Likely he had dumped it there earlier, not expecting
to be giving over his sleeping chamber to two women.

One long window, its leather covering pulled back, occupied the far wall, and it was there that Mhoire stood,
gazing down the broad cleft of the glen. Puffy clouds
drifted across the sun, and light and shadow dappled the countryside. In the fields, she could see dozens of men scattering seed. With the grace born of repetitive labor, they
reached into the bags slung over their shoulders and then
flung out their arms in wide arcs. Mhoire was too far away
to see the seed itself, but she knew the silky feel of it, the
promise of its weight in the hand. She loved sowing seed.
Sometimes she thought that the only happy times she had
ever had in her father's fort were those spring days when
every able person took to the fields to help plant the year's
crop. Now she ached to be on her own land, planting life
and hope.

Instead, she was wrapped in worry.

The knock on the door made her jump. She turned.

Drosten filled the doorway. He paused for just a moment,
and then took a few steps in, closing the door behind him.
Suddenly, the room seemed tiny.

He fixed his gaze on Mhoire. "I would like a word with
you."

She inclined her head. She wanted a chance to make her
arguments. But she remained by the window, thinking that
if the situation became dire, she could jump out of it.

He took his time looking at her, so she looked at him in
turn. His hair had dried to the color of spun gold, and it
was so tousled she concluded he must have combed it with
his fingers. His ears were exposed, and she was surprised
to note how delicate they were, well-shaped and not overly
large, and flat against his head with silky threads of golden
hair curling around them. They seemed to belie the rest of
him, which radiated a rough strength that Mhoire realized
had an unsettling capacity to fluster her.

Grainne moved to her side. If she had been a dog, she
would have been growling.

"I won't hurt anyone," Drosten stated.

Neither woman responded.

Sighing heavily, Drosten pulled a dagger from under his
belt and held it out to Mhoire, hilt first. She recognized the
bone handle.

"Take it."

She lifted her eyes to his face, but his expression revealed nothing of his motives. Craving the tiny bit of protection her weapon provided, she slowly reached out. His
hand was as large as the rest of him, brown from the sun,
with long, capable fingers. As she grasped the dagger, her
fingers grazed his. They were firm, callused, and warm. She
felt a shock when she touched them, and quickly pulled
back.

At Mhoire's nod, Grainne slipped out of the room.

Drosten gestured toward the bed with his chin. "Please,
sit."

She shook her head. He towered over her as it was.

Drosten sighed again and lowered himself onto the chest.
"As you choose."

An awkward silence ensued. Mhoire had expected anger,
perhaps even violence. Not this utterly calm reserve.

She cleared her throat. "You wished a word with me?"

He nodded.

"Well?" she prompted.

Drosten folded his arms across his broad chest. Mhoire
noticed that he was still wearing the dirty tunic he had
pulled on after he climbed out of his bath. All his clean
clothes were here, in his sleeping chamber, she realized.
Acutely aware of the intimacy of the setting, she blushed
furiously.

"I would like you to explain your actions." His voice,
tinged with a Pictish accent, was as serene as if he were
talking about the weather. His eyes, however, were penetrating.

She looked down at the dagger. How could she tell her
story in a way that he would understand? How could she
possibly explain how much Dun Darach meant to her? And
why should he care?

He won't care. That's the truth of it. No one gives a
mare's tail for a woman's desires.

Desperately, she cast about for the right words, the convincing words.

She attempted to match his equanimity. "Your clan would be wiser to align more closely with the clans of the
other Pictish provinces than to attempt friendship with an
old enemy."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But since we haven't managed
it yet, I doubt we could manage it now. Oftentimes it is
easier to bed with a stranger than a relative."

Mhoire's face flamed again. His analogy was far too apt.

One argument gone. She tried another.

"I am only the daughter of a very minor king. Given
your rank. . ." She gestured vaguely with the hand that held
the dagger. "... you could marry a woman in a much
higher position."

He nodded. "Aye, I could."

"Why don't you?"

"My clan has asked me to do this."

"But why? Why me? I don't understand. You could have
any woman."

"Not every woman has Dun Darach."

Dun Darach. The words stabbed at her heart. She willed
herself to maintain control. Still, her voice filled with emotion.

"Why do you want it so much?" she asked.

He looked at her with intense curiosity. "We need to
defend the coast from the Danes. It's as simple as that. Why
do you want it?"

She looked down again, blinking her eyes and running
her thumb along the smooth bone of the dagger's handle.
Tears were close, but she would not allow him to see them.

When she had regained her composure, she met his gaze.
"I want to have a life there. My own life."

His eyes hardened. "None of us has our own life."

The words cut her to the bone. He spoke the truth. And
the truth shattered all her fragile dreams.

Mhoire turned and faced the window. She rested the dagger on the ledge, gripped her hands together, and rested
them there as well. Waves of sadness broke over her. Fear,
despair, and an unnamable emptiness-all the emotions she
had carried for so many years-pressed on her shoulders. All she wanted was a bit of land. Surely that was not so
much to ask for. She stared at the fields, tried to focus on
the men who were sowing seed. But they were farther away
now, and she could barely make out their forms.

She was aware of Drosten rising and stepping toward
her, but she was too burdened by grief to feel endangered.
At that moment, he could have cut off her head and she
wouldn't have cared.

"What kind of life did you imagine?" His voice was surprisingly gentle.

"I thought ..." Her voice shook. She could hear it and
she hated it. She drew a tremulous breath and tried again.
"I wanted ... I wanted an ordinary life. I brought seed ..."
She could not stop the waver. Mother of God, don't let me
cry!

He waited for her to continue, but she could not.

"You thought to do this alone?" he probed.

She nodded. Discreetly, she hoped, she wiped the tears
from her eyes with the back of her hand. "You think that
it is foolish for a woman to live on her holding alone?"

"I think it is unusual and very dangerous."

Mhoire prickled at that. She turned to face him. He was
near. Very near, and watching her closely. Her heartbeat
quickened.

"I can protect myself."

He glanced at the dagger lying on the window ledge.
"You would need more than that."

She lifted her chin. "I have other weapons, and I know
how to use them."

An eyebrow went up. His brows were very fine, she noticed. A shade of golden brown darker than his hair.

"You would fight off a thousand men, then?"

"If I had to." Her voice was firmer now. "I would try."

He looked skeptical.

"Do you know Scathach?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Scathach was the greatest teacher of warriors in the
world. She taught Cuchulain the secrets of battle. How to hurl a spear, how to sight an arrow from three hundred
paces, how to leap over his enemies, how to scream until
men fainted. Scathach was a woman, and she could fight
better than any man."

Drosten's mouth turned down. "If you believe yourself
as strong as Scathach, you will be killed within a fortnight."

Mhoire's spine snapped straight. She opened her mouth
as if to blurt a reply, but thought better of it and pressed
her lips together. In her experience, men were not capable
of acknowledging a woman's strength.

Running his hand through his hair, Drosten turned away
and took a few steps toward the center of the room. When
he faced her, his jaw was set in a determined line.

"Your father made an agreement with my clan."

Reluctantly, Mhoire nodded.

"You expected us to allow you to break it."

She could see anger sparkling in his eyes. "I believed
that if I returned to you what was yours, we could sever
the agreement."

He put his hands on his hips. "Tell me this. Do women
ever keep their promises?"

"I myself made no promise."

"No promise? No promise, you say? My father risked
his life to travel to Ireland. Your father gave his word you
would be delivered to us. And Dun Darach, too."

Mhoire stood immobile, afraid to say a word that might
ignite a rage whose consequences she could not predict.
She watched Drosten struggle to contain himself, and was
relieved to see him succeed.

"Did the Danes ever attack your father's fort?" he finally
asked.

She shook her head.

"Well, let me tell you what it is like. They descend like
a fire from the sky, burning fields, homes, haystacks, everything in sight. They slaughter every man-old, sick, enfeebled, it doesn't matter. Then they gather the women and
children, and that's when they have their sport. The women
are raped, in full sight of the young ones, by man after man, and if they don't die from it, they're herded onto
dragonships and brought back to Daneland as slaves. As
for the children ..." His voice stumbled and recovered.
"The children are enslaved as well, or they are left, to survive as best they can."

Mhoire paled. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

In the space between them, horrific images danced.

"Surely you can see that we must stop them."

Mhoire bowed her head and said nothing.

Drosten blew out an exasperated breath and ran his hand
through his hair. He began pacing the room. Despite his
anger, Mhoire no longer felt threatened, at least not physically. If he had been inclined to use force, he wouldn't be
spending this much time talking to her. She wondered why
he was.

He stopped suddenly, turned to her, and cocked his head.
"Didn't you expect to marry? Every woman must."

"Why? Why must every woman marry?"

"Because that is how clans forge friendships. It is how
debts are repaid. It is how the world works. Marriage is a
duty." He paused and narrowed his eyes. "Or do you not
understand duty?"

"I understand duty full well," she answered sharply, "and
I have carried out my duties as I have been expected. But
I can no longer let duty rule my life."

"Tell me this then. What is ruling your life?"

Mhoire hesitated. She had never considered the question,
but the answer leapt to her mind like a dolphin rising from
the sea.

"Honor."

"Honor? You call these actions honorable?" His eyes
widened in disbelief.

"Aye, I do."

"It is honorable to lie to your father, to mislead our clan,
to bring shame on your own clan?"

Mhoire blanched. "I honor myself."

He had no answer to that, but gaped at her for a long
moment as if she were a strange animal whose countenance he could not fathom. Then, with a heavy sigh, he took to
striding again.

Back and forth he went across the room, his strong arms
folded across his chest and his eyes directed at the floor.
His brows pulled together in a deep V of concentration,
and Mhoire could practically hear his mind working.