Far After Gold (10 page)

Perspiration dampened her palms and she wiped them on the mattress before she resumed her stitching. She was drawn to Flane. But sometimes she was scared of him, too. He could break her neck like snapping a twig if the thought took him. She remembered telling him he must marry her, and the sheer audacity of it made her hands clammy once more.

As far as she could calculate, nine days had passed since she was seized from Pabaigh. She was well fed and reasonably comfortable. No one had raped her, though she feared it may happen before long. Would it be so awful if it was Flane who—who bedded her? A thrill rippled through her belly at the thought, and heat flamed through her skin.

It might not be the worst thing that could happen to her. Emer broke the thread, put the needle carefully back on the shelf, stiffened her spine and walked into the hall.

***

Flane and other young men vanished from the hall after they had eaten and roared back in a long time later. They were all in a jovial mood, and Flane came directly to his sleeping place. “We’ve been teaching each other wrestling holds,” he said, throwing himself down on the mattress. He rolled over and almost squashed Grendel, who let out a sharp yip of complaint. Oli sat up in alarm. Flane peered over his shoulder at the dog, which wagged its tail hopefully.

“This bed space is crowded,” Flane said. “Oli, go to your own space. Take that flea-bitten dog with you.”

Oli did not move except to push out his bottom lip. “Can’t I stay here?”

Emer could smell ale on Flane’s breath, and twinges of alarm raced through her. “Let him stay, Flane.”

Flane looked at the two anxious faces and shook his head. “I’m tired of being squashed in my own bed space. It wasn’t built for three.” His glance flicked to Grendel. “Or four.”

“But I don’t—”

“Please, Flane, let Oli stay—”

“No!”

Flane was adamant. Oli stuck out his lip even further and trudged across the hall to his own space. Grendel leapt lightly off the mattress and followed his master. Before Oli reached his small corner, he turned and gave them a cheery wave.

Flane turned to Emer. “He doesn’t mind, you know. I kick him out whenever I want some privacy, and he knows it.”

“Privacy? What do you want…?” Emer’s voice faded away as she looked at Flane’s grinning face. “Oh.”

“Oh? Can you not summon a little more enthusiasm than that?” He patted the mattress. “Come and lie beside me. I have a fancy to kiss you.”

Emer looked out across the hall and tried to hide her flutter of panic. Already the hall settled down for the night. The slaves stacked the fire so it would last until morning and even the noisy young men had subsided. People snuffed candles and others drew the curtain across their sleeping space. Her stomach roiled and curled, and she turned back to find Flane watching her.

“I thought we had a bargain?” she said softly.

His smile faded. “I made no promises.”

“But you said you would not force me until we were wed. Flane, you are a man of honour, aren’t you?”

Flane hesitated, and then nodded.

“Well, you should abide by that.” Emer heard the sharpness in her voice and saw his lids lower slightly over his blue eyes. He liked neither her words nor her tone. She should take care not to tell him what he ought to do. Her brother had hated it when he was twelve and Flane was…a man grown. Her teeth nibbled at her lip.

“I really don’t think you are in any position to dictate what happens here,” he said.

“I’m not, of course I’m not.” Her voice shook with sudden anxiety as she tried to gloss over her error. “And you could force me, if you wished, I know you could. But please, Flane, I beg you not to.” She clasped her hands together beneath her chin and widened her eyes as she did when she wanted her father’s agreement on something. “Give me a little more time.”

He stared back, a faint, single line between his brows. “You ask the impossible,” he muttered. “You must know by now I am to marry Katla. Her father has no sons to lead the band after him. Whoever marries Katla will do that.”

Emer shut her eyes and searched her mind for arguments. “You want the leadership, so you must take Katla?”

He nodded.

“You knew that all along! You knew it when you dragged me from Dublin! Why? Why did you do that?”

He reached out a hand to touch her cheek. “I liked what I saw.”

Emer flinched away from him. “My life is…” She clamped her lips together before she said too much. Her life may be ruined, but then it wasn’t Flane who had taken her from her island home. “Please wait another day or two,” she begged, drawing in a long, shaky breath. “Just until I know you better.”

His expression suggested he was not going to change his mind. Fear made her blood race, filled her with recklessness. She scrambled off the bed platform and sprang away from him. “I’ll sleep somewhere else and then it won’t matter, for you know what they say—out of sight, out of mind.”

“Don’t be such a fool—” He lunged across the bed, but Emer whirled and headed for the door. In moments she wrenched it open and disappeared into the darkness.

Flane very nearly shouted, but caught himself in time. Shouting would draw attention to her, and he didn’t want that. He glanced across at Gamel’s alcove. He didn’t want Gamel prowling after her.

Perhaps he ought to go and see where she’d got to. He slid to the edge of the bed, and then hesitated. She would no doubt run to the barns or stables and sleep in the straw. Let her have it her way for a day or two longer. She’d be worth waiting for, and she’d not find a bed out there anywhere near as comfortable as his. He was ready to bet that come morning, she’d be sorry she had left him. He lay back on the bed, which now seemed very large indeed, and put his hands behind his head.

When had he ever had to wait longer than a week for a girl to want him?

Chapter Six

Emer woke soon after dawn. Raw grey light slanted through the gaps around the door. She lifted her head and glanced at her two female companions, nothing more than humped shapes beneath their tattered blankets. Land slaves, worn and tired with a life of drudgery, they had neither welcomed her nor turned her away when she arrived as the last light faded from the sky. If it had been winter she suspected they would have fought her for the ragged blanket they’d given her.

She let her head fall back against the uncomfortable rolled bundle of her gown.

The women’s snores had punctuated what little sleep she’d managed in the dark cabin, and their lives presented a chilling picture of what she might face unless she could escape. The harsh wool blanket scratched and itched against her throat as she turned her head. Unable to bear it any longer, Emer got up, seized her gown and left the cabin as quietly as she could.

The sun had risen above the hills in the east. Emer shook out her gown, pulled it over her head and set out for the hall, raking through her hair with her fingers as she went. No one was about yet. She hesitated, and turned to face the rising sun. She shut her eyes, raised her hands, palm out and cleared her mind.

God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me…

She recited the whole of the small prayer twice, and felt better. In all the upheaval and terror, she had forgotten her formal prayers for the last few days. She would remember them from now on. If she screamed for help in moments of terror, it was only fair that she paid her dues on a regular basis.

She splashed her face and hands in a bucket of cold water, and wished she could shed her clothes and wash all over to be rid of the itching. She wasn’t sure if the itching was real or imaginary, but when she lifted the hem of her gown, she discovered a round pink lump on her calf and scratched it vigorously.

The creak of the wooden door alerted her. She turned. Flane, with folded arms and a wide grin, leaned against the hall’s carved doorpost.

Irritation flooded her. She dropped her skirts and straightened. It would have to be Flane who saw her do something so undignified. He didn’t look as if he had slept well, and a small burst of pleasure rushed through her. It was mean spirited, but she didn’t feel very generous. He deserved several nights without sleep for not keeping to his side of their bargain.

He walked towards her, drifted to a halt and eyed her warily. His bright hair was tousled, and there were shadows under his eyes. His tunic of coarse woven grey-green linen looked old, but nothing disguised the lean strength of his body. He took a deep breath, and let it go slowly. His mouth twitched as if he tried not to smile. “You look…rumpled.”

“It’s no wonder I’m rumpled, thanks to you. After a night in that miserable cabin I feel as if every flea in Skuli’s Steading is leaping about my person.”

“It was your decision to leave my bed,” he said mildly. “You need a comb again, too.” He plucked a piece of straw from her hair and tapped it against her nose.

Emer slapped his hand aside.

“Here.” He fumbled in the leather pouch at his belt, and held out a sturdy wooden comb. “Keep it.”

She snatched the comb, bent forward, swept her hair over her head and jerked the comb through it in rough, hasty strokes.

“If you…Emer, you should go to the washing hut.”

Emer swung her chestnut hair back over her shoulders, grabbed a hank in her fist and continued combing the free end.

He pointed in the direction of the loch. “You know where it is. You’d feel clean afterwards. In fact,” he added, “I could do with a wash myself. I’ll come as well.”

Emer stopped combing. The offer was tempting, but there were certain drawbacks. She tilted her head and gazed up at him. “Don’t you think Katla would object?”

He surveyed her lazily, and then swung round and indicated the quietness of the steading. “There’s no one up yet to see where we go.” His shoulders lifted and dropped. “Katla will feel the back of my hand if she dares object to anything I do.”

“But then she’ll only take it out on me, won’t she? And I can’t retaliate.”

“Don’t tell me you are scared of her.”

“But I ought to be,” Emer said slowly. “She could have me killed.”

“She wouldn’t dare. You are my property.”

“Accidents happen. You can’t expect to be there all the time. Flane, be serious!”

He shook his head, still smiling and with both hands on her shoulders, turned her towards the water. He did not speak as they turned west along the waterside towards the square timber cabin on the bank side. The tide was in, and the water lapped beneath the boards overhanging the loch. The smell of smoke and pine met her nose as they walked inside.

Flane took flint and striker out of his belt pouch. Dry grass and kindling had been left ready for use and she watched him nurse a spark in a ball of grass and blow on it. He had the most attractive hands, long-fingered and shapely. When wisps of smoke turned to flame, he slid the ball gently beneath the kindling.

Emer stepped outside onto wooden planking and could not help smiling. The hills rose on all sides, and the loch, as smooth as a sheet of silver, reflected them. She stared down through water so still and clear she could see each small round golden stone on the bottom. They glinted in the strengthening sunlight.

When she turned back inside, Flane crouched over the fire holding a spill to a small soapstone lamp. He had removed his tunic. As the flame caught and flared, golden light glittered in his hair and smoothed his shoulders. She suddenly understood Katla’s feelings for him, and knew she wasn’t entirely immune herself.

“What are you doing?” Even her voice sounded odd.

“I’ve lit the fire. Now I’m lighting a lamp. Soon we’ll be able to see what we’re doing.” He blew out the spill and, still kneeling, reached up to place the glowing lamp on a convenient shelf.

The breath left her lungs before she was ready for it. At full stretch, muscles and tendons slid beneath his skin and he was beautiful. “I can see that.” She sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “But why?”

He looked round, blue eyes bright in the lamp glow. “Wouldn’t you like to wash in warm water?”

“Yes, but—”

“But we don’t have time, I know. But if we take the chill off the water, it will be much more pleasant.”

“Oh.”

“If you look in those jars, you’ll find soap.” He nodded towards a range of pottery jars in orderly ranks beside the wall. “But you probably remember them from your time with the women.”

Anxious to have something to do, Emer marched across the room, stooped, lifted a lid at random, dipped a finger and rubbed the pale substance between finger and thumb. It was soap, but she pulled a face at the smell.

He must have noticed her expression. “It’s a bit harsh, but it does the job. Some of the women bring their own soap. They like to perfume it.”

“My mother used summer flowers and herbs.”

A silence followed, and Emer turned. His hands stilled, his eyes lost focus and sadness crept into every line of his face. Did he see something beyond the hut and the fire? What moved in his thoughts? Memories of his mother, lost so long ago? He blinked, shook his head as if to clear it and the softness vanished as if it had never been. He handed her an empty beaker.

“Since that’s all we have,” he nodded towards the soap jar, “we’ll use it. Put some in there.”

“Are you going to use it, too?”

“Of course.”

He fed more sticks to his fire. Left to her own devices, Emer glanced round the small, pine-fragrant cabin. A few sheepskins lay folded in one corner, several three-legged stools stood in another and several bowls waited on shelves. “There are no towels.”

“I’ll use my tunic to dry off. I could do with a clean one.”

Emer remembered she had no clothes other than the ones she wore. “You have a clean tunic? Lucky you.”

He registered her sarcasm in one swift, sharp glance.

“Some of us,” she added, “have only the one garment to our name.” She shrugged. “We have to borrow a comb, too.”

“Not anymore,” he said briefly added another stick to the fire.

She wished he had not removed his tunic. The fire glow lit every curve of rib and shoulder, and followed the wonderful play of muscles. Emer grabbed one of the stools, sat on it and combed her hair for something to do. She glanced at him once or twice, but he seemed lost in thought.