Elizabeth McBride (8 page)

"Aye. It's the best vantage point." Drosten wiped his
knife on the hem of his tunic. "We'll want to keep a watch
posted all night, in case we get unexpected visitors."

"What about the women? They've made their hiding hole
in that godforsaken cave."

"We'll let them stay there tonight. Tomorrow we'll put
a roof on this place and bring them up here."

Alfred gave Drosten a skeptical look. "You think the
Irishwoman will let you order them about?"

"Nay." Drosten rummaged around in his pack and pulled
out a whetstone. "I think the Irishwoman would throw herself over a cliff before she'd let me tell her what to do. But
I'll wager that after spending one night in that cold, wet cave, she'll think that moving into a newly thatched gathering hall is the best idea she's ever come up with."

"Is this another one of your strategies? Get her to think
it's her idea to sleep in the hall?"

"Itis.,,

"Hmmph."

For a few moments, Alfred watched Drosten's hands as
he ran his knife across the whetstone. The Pictish leader
seemed unusually intent on the job, drawing the knife
across the stone slightly more forcefully than was necessary.

"That companion of hers is a devil-woman, if you ask
me," Alfred finally announced. "Just a little while ago, I
asked her for a pot to cook in. Just a simple pot to boil the
deer livers in, mind you, and she near killed me with her
questions. `What do you want it for?' she asked. `And how
long do you intend to keep it?ff 'And why didn't you bring
your own?' You'd think the thing was made of gold." Alfred shook his head. "Irishwomen! A plague on them, I
say."

There was no reply.

Alfred cast his gaze over the half-tumbled wall. "It's a
woeful sight, this. Your father surprised me-consenting to
this alliance with Colman. He's bending his pride, he is."

"He's doing what has to be done."

"The Irish lass didn't know about the burning, did she?"

"Obviously not."

"She'll never get this place to thrive on her own. But
you knew that all along, didn't you?"

Drosten said nothing and kept working the knife against
the stone.

"It's women like her who drive me to the brink," Alfred
continued. "Got too many notions in them. Makes them
unpredictable. Steady and true, that's what I like."

Drosten didn't answer.

"Do you think she wants to be a nun?"

"She's no nun."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"Hmm. Maybe she's a witch, then."

"Alfred. Don't be daft."

"Well, it's witches who live alone."

Drosten ran his thumb along the blade again.

"Maybe she's running from another man."

Drosten started and pricked his skin. Another man? A
bead of blood bubbled up. He sucked on his thumb. What
other man?

"Uh, oh," Alfred muttered. "Here comes trouble herself."

Drosten looked up, his thumb in his mouth. Mhoire was
marching toward them, her lips set, a flush high on her
cheekbones. His heart began to thud in his chest.

She stopped a few feet from him. "May I speak with you
alone, please?"

Drosten opened his mouth and turned to Alfred, but his
friend had drifted away.

He held up his hands, one holding the knife and the other
the whetstone. "Here I am." He smiled, but Mhoire didn't
notice.

"You tricked me."

Drosten's gut went cold. "I did not."

Her eyes were as gray as smoke, but he could see the
fire smoldering within them. He could happily burn in it,
he realized.

"You knew Dun Darach had been destroyed."

"Aye. Do you think my clan would have agreed to our
union without evaluating what we would get from it?"

"Why didn't you tell me? You heard me talk about Dun
Darach with hope in my heart. You must have suspected I
was ignorant of this."

Drosten tossed the whetstone on his pack. Then he
slipped the dagger into the sheath on his belt. "I suspected,
aye."

"And you said nothing." She searched out his eyes until
they met hers. "You said nothing. And you made this ...
this deal, knowing what impossible odds I would face here." She drew a shaky breath. Tears welled in her eyes.
"That, sir, was not fair."

Drosten raised both eyebrows. "Not fair? Let me tell you
this. If you want to act like a man, you must do battle like
a man. I need Dun Darach, not for myself but for the welfare of my country, and I will do what I must to get it. And
don't think you can melt my heart with tears because you
won't."

Mhoire averted her gaze and blinked rapidly. "These are
not tears! You will never see me cry!"

They stood silently. Neither looked at the other.

After a few moments, Drosten ran his hand through his
hair and stole a glance at Mhoire. Her body was as rigid
as a broomstick, except for her hair, which had loosened
in long, curling tendrils around her face. He couldn't see
the expression in her eyes, which were cast in the direction
of the sea. Only the profile of her long, dark lashes.

"You would have accepted the bargain anyway."

She drew a deep breath. He watched her breast rise and
fall. "Aye, I would have. Still, you must have enjoyed hearing my foolish dreams and watching them get blown to
bits."

He studied her a moment. She seemed thoroughly sickened by him. His own anger ebbed and despondency returned. Ordinarily, another person's opinion of him had
about as much weight as the shavings off his knife. But he
hated the fact that Mhoire believed him to be so foul.

"I would have you know that I never revel in another
person's sorrow. Never."

She raised cold eyes to his. "Then pray tell me why you
torment us with this meat."

"Torment you?" His brows drew together. "What are you
talking about?"

"You know how hungry these women are. We can smell
this venison cooking even from the cave."

"Everyone is welcome to partake of it. There is plenty."

"I see." Mhoire nodded stiffly. "Of course it is in your
interest to win the favor of the women."

Drosten flushed. He opened his mouth to reply but closed
it when he noticed Oran scampering toward them.

"Mhoire!" She came to a breathless halt beside them.
"Supper is ready!"

Mhoire leaned down, laid her hand on the girl's fair
head, and smiled. Drosten's heart skipped a beat.

"Thank you, Oran," Mhoire said. "I'll come now."

The child slipped her hand into Mhoire's and turned to
Drosten. "Did you fell the deer, Drosten?"

"One of them, aye."

Excitement lit her eyes. "We killed a deer once. It was
in the winter and there was much snow on the ground. The
deer was limping, and it couldn't run in the snow. So we
circled it. We didn't have a spear so we smashed its head
with a stone." Suddenly serious, Oran's voice lowered.
"My grandmother said that was not a bad thing. She said
God had sent us the deer because we were so hungry and
we must take it any way we could."

Drosten dropped to his haunches before her and rested
his arms on his knees. "Your grandmother was right, little
one. And if the deer was injured, it was a mercy to kill it."

Oran stared at him soberly and then she brightened. "It
was very tasty. We ate every bit." Her eyes widened. "Your
deer smells as good as our deer did."

Drosten dared not respond to that.

"Mhoire brought us apples so we're having those for
supper."

Rising, he glanced at Mhoire, who was looking at the
child and biting her lip. "That sounds very good as well,"
he said.

"Would you like to eat with us and have some? You
could tell us how you killed the deer."

"Thank you, little one," Drosten answered gently. "But
I should stay up here with the men."

"Oh." Oran's face fell.

Drosten risked another look at Mhoire. This time she met
his eyes with a strained expression and gave a tiny nod.

Drosten squatted before Oran again. "Perhaps you would
like some of this venison to go along with your apples?"

Oran's eyes widened even more. "Oh, aye! I would like
that very much." She stole a look at Mhoire before adding
shyly, "Would there be enough for my mother, and for
Mhoire, and the others, too?"

"There is plenty enough for us all," Drosten responded,
rising. "Run along now, and as soon as it's cooked, one of
the men will bring some down to the cave."

Oran smiled broadly and looked up at Mhoire, tugging
on her hand. "Can we go back now? I want to tell the
others."

Mhoire gave Oran a half-smile in return. Then she met
Drosten's eyes and held them with a look that set his heart
once again a-thudding.

They walked away hand in hand, the child babbling, the
woman leaning toward her in response. Mhoire's parting
expression had been inscrutable, but for once Drosten
hadn't detected any anger in it. It was a small thing, but
he cradled the memory against his chest as he would a tiny,
fragile animal.

Mhoire did not sleep much that night. The cave was so
cold it made her teeth chatter, the ground oozed with mud,
and frigid water dripped from the ceiling. Although she
wrapped her wool mantle tightly about her, it could not
keep away the chill nor the demons that swirled in the black
night air.

She rose at first light with her thoughts gnawing at her
conscience the way a rat gnaws on bone. What right had
she to try to make her own way? To reject a marriage that
would help others? To put her desires above their needs?
She was doing something terribly wrong, asking for something she shouldn't be asking for, causing too much trouble.
But, merciful God, when she thought of a future like her
mother's, it seemed as black as any cave and just as frightening.

She carried out the morning's activities numbly. It was Grainne who got the women organized. They looked over
the fields together and decided which plots of land would
be the best to plant with the seed Mhoire had brought. The
moon was waxing, which meant it was a good time for
sowing, and everyone was eager to begin.

By the time they had made their plans, the day was half
over, and the women dispersed to tackle the necessary
chores. Grainne had her own plan. At first light she had
noticed that the men were felling timber and gathering
bentgrass, and she had pestered Alfred until he confessed
that Drosten was intent on thatching the roof of the gathering hall before the day was done.

"If there's going to be a roof on your hall, then you have
a right to sleep under it," she asserted to Mhoire, after the
women had left them alone in the fields below the fort.

"I suppose so," Mhoire answered absently. She was gazing at a grove of trees to the north, set like a dark green
jewel in the grassy countryside.

"I'm going to find Drosten and tell him that we're moving our things out of that horrid cave and into the hall, and
we don't care what he thinks of it." She noticed Mhoire's
preoccupation. "Why don't you go for a walk to that grove?
It will do you good to move about."

"I keep wondering if those are oak trees," Mhoire mused.
"Dun Darach-'Fort of the Oaks,' remember?"

"You go on. Don't worry about us." She tapped a long,
bony finger on Mhoire's chest. "We don't need any men."

Mhoire gave her another slight smile and then slowly
walked off.

Rather than plunge across the overgrown fields, she
headed for the beach. The sand was damp there, and her
soft leather boots sunk into it only a little. Still, the weight
of her worries hung heavy on her shoulders.

Rock pipits hopped among the rocks in the water close
to shore as she trudged along. A little farther off, the sleek,
dark heads of seals bobbed in the swells.

After half a mile, she left the beach and struck inland,
cutting across the weedy fields and pastures to the grove, which was tucked into a great green hollow. A flat-topped
stone wall enclosed the entrance.

Mhoire went through the gate and found herself amongst
not oaks, but cherry trees. A cluster here. A cluster there.
Upright, slender, and graceful. In the center of the hollow
stood a small stone building. As Mhoire approached, she
noticed the roof was missing, and the interior lay empty.
Nila, the older woman who had watched her so steadily the
day before, sat on a bench against the outer wall.

Mhoire lowered herself beside her. "What is this place?"
she asked softly.

"St. Blane's Chapel."

They faced the low side of the hollow. Directly before
them, a little distance beyond the stone wall, rose the large,
hummocky hill Mhoire had noticed when she had first approached the hillfort.

"The fairy hill," she said, nodding toward it.

Nila smiled. "The monks named it Suidhe Bhlain-St.
Blane's Hill-after they arrived many generations ago. But,
aye, it's a fairy hill."

Mhoire glanced at her. Although Nila was Elanta's
mother, in some ways the two were very different. Elanta
was fair and thin as thread; Nila was stocky, almost squareshaped, with iron-gray hair. Elanta carried an air of earthy
femininity; Nila seemed veiled in mystery.

"Is this where you hid from the Danes?" Mhoire asked.

"Aye. There is a root cellar behind us in the cliff. The
Danes burned the chapel, as you can see. And they killed
all the monks."

"Killed the monks? My God!"

"The Danes are pagan, child. They wanted the gold chalices and the silver crosses. The monks would not easily
give them up."

They talked for a while. Dun Darach had been a crossroads, Nila explained, with ships constantly sailing past.
Tradesmen had brought coriander and dill from France;
nuts, dates, and sweetmeats from the Mediterranean. In turn, Dun Darach and the other surrounding holdings had
exported leather, eider down, and furs.

"The destruction of the hillfort and the chapel was a
grievous blow," Mhoire noted.

Nila nodded gravely.