Elizabeth McBride (10 page)

"Won't have nothing to do with women, either," Brian
said, lifting his brows. "The fathers, they all want him to
marry their daughters. His mother was the daughter of a
king, you see, so he's in the royal line. Quite eligible, you might say. But Drosten, he won't as much look at a woman
twice."

"Women! Bah!" Fergus spit out. "Here's a man who's
had no mother since he was a wee thing. How could he
not be a little rough around the edges? You'd think a
woman would expect that, wouldn't you?" He looked
around at his companions for confirmation. Their heads
bobbed.

"What happened to his mother?" The words slipped out
of Mhoire's mouth before she could stop them.

The men grew silent. Brian looked down at his hands
and fidgeted.

"Did she die?" she persisted.

"He doesna like us to talk about it." The other men
shifted in their positions. Fergus scratched his head.

Elanta bent toward Brian. "Please tell us what happened."

Brian fumbled with his spoon. "I canna. It's not a thing
to be spoken of. Has to do with the Danes, you see. Drosten's mother was killed, and his sister stolen away."

Mhoire stared at Brian, stunned.

"Did they find her?" Elanta asked.

"The sister? Nay. Never. Gormach went to Daneland
many times, looking. Drosten did, too, when he was older.
They hired spies." Brian shook his head sadly. "Never
found her."

" 'Twas a tragedy, that's for sure." Fergus shook his
head. His face crumpled like old linen. "My family-myself, my father, my mother, my brothers-we was all in
the hills with the cattle that summer. That's how we missed
it." He sighed. "Drosten's mother, she was a good woman.
Kind to everyone. Never a harsh word from her. Smart as
a druid. She was the one that ran the holding, truth be told."

"How old was he when this happened?" Elanta asked.

"Drosten?" Brian looked at Fergus. "Nine years, perhaps?"

"More like seven," Fergus corrected glumly. "At most.
Just a wee thing he was. Still gives him nightmares. Tis why he sleeps by himself. Outside. Doesna want to wake
us."

They all quieted, contemplating the horror of Fergus's
words. Mhoire understood the agony of a mother dying.
And his sister gone, too.

"Why do you say Drosten never forgave himself?" Brigit
asked. "The poor lad. He was only a child. What could he
have done to fight off the Danes?"

Brian looked at Fergus and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Fergus tightened his lips and shook his head.

Suddenly, a voice boomed from the doorway. "What are
you doing in here?"

Every head bent upward.

Drosten loomed on the threshold, brows lowered, his
head almost scraping the lintel. But for an instant Mhoire
saw past his intimidating figure. She imagined the boy behind the man, as tender as new-grown grass, and wondered
how much pain still writhed within him.

"What is going on here?" He growled a command, but
Mhoire didn't understand it. His men did, and they scrambled to their feet. Drosten pointed to the door, and they
sheepishly filed out.

"Do you know what he's saying?" Mhoire whispered to
Elanta.

"I don't know. It must be the old Pictish language. It's
what the Picts spoke before the monks came and taught
them Gaelic."

Mhoire rose and eyed Drosten warily. He had stopped
speaking and was frowning at the doorway through which
the men had disappeared. "There is no need to shout, Drosten. Your men have done nothing wrong. I'll have no raised
voices in this hall."

He turned. His blues eyes flared.

"First of all, I am not shouting. Secondly, I have men
out in that courtyard who have been up all night guarding
this fort and they need to be relieved. We're in a dangerous
situation, and I won't have soldiers lolling over their porridge bowls."

Mhoire's chin went up. Damn the man! He may have suffered losses, but he had certainly covered them up with
a thick, insolent attitude. "No one asked you to stand a
guard."

"Do you want to be killed in your sleep?" His voice held
a cutting tone she had never heard in it before.

"Nay, I don't fancy dying in the night. A guard is useful.
But it's not us you're guarding. It's yourselves. The fort
wouldn't require a guard if there weren't so many large
male creatures in it to attract attention. These women, remember, have managed to live here quietly and without
incident for a long time."

"Well, we're here now. And I don't want your women
distracting my men from their duties."

"Distracting! They're the ones lingering about and telling
stories and keeping people from doing their work."

"And-" one golden brow lifted-"what were you doing?"

"I? Nothing! Elanta offered your men porridge, and they
took it. I did not wish her to make the offer."

"Then it appears you need to exercise more control over
your women."

"As you do over your men?"

Drosten's head snapped back. "I will instruct my men to
stay away from your women, and they will obey me." His
eyes began to burn like a kindling fire, and she felt a flash
of satisfaction.

"You want to make this fort prosper by yourself-fine,"
he continued. "You say you don't want any help. Fine. We
won't give you any. But I won't risk getting my head cut
off, and I will do what I think I have to do to keep this
fort safe."

"Fine. Do what you have to do. Just remember we don't
need your help."

Drosten's hard jaw tensed. He nodded.

Mhoire nodded.

Elanta cleared her throat. "Er, Mhoire. We could use a
little help with food."

Mhoire whipped around to face her. "We'll hunt our own
food."

Elanta flushed and bowed her head.

Mhoire turned back to Drosten. "It's settled then."

Drosten made for the door.

"Wait!" Oran chirped. "I have an idea!"

Heads swiveled to look at the little girl sitting on the
floor.

"Listen," Oran continued, jumping to her feet. "This is
my idea." She hopped from one foot to the other, like a
little bird. "Whatever Drosten fells, we cook. And whatever
we fell, he cooks. And everybody gets to eat everything!"
She lifted her hands, palms up, as if to show how simple
a scheme it was.

Mhoire frowned. It was not such a bad arrangement. If
they did what Oran was suggesting, both sides would be
making an equal contribution to the welfare of the group.
They all had to eat. And she was fully confident of her
bow-hunting skills. She looked over at Drosten.

He shrugged. "I'll do it if you will. I wouldn't mind the
taste of a woman's cooking for a change."

Mhoire arched an eyebrow. "A woman's cooking? You
think you'll be the one to get all the game?"

Drosten blinked. Then he grasped her meaning. "And
you think you will?"

"I think you may find yourself doing considerably more
cooking than you anticipate."

Drosten looked incredulous.

She was provoking him. Odd, but that left her a little
breathless.

An anticipatory hum coursed through the air.

Elanta cleared her throat again. "So, it's settled then?"

Drosten and Mhoire locked eyes and nodded as one.

Brigit and Elanta exchanged a knowing look.

Oran peered at Drosten, and then Mhoire, and then Drosten again, uncertain of what was going on or what should
happen next. "Drosten," she finally chirruped. "Do you want the rest of my porridge? You can have it if you wash
your hands."

Drosten threw back his head and laughed-a deep, warm
laugh that Mhoire realized she had never heard from him
before. Something in her belly fluttered.

He regarded his hands, one side and then the other,
spreading wide his large fingers. "Little one, it would take
half a day to wash these hands properly." He looked up
and smiled at the girl, whose innocent words seemed to
have expelled whatever it was that had been troubling him.
"You finish your porridge. I have some serious hunting to
do."

A few hours later, Mhoire was kneeling in the overgrown
field, a burlap sack full of seed open before her. She
plunged both of her hands into the sack and let the small,
wispy ovules run through her fingers. The seed was still
dry. Good. She had brought two sacks each of barley and
oat seed, and they were going to need all of it. With oats
and barley, the women could make bread and porridge. She
could hunt game, and they could forage for wild greens
and berries. That would be enough to live on. But if this
crop failed-well, Mhoire dared not think about it. Everyone knew that when the oats withered, entire clans of emaciated people clasped hands and threw themselves over a
cliff into the sea rather than face the slow torture of death
by starvation.

Today they would start planting. A good day, Mhoire
thought, as she straightened and looked around. The sun
was out and the larks were singing. Most of the women,
along with little Oran, were on their knees digging out
weeds. Elanta was scraping the ground with a rake that had
escaped the fort's burning. Grainne furrowed the soil with
deer antlers, which she had pried away from Alfred after
considerable harassment.

Mhoire walked over to where the others were working,
dropped to her knees, and laid her bow on the ground beside her. She shifted the quiver on her back into a more comfortable position. All the talk about the Danes had
made her anxious for their safety, and she had decided this
morning to always carry her weapons with her.

She slipped her dagger from the leather sheath tied to
her calf, grasped an offending weed with her left hand, and
thrust the blade into the ground. This was going to be tedious work.

"Put some rhubarb on your hair, Brigit. Twill bring the
color out." That was Elanta speaking.

"Do you think so, then?"

"Aye. Twould brighten it. Make it a bit more eyecatching."

"Eye-catching is it you want to be?" Grainne paused in
her raking to ask. "And whose eye is it that you want to
catch?"

Brigit sat back on her heels and pushed a lock of muddy
brown hair back from her sweaty forehead. "I think I rather
fancy that red-bearded one. He's got a look about him."

"Aye, the look of an ox," Grainne snorted.

"Mayhap. But I like brawn in a man. Gives them endurance." Brigit winked slyly.

Some of the others laughed.

"If it's a love charm you want, Brigit," Nila interjected,
"find some bog-violet. Bend on your left knee, pluck nine
roots, knot them together to make a ring, and place it on
your mouth. Then the first man to kiss you will be bound
to you."

"There will be no talk of marriage with these men."
Mhoire pointed her dagger at Brigit. "They won't be staying, remember?"

"But I don't see why some of them couldn't," Brigit
replied. "Even if you chase Drosten off, we could keep a
few of the others here. They'd make fine husbands."

"I don't see why you'd want them."

Elanta smiled over at her. "Have you ever been with a
man, Mhoire?"

"Of course not."

"Have you never imagined it?"

Mhoire kept her eyes on the ground while she dug into
it with her dagger. "I've tried not to imagine it. It's never
sounded very pleasant."

"Oh, but it can be. With the right man." Elanta paused.
"Kind, handsome ones like that one are the best."

Mhoire looked up and followed the direction of Elanta's
gaze. Drosten was approaching the field, dragging a dead
deer behind his horse.

She quickly looked down. "That man is one of the most
annoying, tyrannical, conceitful men I have ever known."
She yanked out a weed and dropped it on the ground.

"And as persistent as a woodpecker," Grainne added.
"Unrelenting."

Mhoire nodded vehemently.

"Of course he's persistent," Elanta snorted. "Have you
noticed the way he looks at you?"

Mhoire yanked out another weed. "You mean that angry,
scornful look?"

"Nay. I mean the one when his eyes go all soft and he
looks like he wants to ravish you."

Ravish her? Suddenly, Mhoire was so hot she thought
she would faint. She wiped her forehead with the back of
her hand. "I don't know what you mean."

"The man's desperate for Dun Darach," Grainne stated
flatly. "He'd ravish anything to get it."

Mhoire watched Drosten out of the corner of her eye.
Oran had scampered over to him, and he had stopped at
her approach and gotten off his horse. Mhoire could hear
their voices-the lilt of the child's chattering and the man's
patient, deep-toned response.

"You can't deny he's handsome, though," Elanta said.

Indeed, Drosten's form was as straight and solid as a
beam of wood. His unkempt locks glinted brightly in the
sun, and he gave Oran a wide smile that was utterly guileless and completely charming.

Mhoire looked down at her dagger. "He's fair enough."

"And he's kind to the child."