Elizabeth McBride (7 page)

Eventually, however, Alfred persuaded the women to
climb back up the cliff. As they assembled before her,
Mhoire counted six adult women and one young girl, who
looked to be about seven years old. They were a sad sight.
All were thin as sparrows and dressed in clothes that had seen much labor. Their hair was limp and their skin sallow.
Around each of their necks hung a necklace of sea grapesthe nuts and seeds of seaweed that washed upon the beach
from foreign lands and were worn as charms against evil
spirits.

The women picked nervously at their skirts. The child,
fair-haired and slight, held tightly onto one woman's hand
and stared wide-eyed at the big Pictish men and the huge
horses with the bronze bridle fittings, which clinked like
chimes whenever the animals tossed their heads.

Mhoire took deep breaths. Her head hummed, and her
movements seemed nightmarishly slow. But she could not
allow herself to give in to her emotions. And she dared not
look at Drosten, who waited with his men about ten paces
away.

"I am Mhoire ni Colman, from Ardara in the province
of Ulster."

The women stirred. "Eveline's child," she heard one
whisper to another.

"Aye. I am the daughter of Eveline, whose brother Malcolm was chieftain of this holding. I understand he has
passed away. Who has been leader since then?"

The women exchanged puzzled looks.

"The devil, I expect," one called out. She was a middleaged woman, with a pocked face and a shock of faded
brown hair.

"What do you mean?"

"She means no one is leader." The answer came from
the woman with the child. She was young, with fine golden
hair swept back from an unlined face.

"What is your name?"

"Elanta. And this is my daughter Oran." Elanta stroked
the girl's head. Oran leaned against her mother's side.

"What has happened here, Elanta?"

"The Danes came."

"When?"

"Last autumn. We women were on the beach dyeing
fleece when the dragonship came up the loch. We ran." She gestured northward. "Up to the chapel. The monks hid us
in their cellar. But the fort was set afire. The others ...
killed."

Mhoire laid her hand against her stomach.

"They killed all your men?"

Elanta nodded.

"Your children?"

A muffled sob from someone in the group answered the
question.

Mhoire's shoulders slumped. Of all the things she had
imagined about Dun Darach, she had never thought of this.
"Is there no one else here?"

Elanta shook her head. "Nay. Brigit-" She glanced at
the pock-faced woman. "-Brigit was carrying, but the
babe was still-born. We are all that is left."

Some of the women wept silently now. Except, Mhoire
noticed, the oldest woman, who had a round face and thick
gray hair and gazed at her with intense, steady eyes.

"How have you sustained yourselves?"

"We live in the cave below," Elanta replied. "We gather
eggs from the cliffs. Seaweed. There's fish in the sea, and
silverweed roots, and the woods are full of beechnuts."

Beechnuts. That was famine food.

Mhoire lowered her head. How could this be? As secretive as her mother had been about Dun Darach, to have
said nothing of this seemed unbelievable. Her father had
told her that her uncle Malcolm had died, but he spoke of
it as if it were a recent event, that indeed it was the event
that had prompted him to send her here with a husband to
take over the holding.

"Why was my mother not told of this tragedy?"

The women lifted their faces in surprise. Elanta's brow
wrinkled. "We sent word to your father."

"My father? When?"

"After it happened."

"Last autumn? You sent word last autumn? Please forgive me for my ignorance, but my father never mentioned your troubles." She looked from one woman to the next.
"I am so very sorry for what you have endured."

"Your father wasn't," Brigit muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"Your father sent us no aid," Elanta explained, "not even
a message of condolence."

"My father-" Mhoire clenched her fists. "I am shamed
by my father."

No one replied.

How could he have done this? How could he have abandoned these women when they had no one else to turn to?
Had he even told her mother that most of her clan had
been murdered?

A thought pierced Mhoire's brain. Had Colman tricked
the Picts into thinking they would get a prosperous holding
if Drosten married her? Or-Mother of God-had the Picts
also known that Dun Darach was a wreck?

Her eyes flew to Drosten. His impassive face told her
nothing.

"And the king?" she asked Elanta tightly. "Did not the
king of Dal Riata help?"

"He has sent us no aid."

Mhoire's fist opened and clenched. A king needed men.
In fact, he demanded men: 28 oarsmen from each holding
was the rule. And to be sure he got his sailors and other
tribute, the king traveled often around his lands.

But he had not come here. For there were no men to be
given. Only women. Not worth bothering about. And a fort
in ruins.

No wonder Drosten had agreed to let her try to eke a
living from Dun Darach. How could she possibly succeed?

Her anger gave her strength. Calmly, she asked each of
the women to introduce herself and describe her lineage.
By the time the explanations were finished, the women
seemed friendlier and less fearful.

They were also casting curious looks at the Picts, who
were still standing quietly to one side, holding their horses'
bridles or leaning against the beasts' flanks.

Mhoire cleared her throat. "You are, no doubt, wondering why these men are here."

"Why are you here?" Elanta asked.

"Me?"

The women looked at her expectantly. Obviously, her
father had not bothered to alert them to her coming.

"Well, I'm here to ... be your chieftain."

The women traded baffled looks. Mhoire winced. She
knew how strange her statement must sound. Neither in
Ireland nor in Dal Riata was a woman ever chieftain.

Grainne spoke up. "What I think Mhoire means to say
is that since Colman did not send help to you, she, as Eveline's only child, has come to do what she can. Isn't that
right, Mhoire?"

Mhoire thought that was near enough to the truth to not
be called a lie. Her mouth curved in a small, false smile.

"And why are the Picts here and not your father's warriors?" Elanta ran her eyes thoughtfully over the band of
men.

"Ah. The Picts. Well, their leader, Drosten..." He nodded once to identify himself. His eyes were riveted on her.
"... He and I have an understanding. A kind of bargain."

The women turned back to her, their eyes bright with
curiosity.

"My father wants me to marry Drosten."

A few eyebrows went up.

"But I don't wish to marry him."

The eyebrows went down.

"Or anyone," she hastened to add.

Mouths dropped open. Saying she didn't want to marry
was about as absurd a statement as saying she was their
chieftain.

Mhoire plunged on. "The agreement that Drosten and I
have is that if I-with all of you-manage to survive here
for a year, he and his men will return to their homeland."
She waved her hand vaguely eastward. "If we can't, then,
well, then he and I will marry." She finished limply.

The women looked at each other and then peered over
at the men. Whispered conversation ensued.

Mhoire frowned. "I know you must hate having the Picts
here, given the fact that their forebears have battled with
yours. But I promise you I will do my best to get them to
leave."

"We'll keep any man who knows how to plow," Brigit
called out. Some of the others giggled. Oran, Mhoire noticed, was staring round-eyed at Drosten, who soberly
winked at her. The little girl shyly smiled back, and buried
herself farther into her mother's skirts.

Mhoire shifted on her feet in irritation and affected what
she hoped was a quelling scowl.

"I'm certain we can manage the plowing and every other
task that needs to be done. I have only a little food with
me, but I do have a fair amount of seed." She got the
women's attention with that-it was the chieftain's duty to
provide seed. "Everything is in my saddle bags, and once
we unload them, we can sort it all out and make plans."

She strode toward the horses. The men had distributed
her baggage among them. "Grainne," she called, "would
you help me, please?"

As she and Grainne approached the horses, she heard
Drosten say something quietly in a language she didn't understand. The men turned to their steeds and began to remove her bags.

"Nay," she snapped. "We can do this ourselves."

The men looked at Drosten. He crossed his arms over
his broad chest. "Some of these bags are as heavy as a cow.
Do you really want to break your back hauling them
around?"

Mhoire walked up to him, a spot of color staining each
cheek. "I am quite capable of carrying my own baggage."
She brought her hands to her hips. He was so tall that she
had to bend her head back to look in his eyes. Which, she
noticed with a shock, were a brilliant, piercing blue. "Besides," she hissed, "I can't see why you want to help me,
given that it's completely in your interest to have me fail."

Drosten put his hands on his hips, mimicking her posture, and brought his face down to hers. "I don't think
having a few strong men take your bags down from their
horses is going to make a difference in whether you succeed or fail, do you?"

She dropped her eyes to his hard jaw. "Dun Darach is
my home and I will give the orders. And when the time
comes to evaluate how I have fared here, I do not want any
questions about whether or not my accomplishments are
my own."

She chanced another look into his eyes. They were
darker now, the pupils wider and more clouded.

A few long seconds passed. Then a muscle tightened in
Drosten's cheek. He straightened. "As you wish. The unpacking is yours."

He turned to his horse. "Besides, we're going hunting.
You have nine mouths to feed. I have twenty." He tore his
spear from its holster. "Come with me," he called to his
men. And he stalked off down the hill.

Mhoire frowned at his back and then glanced toward the
women. All eyes were fastened on her.

"Pay him no mind," she insisted.

The women smiled.

Afew hours later, Drosten and his men returned to the
fort dragging the carcasses of two red deer. They gutted
and skinned the animals and dug a large hole outside the
gathering hall. There they buried the meat amid hot stones,
and, while it cooked, went to work on the remains. Bones
would be used for spearheads, matlocks, needles, tooth
picks, and toggles; sinew for cordage; fat for lamp oil;
stomachs, bladders, and large intestines as bags for carrying
water.

Ordinarily, Drosten would have mingled with the group,
but tonight a curious mood had overtaken him. He carried
one of the deer hides to the other side of the courtyard,
where he could be alone. Pulling out his dagger, he began
scraping the flesh from the skin so it could be tanned. It
was messy work, and one of his men could easily have
done it. But Drosten couldn't bear to be idle, especially
when he had so much on his mind.

The Irishwoman was unusual, that was for sure. He was
used to sizing up men-his life depended on it-and he
had watched Mhoire that day with a critical eye. He had
found nothing to criticize. She bore the weight of what
must have been devastating news on her small, sturdy
shoulders with barely a flinch. Though her eyes revealed
her distress, she remained calm and gracious-except, of
course, when she was seething at him. But that aside, the
woman showed remarkable control, more than many men would in the same circumstances. How had she learned to
contain her emotions so well? And why?

And damnation, she was beautiful. He hadn't been able
to take his eyes off her. That was annoying. He had better
things to do than stare at a woman. But, Lord above, what
a pleasure it was to look at that cloud of dark hair, those
dove-gray eyes, that slender body with its tiny waist. Drosten let out a heavy sigh. He had learned early on in their
journey to Dun Darach never to ride behind her. What
would his men think if their leader fell off his horse because he was too busy gawking at a woman to keep his
eye on the rock-strewn turf?

But nighttime was different. Then, as Mhoire slept curled
up like a puppy a few yards away, he could stare as much
as he liked. But this puppy has teeth, he muttered to himself, don't forget that. She snapped at him in a way his
men would never dare to. Drosten shook his head.
Wouldn't he like to kiss that stubborn mouth of hers until
it grew soft under his.

"Drosten!"

"What?" He scowled and looked up, the bloody hide in
his hands.

Alfred strode toward him. "Are you thinking we'll camp
up here, then?"