last summer, after the crops had failed to flourish. At least then, they would have had enough to survive the journey. Even if they now travelled by sea, they had not enough food to sustain them beyond a day.
The hand of Death was stretched out over everyone, and Caragh had felt her own weakness changing her. She could hardly walk for long distances without growing faint, and the smallest tasks were overwhelming. Her body had grown so thin, her léine hung upon her, and she could see the thin bones of her knees and wrists.
But she wasn’t ready to give up. Like all of them, she was fighting to live.
She picked up her gathering basket and stepped outside in the sunlight. The ringfort was quiet, few people exerting the energy to talk, when there was the greater task of finding food. Her older brothers weren’t the only ones who had left to seek supplies. Most of the able-bodied men had gone, especially those with children. None were expected to return.
A few of the elderly women nodded to her in greeting, with baskets of their own. Caragh thought of her earlier promise, to find vegetables, but she knew there was nothing out there. Even if there was, the others would likely find it first. Instead, she made her way towards the coast, hoping to find shellfish or seaweed.
She stopped to rest several times when her vision clouded and dizziness came over her. The water was nearly black this morn, the waves still and silent. Her brother was standing along the shoreline with his net, casting it out into the waves. He waved his hand in greeting.
But it was the sight of the longship on the horizon that evoked fear within both of them. The vessel was large, a curved boat that could hold over a dozen men. A massive striped sail billowed from the mast, and a single row of white and red shields hung over the side. In the morning sun, a bronze weathervane gleamed upon the masthead and a carved dragon head rested at the prow. As soon as she spied it, her heartbeat quickened.
‘Is it the Lochlannach?’ she cried out to her brother. So many tales she’d heard, of the barbaric Vikings of the Norse lands who ravaged the homes of innocent people. If their ship was here, they had less than an hour before the nightmare began. Gooseflesh prickled upon her skin at the thought of being taken by one of them. Or worse, being burned alive if they attempted to seize her home by force.
‘Go back to our house,’ Brendan commanded. ‘Stay inside, Caragh, and for God’s sake, don’t let anyone in.’ He pulled in his fishing net and hurried back towards the ringfort.
‘What are you going to do?’ She caught up to him, afraid he was about to do something foolish.
Her brother’s grey eyes turned cold. ‘They have supplies, don’t they? And food.’
She was horrified at his sudden thoughts. ‘No. You can’t try to steal from them.’ The Norsemen were ruthless warriors who would murder her brother without a second thought.
‘They’ll try to raid the fort. They’ll be gone while I take what’s on board their ship.’
‘And what about the rest of us?’ she demanded. ‘If we’re fighting for our lives, we might all be dead by the time you return. If you return,’ she added. ‘No, you can’t do this.’
Her brother entered their father’s hut, searching for a sword among the blacksmith tools. ‘If you’d rather, go and hide in the forest. Climb one of the trees as high as you can and wait until it’s over.’
‘I can’t abandon the tribe.’ There were elderly folk remaining, who were too weak to fight. Though her own strength was waning, she couldn’t turn her back on their kinsmen.
Her hands were trembling, the fear rising up from inside. Brendan took her hand and squeezed it. ‘If we don’t take their supplies, we’ll die anyway. Either today or a fortnight from now. We both know it.’
She did. But she didn’t like stealing. Though she’d lost nearly every possession they’d owned, she still had honour. And that meant something.
‘We could ask,’ she said. ‘If they see how little we have, they may share with us.’
Her brother’s expression darkened. ‘Since when do the Lochlannach possess mercy?’ He belted the sword at his waist. ‘Gather the others and take them from here, if you wish. Leave the ringfort unprotected, and perhaps they’ll take what they want without hurting anyone.’
She stared at him, her thoughts caught in a tangled web of fear. ‘Don’t go, Brendan. The risk is too great.’
‘Don’t be afraid, a deirfiúr.’ He bent down and kissed her forehead. ‘I’d rather die in battle than die the way our parents did.’
She could see that no argument would influence him. But perhaps she could speak to his friends. He might listen to them, though he paid no heed to her warnings.
All she could do was try.
No man ever wanted to admit his marriage was dying.
Styr Hardrata stared out at the grey waters cloaked with mist, watching over his wife Elena. She stood with her hands upon the bow of the ship, her long red-gold hair streaming behind her in the wind. She was beautiful and strong, and he’d always been fascinated by her.
But that strength had now become a coldness between them, an invisible wall that kept them apart. She blamed herself for their childlessness, and he didn’t know what to say. He’d tried everything until now, she grew sad every time he tried to touch her. Lovemaking had become a duty, not an act of passion.
Though he’d tried to ignore her growing reluctance, he was tired of her flinching whenever he tried to pull her near. Or worse, feigning pleasure when he knew she no longer wanted his touch.
The slow burn of frustration coiled inside him. This was a war he didn’t know how to fight, a battle he couldn’t win. Styr approached the front of the boat and stood behind her. He said nothing, staring out at the grey waves that sloshed against the boat.
‘I know you’re there,’ she said after a time. But she didn’t turn around to look at him. There was no smile of welcome, nothing except the quiet acceptance she wore like armour.
He didn’t know how to respond to her coolness but said the only thing he could think of. ‘It won’t be long now before we arrive.’ And thank the gods for it. Their ship had been plagued by storms, and he hadn’t slept in three days. None of them had, after the strong winds had threatened to sink the vessel. His mind was blurred with the need to find a pallet and sink into oblivion.
In fact, the moment his feet touched ground, he was tempted to lie there and sleep for the next two days.
‘I’ll be glad to reach land,’ she admitted. ‘I’m tired of travelling.’
He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she didn’t turn to embrace him. She held herself motionless, staring out at the water. In time, he lowered his hand, suppressing the disappointment.
In truth, Elena had startled him when she’d agreed to leave Hordafylke and journey with him to Éire, for a new beginning. Though their marital troubles had worsened over the past year, he wanted to believe that she wasn’t ready to give up yet. He held on to the hope that somehow they could rekindle what they’d lost.
Styr waited for her to speak, to share with him the thoughts inside, but she offered nothing. He considered a thousand different things to say to her, questions about what sort of house she wanted to build. Whether she would want a new weaving loom or perhaps a dog to keep her company when he was fishing at sea. She loved animals.
‘Do you—?’
‘I’d rather not talk just now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve not been feeling well.’
The words severed any further conversation attempts, and he stiffened. ‘So be it.’ He went to the opposite end of the boat, needing to be away from her before he said something he would later regret.
Disappointment shifted into anger. What in the name of Thor did she want