Frustration surged inside him, though he knew it was unwarranted. She was tired from the journey, that was all. Once they built a new home and started over, things might change.
The shores of Éire emerged on the horizon, and he stared at the desolate, sun-darkened grasses. Though he’d heard tales of how green the land was, from this distance, it appeared that they were suffering from a drought.
His friend Ragnar stepped past the men rowing and stood beside him. ‘I still don’t know why you wanted to settle here, instead of in Dubh Linn,’ he remarked, pointing towards the east. ‘The settlements there are a hundred years old. You’d find more of our kin.’
‘I don’t want Elena surrounded by so many people,’ Styr admitted. ‘We’d rather begin anew, somewhere less crowded.’ As they drew nearer, he thought he glimpsed a small settlement further inland.
Ragnar sat across from him and picked up an oar. Styr joined him, for the familiar rowing motion gave him a means of releasing physical frustration. He was glad his friend had decided to journey with them, along with a dozen of their friends and kin from Hordafylke. It made it easier to leave behind his home, when his closest friends were here. He’d known Ragnar since he was a boy, and he considered the man like a brother.
‘Has she said anything to you about this journey?’ Styr asked, nodding towards Elena. She, too, had known Ragnar since childhood. It was possible that she might confide her thoughts in someone else.
Ragnar sobered. ‘Elena hasn’t spoken much at all. But she’s afraid—that, I can tell you.’
Styr pulled hard on the oar, his arms straining as the wooden blades cut through the waves. Afraid of what? He would protect her from any harm, and he was more than able to provide for her.
‘What else do you know?’ he demanded.
‘The men are tired. They need rest and food,’ Ragnar said. His friend’s face mirrored his own exhaustion, after they’d been awake for so long.
‘I wasn’t talking about the men.’
Ragnar rested the oars for a moment, sympathy on his face. ‘Just talk to Elena, my friend. She’s hurting.’
He knew that was the obvious answer. But Elena rarely spoke to him any more, never telling him what she was thinking. He couldn’t guess what was going on inside her head, and when he demanded answers, she only closed up more.
He didn’t understand women. One moment, he would be talking to her, and the next, she’d be silently weeping and he had no idea why. It made him feel utterly helpless.
As their boat drifted closer, he eyed Ragnar. ‘I’ve been saving a gift for her. Something to make her smile.’ He’d bought the ivory comb in Hordafylke, and the image of Freya was carved upon it. When he showed it to his friend, Ragnar shrugged.
‘It’s a nice gift, but it’s not what she wants.’
Though his friend was only being honest, it wasn’t what Styr wanted to hear. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think we wanted to be childless all these years?’ His temper broke out, and his words lashed out louder than he’d intended. Elena was holding on to her waist, and she didn’t glance back at either of them. He didn’t doubt his wife had overheard their argument. But as cool-headed as she was, she’d never confront him.
‘I’ve made offerings to the gods,’ he admitted, dropping his voice lower. ‘I’ve been a good husband to her. But this curse is wearing on both of us. It has to end.’
Ragnar stood, preparing to lower the sail. ‘And if it doesn’t?’
Styr stared at his hands, not knowing the answer to that. But he strongly suspected that there was nothing he could do to make his wife happy again. He stole a last look at her, and at that moment she turned back. Her pale face was shadowed, her eyes holding such pain, he didn’t know how to heal it.
In the end, he busied himself with the ship, unable to bridge the growing distance between them.
The Lochlannach were here. Caragh’s heart beat so rapidly, she could hardly breathe. There were a dozen men walking through the shallow water, and their size alone dwarfed her kinsmen. Battleaxes and swords hung from their waists, while they carried round wooden shields. Several of the men wore chainmail corselets and helms with narrow nose guards. One man was taller than all the others, possibly their leader. His eyes narrowed upon the ringfort, and Caragh remained hidden behind a pile of peat bricks.
She’d managed to evacuate most of the people, aside from Brendan and his friends. The young men worried her, for they seemed intent upon attacking the Lochlannach. If they did, doubtless they would be slaughtered in the attempt.
She didn’t know what to do. Should she approach them and find out what they wanted? Their leader drew closer, and he was so tall, he stood a full head above her brother Brendan. He had fair hair bound back, and his shoulders were broad, like a man accustomed to hacking his way through a battlefield. His cloak was black, and a golden brooch fastened it on one side. Beneath it, she caught the glint of chainmail, though he wore no helm. There was no trace of mercy in his visage, as if he’d come to plunder and take everything of value.
She tried to calm the wild beating of her heart, but in the distance, she spied her brother moving behind the men. Four others were approaching from opposite corners, intending a surprise attack.
Why wasn’t Brendan moving towards the boat? With horror, she realised that he’d changed his intent. No longer was he planning to raid their supplies.
It seemed her younger brother and his friends were planning an attack of their own. Caragh swallowed hard, praying for a miracle. If only her older brothers were here to stop him. Or any of the other men. She had to do something to protect Brendan, but what?
She started to rise from her hiding place, when suddenly, she spied a female standing back from the men. Her skirts were sodden from walking through the water, and she stared at the ringfort as if she were nervous.
If these men had come to raid, they would never have brought a woman along. Who was she?
Caragh had no time to consider further, for her brother and his friends made their move. Within seconds, they surrounded the woman, dragging her away from the other men.
Her scream cut through the air, and the Viking leader charged after the young men. The other Lochlannach followed, but their movement lacked energy, as if they had not fought in some time. The leader showed no weakness at all, and a roar erupted from him as he ran, his battleaxe unsheathed.
He was going to kill them.
Caragh bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood, when the Viking was surrounded by her kinsmen. He swung his battleaxe, his chainmail shirt outlining immense muscles and a honed body well accustomed to fighting. The blade sank into one of the young men trying to hold him back.
She closed her eyes tightly, her blood pulsing so hard, she felt faint. Although the Norseman was outnumbered, the young men’s efforts would come to naught. They would die for this—Brendan among them.
She couldn’t stand aside and let it happen. Caragh slipped back into the blacksmith’s hut, searching for a weapon she was strong enough to wield. Precious time slid away and she tried to lift her father’s hammer, without success.
Something. Anything. She whirled around, and this time, she saw a wooden staff in the corner. Although it was heavy and thick, at least she could lift it.
She rushed out of the hut, only to find that several more of her kinsmen had returned from their hiding places, and had surrounded the Lochlannach. Older men charged forwards with their own weapons, and several lay dead. Others had managed to subdue several of the enemy men, tying them up as hostages.
But it was the Viking leader who held her attention now. He’d torn his way free of the people and was running after the woman, blood lust in his eyes.
Straight towards