Another endless night had passed during which she’d lain awake aching for Loyal. This night’s torment had a new component however; in addition to longing for her hound, she’d craved True’s presence also.
The last thing she wanted was Brude at her elbow, wearing a querulous look on his face.
To be sure, she’d known Brude all her life and seldom found him in a good mood. Intense and serious, he was usually worked up about something and frequently angry. She avoided him when she could and ignored him when able. Quite obviously she could do neither now.
She sighed and laid aside her drying cloth. The morning, brisk and cool, did not encourage standing outside while still damp. “What is it, Brude?”
He eyed her carefully from her wild head downward, his gaze seeming to linger at the place where her tunic lay partially open. Never before had he looked at her in quite this manner—only with annoyance and frequently with condemnation. She shivered involuntarily and, being Barta, returned the stare, taking in his dark auburn hair—pinned with a leather band around the top of his head and heavy with grease—and the bruises he still bore from his competition with True.
“Where is your companion? I heard he likes to sleep at your father’s door.” Brude sneered openly. “At least so says the guard.”
Barta’s chin tipped up. “And what is that to you?”
“A peculiar thing to do, especially as he scarcely knows you, nor you him.”
“He has been sent—”
“No doubt, but by whom? He will not give us the name of his chief. That is what concerns me.”
Barta fastened the front of her tunic with suddenly stiff fingers. “My mother says magic is involved.”
“Convenient, that. An explanation that can neither be proved nor disproved. He appears from nowhere with a mad story, defeats a few of us in contest—using trickery, I might add…”
“What trickery?”
“I know not, but he should never have been able to win more than one of those contests. You may be fool enough to trust him. I never will.”
“My father trusts him,” Barta declared, not quite sure that was true. “Do you call your chief a fool also?”
Brude waved a hand dismissively. “Your father may claim to accept him. After that contest, what else could he do to save face? Do not deceive yourself, though; Radoc is as suspicious as I am.” He scowled harder. “Who turns up bearing weapons but no clothing, marked by tattoos not quite like those with which we are familiar yet not quite different, and claiming he remembers not what befell him?”
“You are just angry because he defeated you.”
Brude stiffened, proving the assertion. But of course, Barta thought, he could not admit it.
“Think what you will, Barta. But I warn you, do not allow this interloper to draw you in any further.”
“Draw me in? I do not understand.”
Brude’s expression grew still more grim. “I saw the two of you together yesterday, you and your ‘True.’ ”
“Oh?” Barta’s thoughts raced. “Where?”
He smiled thinly. “Striving to recall your actions, are you?” Brude stepped closer. “Your father has let you run wild too long, that is plain. It is time you stopped playing at being a warrior, settled, and accepted the place you were meant to have. What you need is a husband who will keep you in line.”
Barta took a decided step backward. “I do not play at being a warrior.”
“You do, and with dangerous consequences—even more dangerous now that you look to bond with this stranger. Have you forgotten any son of yours has a place in the succession of this tribe? Just so you know, I mean to speak to your father about it.”
Barta’s thoughts flailed. It would not be the first time Brude had poured poison in Radoc’s ear. Might he persuade her father to forbid her from associating with True?
She stared into Brude’s narrowed, dark eyes and apprehension touched her heart. “Stay out of it.”
“I dare not. Too much rides on guarding this tribe—from within and without.”
“Do you think I do not know that?”
“Then act as if you do. Why invite a strange wolf to lie at your hearth?”
“I haven’t…”
“Your very attitude toward him is an invitation. Listen to me, girl—your father may have become too soft with age and his infirmities to take the hard path. It may well be time he is replaced.”
Aghast, Barta replied, “When it is time, he will step down. Then Wick will take his place.”
“Perhaps—perhaps not. I like Wick; he is my friend. But I’m not sure he has the mettle needed to lead in these treacherous times.”
Again Barta lifted her chin. “Those of our blood have led for time out of mind. The tribe will not deny the succession.”
“And how did your father come to the place of tribeschief?” he challenged. “His father was not chief.”
“No, but his uncle, his mother’s brother, was.”
“Just so, and when the uncle had no living son, the place passed to his sister’s son. Remember that. You are not only a wild girl but the possible mother of the next chief.”
Dawning horror crept over Barta. What did Brude imply? What did he want? She slid back another step. “I am not sure I understand you.”
“Then it seems your impetuosity is matched only by the slowness of your wits. What I say is that I may be willing to make a great sacrifice and take you to wife—for the good of the tribe.”
“What!”
“Deaf as well as stupid, are you? But none of that matters—you’re a clear route to legitimizing any man’s claim to leadership.”
“No.”
“Be forewarned, I mean to speak to your father of this matter today.”
“You mean to tell him you want to displace him?”
“Not that, but of how I might be persuaded to take you off his hands, troublesome vixen that you are. After the grief you have lately caused, I can only believe he will be all too anxious to be rid of you.”
Might that be so? Barta recalled Radoc’s anger and could find nothing to say.
“So…” Brude leaned still closer and grunted the words, “trade kisses with your new follower all you like. But I warn you, do not lie with him. Your father will not like it, and I will agree to accept no other man’s leavings.” His eyes inspected her again. “You are still unbreached, no? Too much the warrior, I am thinking, to indulge in a woman’s passion.”
The words stung. Barta considered slapping him and thought better of it. His arms bulged with muscle; he could hit back three times as hard.
Instead she retorted, “And what might Wick—your friend—think of you wedding with me just to usurp his place?”
“I trust Wick will consider the good of the tribe.”
Barta doubted it. Wick might have his own ways and opinions that often differed from his father’s, but he had grown into a capable leader since Radoc’s injury.
She tossed her head. “Speak to my father as you will. I shall not take you for husband.”
“You will.”
“Never!”
“We shall see what you say when your father commands it. Has he risen yet this morning?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I will return and speak with him later. You may rely on it.” Brude stalked off and Barta shivered again in the cold wind.
****
“What is it, Mistress? Something troubles you this day.”
Barta glanced at the man beside her and tried to ignore her ensuing ripple of pleasure. They had worked together all morning performing chores around the settlement, gathering and inspecting weaponry for the fight that must come.
All that while she supposed she’d successfully hidden her emotions from him. Her heart told her she did not want to involve him in the tangle between her and Brude. Not that she didn’t want him on her side. But she wished very much to protect him.
“I am well enough, True.”
He s
miled wryly. “You are not. In the time we’ve been together I have learned you like to chatter while your hands are busy. Today you have stayed silent.”
“I am thinking about the chances of battle ahead—and how badly the last skirmish ended.”
“I see. And why do you keep looking at the door of your father’s hut?”
Barta grimaced. Some time since, she had seen Brude enter there; he had not yet emerged. With every moment that dragged by, she grew more apprehensive.
She wondered if she should have taken the matter to Wick, since it involved him so closely. But Wick had gone off on patrol. Should she search him out even now and warn him? Wait for Brude to emerge and try to read his mood? Surely if she and Wick banded together they could put a halt to Brude’s plans.
True touched her on the arm, a gesture meant to gather her attention. Instead it started an immediate, warm hum throughout her body.
She gazed into his eyes and saw his concern for her—that and something more that spoke to her so deeply it made her catch her breath.
“Do not worry on my behalf, True. I have made my path. I must now tread it.”
“Not alone. Surely you know I will walk at your side.”
Emotion swamped her. She reached out and clutched his fingers; the connection between them flared once more, this time so intensely she had to narrow her eyes against the sensation.
“I know. But the last thing I would do is drag you into danger. I must learn to solve my own problems. I’ve already cost one I loved far too much. I won’t do so again.”
True cocked his head, and his fingers tightened. “ ‘Loved’?”
“I loved Loyal like no other.”
True parted his lips to reply but never got the chance. Instead, Tally pelted up to them where they worked.
“Barta, Father wishes to see you. He says you are to come at once.”
Barta’s heart fell. “What does he want, Tally? Do you know?”
“No, but he sent me special to bring you.”
“Tell him I will come when we finish our task.”
“At once, he said.”
“Better go,” True whispered. “I will await you here.”
Impulsively, Barta turned to Tally. “First go and find Wick. Ask him to come as quick as he can.”
She straightened and set her shoulders the way she did before she entered battle, strapping on the invisible weapons of courage and determination. She could not let her father or Brude overawe her. She drew her fingers from True’s, walked straight to her father’s hut, and ducked inside.
Voices met her ears, and she took in also the scent of the fire and the herbs her mother used to purify the air. Her father and Brude sat beside the hearth, Radoc with Bright, as ever, by his knee. Bright raised her head and looked at Barta when she came in; her clear hazel eyes reminded Barta of something she could not, at that moment, place.
Loyal? So it must be. Good to feel him here with her now, when she entered what might prove to be the fight of her life.
Chapter Thirteen
“Sit down, Daughter. We need to speak together.”
Barta looked from her father’s broad face—nearly expressionless—to Brude’s before she obeyed. Brude wore a guarded expression, a man harboring secrets, and her stomach tightened.
Her mother stood nearby, arms crossed on her bosom, and her face gave more clues to her thoughts: she appeared unhappy and a bit stubborn.
Barta comprehended the clash of wills in her household. Her mother, being a woman of wisdom, held a full share in decision making. She bent her husband’s ear with her opinions on a regular basis but usually in private and not before his men. Radoc had already lost enough stature through his injury; she would never further undermine him.
Barta lowered herself onto the rug opposite her father and engaged his eyes. “What is it, Father?”
Radoc regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before he directed a measuring look at the young man beside him.
“Brude map Huctus has surprised me this day, Daughter. He has come to me with a request for your hand in marriage.”
Barta, unable to feign surprise, instead let her dismay show. She remained silent.
“An unexpected development,” Radoc went on. “But he has made a good argument as to its benefit to the tribe. Has he paid you suit?”
“No, Father.”
“Because if he had, you would have done right to tell me.” Radoc grunted. “However, I know from experience you all too often fail in what is right.”
Barta squirmed unhappily, wounded by her father’s opinion. “I have my failings, Father. This I never denied.”
Radoc scowled. “Brude, here, seems prepared to take you on in spite of them. What do you say to that?”
Barta turned her gaze on Brude. “I say,” she spoke while holding his gaze, “this request of his, come so suddenly, must have some impetus other than affection.”
“Of course it has.” Brude’s voice still held an edge of scorn, or perhaps impatience. “In our world, especially now, there is little room for frivolous emotions.”
Barta felt her mother, standing behind her, stiffen. Essa had long argued that love existed in everything worthwhile and made up the magic of their world.
Radoc must have sensed his wife’s protest also; his broad hand lifted to rest on Bright’s head, and he glanced at his wife before he said, “Then why, Brude, should you ask for my daughter, if you have no feelings for her?”
Brude did not even look discomfited. At that moment, with his dark eyes wide, he appeared like a feral animal crouching beside the hearth.
“I will tell you why.” Barta spoke before he could. “Father, he wants your place—he would snatch leadership of the tribe away out of Wick’s hands if he can. He thinks he might use my position as your daughter to secure it for our sons, and for himself meanwhile.”
“That is not all of it,” Brude put in quickly. “I did not wish to speak of this and meant to confine myself to the welfare of the tribe. But your daughter is forming a dangerous relationship with the incomer, whom she calls ‘True.’ ” He sneered. “A name that is quite likely at complete variance with his nature. I still say he may have been sent here to harm us.”
“Do you deny that he is of the Caledonii? Why then would any of our fellow Caledonii tribe-chiefs send him to our downfall?” Radoc demanded.
“He appears to be of the Caledonii, but who can tell? Even Mistress Essa says magic is involved. It may be magic worked by the westerners and he sent to learn our secrets.”
“Ridiculous,” Essa breathed. “If that were so, he would have fallen to defeat in the trials.”
Radoc shook his head. “We have laid aside our doubts of him, Brude. His valiance was proven.”
Brude leaned forward. “His valiance, yes. Not his background.” He waved his hand. “Does that lend you confidence enough to see him in your daughter’s bed, perhaps siring her children—children which, if something dire should happen, may one day lead this tribe?”
Radoc flicked a glance at Barta. “What is this he says about True in your bed?”
“She will not tell you,” Brude interrupted, “but I have observed the two of them embracing, kissing. She may already have given him her favor.”
“Daughter, is this so?”
Barta pushed to her feet and stood quivering. “I have not lain with True or with anyone.” Yet. There was no denying the thought had appeared in her mind. “Yes, I did kiss him. His presence comforts me in the loss of Loyal.”
Radoc’s voice rumbled in his chest, a sound that had Bright looking at him askance. “This is not suitable, Barta.”
“If he has been accepted into the tribe…”
“I do not trust him,” Brude declared before Radoc could speak. “There is something about him, an other-ness. I do not believe he won the contests fairly.”
“Other-ness?” Radoc seized on the term.
Now Brude looked uncomfortable. “I do not know how to explai
n, but only think on it, Chief. How could he win all three legs of that trial without trickery—or dark magic? How could he come here from Moray bearing tattoos we do not recognize? Does he belong to a tribe you truly know? The Bilii, he said. Have you had direct contact with them?”
Slowly Radoc shook his head.
Barta’s nerves tightened unbearably. What if Brude convinced her father to send True away? She must speak quickly and prevent it.
“Father, this has already been settled.”
“Far too quickly and readily.” Brude spoke passionately now. “I say our chief has lost some of his discrimination.”
At that moment Wick burst into the hut, sweat standing out on his brow and his shield still on his shoulder. He looked from face to face before he demanded, “What happens here? The newcomer and Tally both came telling me I should get home.”
“Allow me to tell you, Brother. Your good friend Brude has come whispering in Father’s ear, trying to steal your place.”
“My place?” Wick said no more but Barta saw his thoughts move in his eyes. He’d been but a young warrior at the time of Radoc’s dire injury and had stepped up courageously to fill a place that contained much sheer hard work and little glory.
“It is clear you are Father’s rightful successor. Brude wishes to arrange things differently.”
Wick shifted his shield on his arm and faced his friend. “Is this so?”
“Not as she says…”
“He lies,” Barta accused. “He has come to Father asking my hand in marriage so he might insinuate himself into the place of Chief.”
“Well, Brude?” Wick took it up. “Do I find your knife at my back?”
“No.”
“Do you not think I have earned the place and the right to follow my father?”
Brude got to his feet. “You have earned it. But as I have been trying to explain, these are treacherous times, and I am not sure yours is the only—or the best—prospect of leadership for the tribe.”
“There, Wick, you see…”
“Hush, Barta.” The expression in Wick’s eyes kindled. “Let him say what he means honestly, if he is capable of it. You ask for my sister’s hand? All you have ever done is deride her for her headstrong nature and tendencies to rash action. Her stupidity…”
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