Page 36 of Viking in Love

“If you came with us, could you identify the animal?”

“Fer certain, I could.”

Within an hour, they were riding for the Scottish border. Himself, Wulf, Edric, and four of his soldiers. Two hirdsmen had been left behind with Rashid for protection.

“Something more needs to be done here,” Wulf remarked.

“True. Either I build a palisaded village of sorts, manned by a small hird of soldiers, or I pull the cotters and cattle closer to the castle keep.”

“Yours is not a large estate. Methinks you need all the grazing land you can manage for cattle and sheep, and ploughlands for more grains,” Wulf mused. “Do you have enough men?”

“I must needs have enough. As you say, every bit of land should be used. If I value my holding, I must protect it.”

It was nightfall before they entered Scottish lands. A fire was built and cloaks laid about for men to recline, but there would be little sleep tonight in this land, which was not quite enemy, but definitely not friendly.

As he folded his arms beneath his nape and closed his eyes, the oddest image kept plaguing him. A red-haired witch with creamy skin and a sharp tongue, leaning over him, teasing, taunting. Why he should think of her was beyond him. Little more than a nuisance, she was. Once she was gone, all would be well again.

The next morning they came upon a small holding where there were several thatch-roofed, conical huts. Fences enclosed horses and livestock.

Edric drew Caedmon’s attention to a particular cow.

He nodded.

A dozen armed men with wild hair of various shades of red and wearing furs and leather breeches approached them on foot, from several directions. One of them—bigger than the rest—had gray hairs mixed with red and numerous scars covering his bull-like body; he broke apart from his comrades or kinsmen and stepped toward Caedmon.

This was odd, that they were not attacking. Although heavily armed, they seemed to have something to say first.

Caedmon dismounted and handed his reins to Wulf. He and his men also had weapons at the ready.

Stepping forth, he said, “I am Caedmon of Larkspur. Those are my cattle over there, and you have burned one of my cotter’s huts, injuring one man badly.”

“That we did,” the man answered with maddening arrogance. “I be Malcolm, laird of the MacLarins.”

“Why?”

“Because one of your cotters planted his seed in one of our lasses’ bellies.”

Caedmon glanced toward a hut where a young girl with a big belly stood apart from all the others. Her eyes and nose were red from crying. “Against her will?” he inquired.

The old man shrugged, which probably meant she had spread her thighs of her own choice.

Caedmon glanced toward Edric. “Do you know who is responsible?”

The boy’s unwhiskered face flushed, and he ducked his head.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Uhtred. Me brother.”

“Is he married?”

“Nay, but he has departed for parts unknown. He and me father had a…disagr…disagr…a fight.”

Caedmon turned back to the Scotsman. “Can we sit down somewhere and talk?”

Reluctantly, Malcolm bid him welcome…well, not quite welcome, but at least entry into his humble home.

Hours later—after imbibing vast quantities of that potent amber brew the Scots referred to as uisge-beatha, or water of life, but would surely be the death of him—Caedmon and his small troop were on their way back to Larkspur, his stolen cattle left behind, and no guarantee that there would not be more missing in the future. Reiving was the way of the Scotsmen.