Margaret Moore - A Warrior's Passion

Stifling a wry smile, Griffydd nodded his head, giving the man a sidelong glance. “Harsh in Wales, too, it was.”

“Oh, aye?”

Griffydd nodded. “There seems to be no lack of fish on the shore.”

The captain cleared his throat and ran a brown, brawny hand through his thick red beard. “That’s the way of it here. Good fish one day, no fish for ten.”

“A pity is that.”

“Aye,” the captain agreed.

“Tell me, are the chieftain’s sons in the village?”

A wary and yet relieved look came to the captain’s eyes. “No.”

Griffydd was glad to hear it, and he could understand the man’s response. Diarmad had six strapping, obstreperous sons who were known to treat everyone with arrogant contempt. They commanded their own small fleets, quartered out of six villages within a day’s sail of Dunloch. A wise plan to give them each their own village, Baron DeLanyea thought it, otherwise whelps like that would be at each other’s throats constantly.

A cry went up from a watchman on a rock near the shore, which was answered by the captain. Another call sounded in the village, and now Griffydd could make out more clearly the people on the shore.

And they would be able to see him. With that in mind, he made his way to his chest in the stern to don his mail, hauberk, finest cloak, best brooch and valuable sword.

As he did so, Griffydd DeLanyea felt no sense of foreboding, or fear that he would not be successful in his quest for a good rate for the transportation of his father’s goods. He truly believed that he would conclude this business and be safely home in no more than a fortnight.

Such is the folly of young men.

As the ship slowly drifted into its place beside the wharf, the left-hand side closest to shore, Griffydd scrutinized the men assembled there.

The stocky one in the center wearing the fur robe would be Diarmad. Not only was he in the position of leadership, there could be no mistaking the man, to go by his father’s description.

The collective expressions of the men clustered around him indicated something less than joy at Griffydd’s arrival.

This did not surprise the young Welshman. Alliances, whether political or mercantile, were not something to be taken lightly. The political affected trade, and trade affected politics, so no transaction of the magnitude of the agreement Griffydd was going to attempt to negotiate could be a simple business.

Men in the bow and stern leaped from the ship to the wharf, carrying ropes to tie the vessel in place.

As Griffydd jumped nimbly to the land, Diarmad MacMurdoch stepped forward with open arms to embrace him and give him the kiss of greeting.

“Welcome!” the chieftain of Dunloch cried heartily. “Welcome to Dunloch! My hall is yours!”

As Diarmad drew back, Griffydd managed not to wrinkle his nose at the man’s powerful stench. Instead, he acknowledged the greeting and gravely said, “I thank you for your kind words, Diarmad. My father, Baron DeLanyea, sends his greetings and some gifts from Craig Fawr.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed with pleasure and, Griffydd thought, greed. “I thank him! He is well, I trust?”

“Very.”

“Glad to hear it! A fine man—a fine fighter! The Baron DeLanyea was on the Crusade!” the chieftain declared, apparently for the benefit of the men around him. “Nearly killed, he was, but the heathens couldn’t do it, although they took his eye. Isn’t that right, young DeLanyea?”

“Yes,” Griffydd acknowledged, his body slowly adjusting to the solid, unswaying land.

“And your mother? She is well?”

Griffydd nodded. “Yes.”

“Good, good!” Diarmad cried, throwing his arm about Griffydd like an overly friendly bear, which was, Griffydd realized, what was familiar about his smell. “To the hall then, for some ale.”

Griffydd had no choice but to agree, for Diarmad’s beastlike grip did not loosen. The chieftain led his guest along a wide street through the village to the fortress.

The Welshman felt the eyes of the villagers on him, but he paid that no mind. Instead, he concentrated on what he saw—the smithy, with more than one man busily at work, the well-built houses of stone and thatch, barns, storehouses, wooden outbuildings and even the muck heaps, which could easily tell a man how many horses were kept. Dogs ran barking around them, the largest obviously Diarmad’s hound, for a word from the chieftain brought the brute impressively to heel.

“Fine mail you’ve got there, DeLanyea,” Diarmad noted in a conversational tone. “That sword’s a marvel, too. Must have been a prosperous year.”

“The mail and sword were gifts from my father’s friends when I was knighted,” Griffydd explained truthfully. “The cloak and brooch, as well.”

“Generous friends you’ve got.”

“And powerful at court, some of them.”

Diarmad gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.

Griffydd sighed rather melodramatically. “As you know, the king has raised our taxes again, and of course, the winter was harsh.”

There was a nearly imperceptible pause before Diarmad responded. “Oh, aye?”

“I heard it was bad here, too,” Griffydd continued evenly.

“So it was, so it was!” Diarmad muttered.

By now, they had reached the tall, wooden wall of the fortress. As they went through the gate, Griffydd took note of the stables, the longhouses, the well—but everything inside the fortress palled beside the enormous stone hall in the center. Although the hall was smaller than his father’s, it was impressive nonetheless, larger and longer than any building of the Gall-Gaidheal Griffydd had ever seen before.

Diarmad strode toward the building and proudly gestured for Griffydd to enter. “Well, here we are! Not so fine as your father’s hall, I know, but fine enough for a poor man like me.”

If Diarmad’s poor, I’m a girl, Griffydd thought sarcastically as one of Diarmad’s men, a dark-haired, sullen fellow, hurried forward to hold open the door.

Griffydd strode into the building, and suddenly felt as if he were in a cavern. There were no windows, and the sod-and-thatch roof gave the air an earthy smell. Smoke drifted toward a single hole above, with much of it lingering in the room lit by oil lamps and rushlights stuck in sconces in the wall. The lamps burned whale oil, if Griffydd’s nose was any guide. A roaring fire blazed in the central hearth, providing more illumination, as well as welcome warmth after the chill of the air. Benches and tables ringed the hearth, drinking horns and trenchers already in place.

A sudden movement to Griffydd’s right caught his eye and he swiftly turned to see a young woman rising from a stool in the corner. She wore a pale brown, rough woolen gown of simple cut. It fell loosely from a curved, unembellished neckline to the floor, although a plain belt hung about her hips and made the full dress blouse. Long, red-gold hair of luxuriant thickness reached to her waist.

Then, with one long-fingered hand, she slowly brushed her amazing hair away from her elfin face and looked at him, her dark eyes large, and their expression one he had never seen before—half defiant pride, half yearning vulnerability.

And totally compelling. As she was.

In that moment, it was as if the breath had left his lungs and his heart had ceased to beat. Then his heart came to vibrant life, thudding with a rapid drumbeat that surely had to be audible.

The woman did not speak or move, but regarded him steadily, her lips parted as if she would speak.

He waited, not breathing, for her to utter a single word.

Then Diarmad shoved his unwelcome way past Griffydd and broke the spell. “Seona!” he barked.