Jack Whyte: The Saxon Shore

"Well? Shall I kill him now? He's an Outlander. You'll get nothing out of him. Can't even speak his language." This was a heavy, growling voice, well on in years, and it was greeted by a chorus of consensual muttering. They all fell silent as the next man spoke, and I knew I was hearing the voice of their chieftain.

"Aye, you may be right, Tearlach, but we won't know until we try, will we? He may have information we can use. I think I want to spare his life for now, from curiosity, if nothing else."

"Why waste your time and ours?" The growling voice was filled with menace or disgust. "The whoreson killed Lachie. An eye for an eye, I say, and be damned to your curiosity. Let's spill his tripes and dump him to the fishes."

"A rragh, but why did he kill Lachie, and for what?" There was a ring to the question that made even me wish to hear the answer, and the others fell silent again as the voice went on. "If he's a Saxon, as he would seem to be with that head of yellow hair, then why would he die thus gladly for an alien child? Look at this boy, all of you, and tell me where your eyes are. Look at him! Look at his eyes! Here is no Saxon. This child is pure Gael. Why then, ask yourselves, would this Outlander behave as he did in killing Lachie? Or are you all solid bone clear upward from the necks? Where is your desire to know how such things work—what men will do under dire provocation? Could this be the man's son? Ah! In that case, his anger would be yours, had you seen what he saw . . ."

The child was alive! Even in my pain I felt my flesh tingle with the knowledge of what could only be a miracle. The voice above me pressed on.

"And if this be his son, what then? A Saxon father protective to death of a Gaelic child?" His voice faded, then resumed more loudly, cutting short the man Tearlach's effort to interrupt. "What concerns me, my friends, is how this yellow-headed wolf came to be aboard yon birney, and adrift at sea. Our birney! That concern is not going to be resolved by killing the creature without trying to discover what he might know. Where are our own men, Red Dougal and Alasdair, Fingal and the others of their crew? And far, far more important, where are the women they were sent to find? I'll tell you, my lads, if we cannot find means to loosen this man's tongue, I for one will take little pleasure in the thought of sailing home with such news as we have to bring my father."

A babble of voices broke out as they began to argue among themselves and I made an attempt to rise. It was a forlorn attempt; the hampering effect of my bound arms allowed me only to kick my legs uselessly, squirming around on the planking. I felt a foot insert itself between me and the decking, at the point of my shoulder, and then the heave of a leg turned me so that I almost rolled over onto my back—to be stopped again by my bound arms, coming to rest with the full weight of my body on my tied wrists and one elbow. In spite of my gritted teeth, I could not stifle an agonized groan. I lay squinting up at them while they all stared back. I ground my teeth against the dementing pain in my arms and managed to draw a deep breath.

"I can tell you what you want to know." I grated out the words painfully in their own tongue, through my locked teeth.

The shock on their faces might have been laughable at any other time, but the humour of the scene escaped me until much later. To hear their own liquid gutturals spill fluently from the lips of one they took to be a Saxon Outlander left all of them floundering. They recovered themselves quickly, nevertheless, led by their leader, at whose word two of them leaned over and hauled me to my feet again, bracing me between them. Behind us, I could hear the shocked muttering of the crew as word of this new development spread quickly from one end of the ship to the other.

The leader had pulled himself out of his slouch, sitting erect now, although his right leg still stretched stiffly before him, shrouded in the folds of his long cloak. He held the baby, which had fallen asleep, casually, yet with the assurance of practice, supported by his bent forearm against his side. He gazed at me now through narrowed eyes.

"You understand our tongue."

I nodded, my breathing still too shallow to allow me to speak strongly.

"How so?"

I tried to answer him, but my tongue failed me. I heaved a breath, shaking my head in a mute plea for patience. Finally, when I felt I could articulate the words without faltering, I said, "I learned it from a friend... It is not unlike my own."

"Your friend is Erse?"

I nodded. "He is."

I heard a muttered curse from the largest of the men on my left, and recognized the grumbling tone as Tearlach grunted something about a traitorous dog. I ignored it.

The leader was gazing at me fixedly. "How come you here, adrift in this vessel?"

"By hazard," I responded, shaking my head. The pain in my arms had begun to abate now that I was standing again. "I had no thought to leave the land. I merely sought to save the child."

"Save him? From what?"

I blinked at him, surprised that he should have to ask. "From death," I said. "The boat was drifting on the rising tide, floating away from shore, when I heard his cries. I climbed aboard and found him, then found I was too far away from shore to return." I hesitated, unwilling to show ignorance, but knowing there was no way to conceal it. "I have no knowledge of the sea, or ships, and knew not how to return the craft to land."

"You can swim; you could have swum ashore." His eyes were piercing bright, watching me closely. I shook my head.

"No, I wore armour and had no wish to be without it. So I stayed in the hope we'd drift ashore again. Besides, I might have drowned the child."

His eyes moved aside and I followed his glance to where my discarded armour, ring suit, helmet, sword, dagger and cloak lay piled against the ship's side.

After that one glance, however, he chose not to pursue the matter, apparently accepting the truth of my words. "The child is that important to you? Why?"

I said nothing, but he would not accept that.

"Why did you kill my man Lachie, and why leap overboard after the child?" I merely glared at him and he went on. "You thought to save it?"

I could not respond. His question was too alien.

"Well, did you? Did you think to save the child? Answer me, man!"

"Yes."

"Yes." The single word, repeated in his voice, sounded far different from the word I had said. On his tongue, it dripped scorn. "From what, from death?" He lowered his head again to look at the child before facing me again, his eyes now filled with anger. "What kind of fool are you? It would have been a kindness to the babe to let him drown. Now he will die of thirst and starvation, for there is no food here for him. He is new-born, fool, fit only for suckling at his mother's teat! He cannot eat, or drink, or feed himself, and we have no milk here."

His angry scorn confounded me, for I had not thought of any of this. In seeking to rescue the child I had thought only of his life, not of the means required to sustain that life beyond the moment of salvation. Realization of my foolishness removed the sting from his angry words, however, and I nodded in acquiescence.

"That's true," I said. "I had not thought of that."

"Hmm." He changed the subject, looking down at the sleeping baby in his arms and rubbing one fingertip against its tiny cheek, and now his voice was softer. "What of the men who crewed the boat, did you see them?"

"Aye, they were all dead. Slain."

"All of them?" His head came up and I heard disbelief in his voice.

"All of them," I repeated. "The women, too."

He sucked in his breath with a sibilant hiss, and I saw a fleeting expression of pain in his dark eyes. "How many women?"