the cabin as quietly as she could.
The sun had risen above the hills in the east. Emer shook out her gown, pulled it over her head and set out for the hall, raking through her hair with her fingers as she went. No one was about yet. She hesitated, and turned to face the rising sun. She shut her eyes, raised her hands, palm out and cleared her mind.
God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me…
She recited the whole of the small prayer twice, and felt better. In all the upheaval and terror, she had forgotten her formal prayers for the last few days. She would remember them from now on. If she screamed for help in moments of terror, it was only fair that she paid her dues on a regular basis.
She splashed her face and hands in a bucket of cold water, and wished she could shed her clothes and wash all over to be rid of the itching. She wasn’t sure if the itching was real or imaginary, but when she lifted the hem of her gown, she discovered a round pink lump on her calf and scratched it vigorously.
The creak of the wooden door alerted her. She turned. Flane, with folded arms and a wide grin, leaned against the hall’s carved doorpost.
Irritation flooded her. She dropped her skirts and straightened. It would have to be Flane who saw her do something so undignified. He didn’t look as if he had slept well, and a small burst of pleasure rushed through her. It was mean spirited, but she didn’t feel very generous. He deserved several nights without sleep for not keeping to his side of their bargain.
He walked towards her, drifted to a halt and eyed her warily. His bright hair was tousled, and there were shadows under his eyes. His tunic of coarse woven grey-green linen looked old, but nothing disguised the lean strength of his body. He took a deep breath, and let it go slowly. His mouth twitched as if he tried not to smile. “You look…rumpled.”
“It’s no wonder I’m rumpled, thanks to you. After a night in that miserable cabin I feel as if every flea in Skuli’s Steading is leaping about my person.”
“It was your decision to leave my bed,” he said mildly. “You need a comb again, too.” He plucked a piece of straw from her hair and tapped it against her nose.
Emer slapped his hand aside.
“Here.” He fumbled in the leather pouch at his belt, and held out a sturdy wooden comb. “Keep it.”
She snatched the comb, bent forward, swept her hair over her head and jerked the comb through it in rough, hasty strokes.
“If you…Emer, you should go to the washing hut.”
Emer swung her chestnut hair back over her shoulders, grabbed a hank in her fist and continued combing the free end.
He pointed in the direction of the loch. “You know where it is. You’d feel clean afterwards. In fact,” he added, “I could do with a wash myself. I’ll come as well.”
Emer stopped combing. The offer was tempting, but there were certain drawbacks. She tilted her head and gazed up at him. “Don’t you think Katla would object?”
He surveyed her lazily, and then swung round and indicated the quietness of the steading. “There’s no one up yet to see where we go.” His shoulders lifted and dropped. “Katla will feel the back of my hand if she dares object to anything I do.”
“But then she’ll only take it out on me, won’t she? And I can’t retaliate.”
“Don’t tell me you are scared of her.”
“But I ought to be,” Emer said slowly. “She could have me killed.”
“She wouldn’t dare. You are my property.”
“Accidents happen. You can’t expect to be there all the time. Flane, be serious!”
He shook his head, still smiling and with both hands on her shoulders, turned her towards the water. He did not speak as they turned west along the waterside towards the square timber cabin on the bank side. The tide was in, and the water lapped beneath the boards overhanging the loch. The smell of smoke and pine met her nose as they walked inside.
Flane took flint and striker out
The sun had risen above the hills in the east. Emer shook out her gown, pulled it over her head and set out for the hall, raking through her hair with her fingers as she went. No one was about yet. She hesitated, and turned to face the rising sun. She shut her eyes, raised her hands, palm out and cleared her mind.
God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me…
She recited the whole of the small prayer twice, and felt better. In all the upheaval and terror, she had forgotten her formal prayers for the last few days. She would remember them from now on. If she screamed for help in moments of terror, it was only fair that she paid her dues on a regular basis.
She splashed her face and hands in a bucket of cold water, and wished she could shed her clothes and wash all over to be rid of the itching. She wasn’t sure if the itching was real or imaginary, but when she lifted the hem of her gown, she discovered a round pink lump on her calf and scratched it vigorously.
The creak of the wooden door alerted her. She turned. Flane, with folded arms and a wide grin, leaned against the hall’s carved doorpost.
Irritation flooded her. She dropped her skirts and straightened. It would have to be Flane who saw her do something so undignified. He didn’t look as if he had slept well, and a small burst of pleasure rushed through her. It was mean spirited, but she didn’t feel very generous. He deserved several nights without sleep for not keeping to his side of their bargain.
He walked towards her, drifted to a halt and eyed her warily. His bright hair was tousled, and there were shadows under his eyes. His tunic of coarse woven grey-green linen looked old, but nothing disguised the lean strength of his body. He took a deep breath, and let it go slowly. His mouth twitched as if he tried not to smile. “You look…rumpled.”
“It’s no wonder I’m rumpled, thanks to you. After a night in that miserable cabin I feel as if every flea in Skuli’s Steading is leaping about my person.”
“It was your decision to leave my bed,” he said mildly. “You need a comb again, too.” He plucked a piece of straw from her hair and tapped it against her nose.
Emer slapped his hand aside.
“Here.” He fumbled in the leather pouch at his belt, and held out a sturdy wooden comb. “Keep it.”
She snatched the comb, bent forward, swept her hair over her head and jerked the comb through it in rough, hasty strokes.
“If you…Emer, you should go to the washing hut.”
Emer swung her chestnut hair back over her shoulders, grabbed a hank in her fist and continued combing the free end.
He pointed in the direction of the loch. “You know where it is. You’d feel clean afterwards. In fact,” he added, “I could do with a wash myself. I’ll come as well.”
Emer stopped combing. The offer was tempting, but there were certain drawbacks. She tilted her head and gazed up at him. “Don’t you think Katla would object?”
He surveyed her lazily, and then swung round and indicated the quietness of the steading. “There’s no one up yet to see where we go.” His shoulders lifted and dropped. “Katla will feel the back of my hand if she dares object to anything I do.”
“But then she’ll only take it out on me, won’t she? And I can’t retaliate.”
“Don’t tell me you are scared of her.”
“But I ought to be,” Emer said slowly. “She could have me killed.”
“She wouldn’t dare. You are my property.”
“Accidents happen. You can’t expect to be there all the time. Flane, be serious!”
He shook his head, still smiling and with both hands on her shoulders, turned her towards the water. He did not speak as they turned west along the waterside towards the square timber cabin on the bank side. The tide was in, and the water lapped beneath the boards overhanging the loch. The smell of smoke and pine met her nose as they walked inside.
Flane took flint and striker out
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