Helgi’s men. ‘I’ll take on the lot of you. What are you waiting for?’
A jarring collision as Caitlin threw herself against him. He seized her arm so tightly that she whimpered. He dragged her close. ‘A bit late, isn’t it?’ he snarled. ‘You could have stopped it before it started.’
She struggled in his grip. ‘You’re hurting me.’
The red rage of battle subsided. He released her.
‘Please,’ she sobbed. ‘Just go.’
‘And have your brother hound me across Iceland?’
‘He won’t. I promise.’ Caitlin reached out and pressed a hand to Vallon’s chest. ‘Please.’
For a moment their gazes locked, pleading in Caitlin’s eyes and some other expression that pierced Vallon to the quick. He removed her hand with care, swung on his heel, walked under the Icelanders’ swords and mounted. He’d gone only a short distance when he stopped, looking back in a final fit of fury. ‘As I said at the outset, I lost my path. I’d be grateful if you pointed me in the right direction.’
It was a long ride back and Vallon made it longer with several random diversions. Each time he reached a rise, he scouted for signs of pursuit. Of course it wasn’t over. He’d humiliated Helgi in front of Caitlin and the memory would keep pricking at her brother’s injured pride until his resentment boiled over. Vallon cursed the fluke that had led him to that particular wilderness lake. But as he jogged on, he had to acknowledge that his line of travel hadn’t been entirely accidental. Garrick had told him where Caitlin lived and that’s what must have steered his steps in that direction. What he didn’t know was why. He felt no desire for Caitlin. In fact, if she knew how cold his heart was towards women, her vanity would have been more aggrieved than her virtue.
Only a hint of light showed in the sky by the time he reached the hall. The house stood dark and empty. He waited in the yard trying to separate form from shadow. He didn’t think Helgi would attack him on Ottar’s property. For all his talk of family honour, the treacherous hothead would probably try to waylay him on a lonely backroad.
Vallon funnelled his hands. ‘Garrick!’
No one at home. He rested his sword on his saddle and quieted his restive horse. Movement made his head swing. Someone coming across the meadow. He relaxed and dismounted. Only the old woman.
‘Where’s Garrick?’
It seemed that the Englishman had grown anxious over Vallon’s long absence and gone to look for him. But it wasn’t Garrick the woman wanted to talk about. Vallon caught the word ‘Orkney’.
He took her frail arm. ‘Speak more slowly.’
Piece by piece, Vallon assembled the news. A few survivors from the shipwreck on the Westman Isles had reached Reykjavik. Among them was a man who’d suffered at Vallon’s hands and had voyaged to Iceland seeking retribution. The man had found lodgings at a farm near the coast.
Vallon clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned.
‘Snorri!’
Vallon reined in hard, swung off his horse and marched towards the house. He kicked the door and banged on it with his sword.
‘Open up! I know you’re in there.’
He stepped back with his sword held ready.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Vallon the Frank, from Ottarshall.’
A latch lifted and the door creaked inward. Beyond the threshold a farmer dressed in a nightshirt stood in a half crouch wielding an axe. Behind him children peered at Vallon like frightened mice.
‘Where is he?’
The farmer’s eyes rotated towards a byre on the far side of the yard.
Vallon strode towards it with his sword raised. He kicked open the door and followed the blade inside. A figure stooped on a bench lurched up with an agonised gasp and grabbed for the sword leaning against the wall. Vallon kicked it away and laid his blade against the man’s neck.
‘How fortune turns. Remember the night we met?’
Drogo clutched his ribs, trying not to double up. A blanket fell from his shoulders.
Vallon scooped Drogo’s sword into the corner with his foot. ‘I thought you’d gone warring against the Scots.’
Drogo straightened gingerly. ‘They don’t want to fight. It seems that they’re prepared to make terms. King William gave me leave to hunt you.’
Sweat glazed his upper lip. All the spare flesh had wasted from his face. He wore borrowed clothes and his hair had grown long and hung greasy and uncombed.
Vallon withdrew his sword. ‘I’ve committed no crimes. No!’ he shouted as Drogo made to speak. ‘Don’t tell me about the Normans who lie dead by my hand. Corner a wolf and you’ll get bitten. Every ill and injury was set in train by your hatred of Walter. That’s what this is about. A feud born in the nursery.’
‘You? Blameless?’ Drogo’s laugh collapsed into a tortured groan. ‘I know the extent of your wickedness. You’re a mercenary who slaughtered Christians in the service of infidels. A renegade who broke a treaty signed by his own lord. A cuckold and wife-murderer.’
Vallon nearly killed him there and then. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. ‘Drogo, you didn’t journey all this way to avenge the wrongs I might or might not have done to people you don’t know who live in countries you’ve never even visited.’
‘Everything I’ve learned about you confirms the justness of my quarrel.’
Vallon eyed him. He really was much reduced. ‘You’re in no state to quarrel with a cat.’
Feet pattered towards the byre. The farmer and two other men stopped outside the door, swaying from side to side and brandishing their weapons uncertainly.
‘Go back to bed,’ Vallon told them.
The farmer spoke to Drogo. The Norman made a helpless gesture and the Icelanders retreated muttering and shaking their heads. Vallon picked up a stool by one leg, set it down and seated himself.
‘I heard about the shipwreck. Where are your men?’
A spasm ran along Drogo’s jaw. He looked away. ‘One of them drowned and the other two suffered broken limbs. They’re too crippled to travel.’
Vallon leaned his hands on the pommel of his sword and regarded Drogo with a kind of wonderment. ‘You’re not the luckiest of men, are you?’
‘When I’ve mended, we’ll see who has the luck.’
‘I should lop off your head right now and put an end to your pestering. There’s no death penalty for manslaughter in Iceland. People rely on their kinsmen and followers to settle scores. You have neither. I still have my company.’
As Vallon said this, he realised that Helgi would soon find out about Drogo and his grudge. He could imagine how they’d stoke each other’s enmity.
‘How many of your gang are left?’ Drogo muttered.
‘All but the English youth killed in Northumberland.’ Vallon frowned. ‘You sailed from Orkney. Did you encounter Snorri, our shipmaster?’
‘I thought he was here with you.’
Vallon clicked his tongue. ‘Poor Snorri.’ He was silent for a while. When he spoke again, his tone was almost conversational. ‘Richard and Hero are away on trade. Wayland and Raul have sailed to Greenland in search of gyrfalcons. They’ve been gone two months and I begin to worry.’
‘I’m surprised my weakling brother still lives.’
‘Not such a weakling. He’s grown in stature and confidence since escaping your tyranny. I’ve appointed him treasurer to the expedition and he’s proved himself a shrewd handler of money.’ Vallon leaned forward. ‘Every man in my company is under my protection. I’ll treat any attempt to harm them as an assault on my own person.’
Drogo shifted. ‘You’ll agree to a trial by combat once my ribs are mended.’
Vallon stood. He was dizzy from hunger and he still had the ride to his lodgings ahead of him. ‘You won’t be fit to fight by the time we leave. We’re sailing as soon as
