"Jad's a warrior," was his blunt response to a sequence of clerics who'd joined his household and then attempted to instill a gentler piety in the battle-scarred leader of the Hywll line.
Nonetheless, whatever she might have known from harp song and meadhall tale, his daughter had never seen her father kill until tonight. Until the moment when he had slashed a thrown and caught sword deep into the Erling who'd been trying to bargain his way to freedom.
It hadn't disturbed her, watching the man die.
That was a surprise. She had discovered it about herself: seeing the sword of Alun ab Owyn in her father's thick hands come down on the Erling. She wondered if it was a bad, even an impious thing that she didn't recoil from what she saw and heard: strangled, bubbling cry, blood bursting, a man falling like a sack.
It gave her, in truth, a measure of satisfaction. She knew that she ought properly to atone for that, in chapel. She had no intention of doing so. There were two gashes on her throat and neck from an Erling axe. There was blood on her body, and on her green gown. She had been expecting to die in her own chambers tonight. Had told Siawn and his men to let the Erling kill her. She could still hear herself speaking those words. Resolute then, she'd had to conceal shaking hands after.
Had, accordingly, little sympathy to spare for Erling raiders when they were slain, and that applied to the five her father ordered executed when it became evident they were not going to bring any ransom.
They were dispatched where they stood in the torchlit yard. No words spoken, no ceremony, pause for prayer. Five living men, five dead men. In the time one might lift and drink a cup of wine. Brynn's men began walking around the yard with torches, killing those Erlings who lay on the ground, wounded, not yet dead. They had come to raid, take slaves, rape and kill, the way they always came.
A message needed to be sent, endlessly: the Cyngael might not worship gods of storm and sword, or believe in an afterworld of endless battle, but they could be—some of them could be—as bloody and as ruthless as an Erling when need was.
She was still outside when her father spoke to the older, red-bearded raider. Brynn walked up to the man, held again between two of their people, more tightly than before. He had broken free once—and saved Brynn from an arrow. Her father, Rhiannon realized, was dealing with a great anger because of that.
"How many of you were here?" Brynn bit off the words, speaking quietly. He was never quiet, she thought.
"Thirty, a few more." No hesitation. The man was almost as big as her father, Rhiannon saw. And of an age.
"As many left behind?"
"Forty, to guard the ships. Take them off the coast, if necessary."
"Two ships?"
"Three. We had some horses, to come inland."
Brynn had dressed by now, was holding his own sword, though there was no need for it. He began to pace as they spoke. The red-bearded Erling watched his movements, standing between two men. They were gripping his arms tightly, Rhiannon saw. She was certain her father was going to kill him.
"You rode straight for this farmhouse?"
"Yes, that was the idea. If we could find it."
"How did you find it?"
"Captured a shepherd."
"And he is?"
"Dead," said the Erling. "I can take you to him, if you want." "You expected this house to be undefended?"
The man smiled a little, then, and shook his head. "Not defended by your warband, certainly. Young leaders. They made a mistake."
"You weren't one of them?"
The other man shook his head.
"The one who held me brought you here? Of the line of the Volgan?"
The Erling nodded.
"Elder grandson?" Brynn had stopped in front of him again. "Younger. Ivarr's the elder."
"But he didn't lead."
The man shook his head. "Yes and no. It was his idea. But Ivarr's… different."
Brynn was stabbing his blade into the earth now.
"You came to burn this farm?"
"And kill you, and any of your family here, yes."
He was so calm, Rhiannon thought. Had he made his peace with dying? She didn't think that was it. He'd surrendered, said he didn't want to be killed, back in her chamber.
"Because of the grandfather?"
The man nodded. "Your killing him. Taking the sword. These two decided they were of an age to avenge it, since their father had not. They were wrong."
"And why are you here? You're as old as I am."
First hesitation. In the silence Rhiannon could hear the horses and the crackle of torches. "Nothing to keep me in Vinmark. I made a mistake, too."
Part of an answer, Rhiannon thought, listening closely. Brynn was staring at him. "Coming, or before you came?" Another pause. "Both."
"There's no ransom for you, is there."
"No," the man said frankly. "Once there might have been." Brynn's gaze was steady. "Maybe. Were you ransomed last time you were taken here, or did you escape?"
Again, a silence. "Escaped," the Erling admitted.
He had decided, Rhiannon realized, that there was no hope in anything but honesty.
Brynn was nodding. "I thought so. I believe I remember you. The red hair. You did raid with Volganson, didn't you? You escaped east, twenty-five years ago, after he died. Through the hills. All the way to the Erling settlements on the east coast. They chased you, didn't they? You used a cleric as hostage, if I remember."
A murmur, from those listening.
"I did. I released him. He was a decent enough man." Brynn's voice altered slightly.
"That was a long way to go."
"By Ingavin's blind eye, I wouldn't want to do it again," the Erling said dryly.
Another silence. Brynn resumed his pacing. "There's no ransom for you. What can you offer me?"
"A hammer, sworn loyalty."
"Until you escape again?"
"I said I wouldn't do it again, that journey. I was young then." He looked down and away for the first time, then back up. "I have nothing to go home to, and this place is as good as any for me to end my days. You can make me a slave, to dig ditches or carry water, or use me more wisely, but I will not escape again."
"You will take the oath and come to the faith of Jad?"
Another slight smile, torchlight upon him. "I did that last time."
Brynn didn't return the smile. "And recanted?"
"Last time. I was young. I'm not any more. Neither Ingavin nor your sun god are worth dying for, in my judgement. I suppose I am a heretic to two faiths. Kill me?"
Brynn was standing still again, in front of him.
"Where are the ships? You will guide us to them."
The Erling shook his head. "Not that."
Rhiannon saw her father's expression. He wasn't normally someone she feared.
"Yes that, Erling."
"This is the price of being allowed to live?"
"It is. You spoke of loyalty. Prove it."
The Erling was still a moment, considering. Torches moved in the yard around them. Men were being carried inside, or helped if they could walk.
"Best kill me then," the red-bearded man said.
"If I must," said Brynn.
"No," said someone else, stepping forward. "I will take him as a man of mine. My own guard."
Rhiannon turned, her mouth falling open.
"Let me be clear on this," her mother went on, coming to stand beside her husband, looking at the Erling. Rhiannon hadn't realized she was even with them. "I believe I understand. You would fight an Erling band that came upon us now, but will not reveal where your fellows are?"
The Erling looked at her. "Thank you, my lady," he said. "Certain things done for life make the life unworthy. You become sick with them. They poison you, your thoughts." He turned back to Brynn. "They were shipmates," he said.