Foxmask (78 page)

Up to a certain point, all went to plan. Skapti, Ranulf and Orm exclaimed in wonder at the smooth and gentle contours of the land, the sleek, fat sheep, the walled fields of bere and oats shooting lush and green. There was a sharp westerly wind, carrying rain; Ranulf, shivering, commented that the weather, at least, was just like home. Still, it was a fair place; it seemed more than likely, Orm reckoned, that Knut would have settled and found a wife, and have no inclination at all to make the journey back.

So far, so good. They reached Margaret's longhouse and dismounted in the yard. Thorvald felt unaccountably nervous, as if he were still that impulsive youth who had spat words of black resentment at his mother, then sailed away with no explanation whatever. When Ash appeared in the doorway, his plain features alive with astonishment, Thorvald's manner was more curt than he had intended.

“Ash, I see you haven't moved on. Please tell my mother I am here, with three companions. I hope they can all be accommodated.”

He was not sure how Ash was going to respond; it almost seemed the poker-faced housecarl was suppressing a smile of amusement. As it was, Ash did not get the chance to speak, for Margaret appeared beside him in the doorway and, an instant later, was running toward Thorvald in a most un-Margaret like way, and he dismounted and felt her arms come around his neck in an embrace such as she had not offered him since he was a tiny child. He might almost have let tears fall, had he been that kind of man. It was good. It was remarkably good. Beside them, he was aware of Ash welcoming his companions as if he were master of the house, and extending an invitation to stay as long as they wished, since the buildings were spacious and could easily accommodate visitors.

Thorvald had done no more than blink with surprise when his mother drew back, releasing him, and moved to Ash's side, and the two of them reached out to each other, clasping hands like a pair of courting youngsters.

“We're married now,” Margaret said, her smile something new and, Thorvald was forced to admit, pleasing to see. “I need to tell you straightaway, so there's no misunderstanding.”

“Oh.” Thorvald could not think what to say. Once, he would have found the very idea repugnant. His own mother, Lady Margaret, daughter of Thorvald
Strong-Arm, wed to a—a serving man? But he had had time for reflection since last spring. As child and youth, he had scorned Ash's contributions to his education even as he endured the endless practice sessions in armed and unarmed combat, horsemanship and strategy. He had come to realize, over the season of the hunt, that without Ash's expert teaching, his patient tutoring in the arts of war, it would have been impossible to win the trust of Hogni and Skapti and the other men. He could never have led them into battle. Ash had not always been a housecarl. If he had stayed with Margaret all those years, it was by choice. Thorvald saw in the calm gray eyes, now turned toward his mother in reassurance, that Ash had stayed because of love. How could her son grudge Margaret a moment's happiness? He himself had hardly made things easy for her, or for Ash himself.

“Well, this is good news,” he made himself say. “What a surprise. I offer my congratulations to you both.”

“Are you home for long?” Margaret asked, and Thorvald felt overwhelming relief that he did not need to explain that this was a brief visit, that he would never return to pick up the pieces of his old life.

“Perhaps one turning of the moon. I need to speak of trade matters; I will tell you more once we're settled. Mother, how is . . . ?”

“How is Creidhe? Not very well, Thorvald. Changed terribly. Still struggling to make sense of it all, I think. She told us very little. Sam's fine. He's courting Brona, and happy as a pig in clover.”

“Creidhe is not yet wed then?” They were going up the steps now, and he spoke quietly, for his mother's ears alone. He tried to keep his voice cool and dispassionate.

“No, Thorvald,” said Margaret, and it sounded to him, oddly, as if she felt sorry for him. “She's very sad; too sad to consider such a prospect. We've all been extremely worried.” It was a statement of fact, without censure. Then they were inside, and he had to introduce the others properly and could not ask her more.

They sent a messenger, and while they waited for an answer the household moved with brisk efficiency around them, preparing a fine meal of roasted beef accompanied by a particularly good ale. Skapti, grinning, flirted with the serving women; Orm engaged Ash in a long discussion about sheep, and Ranulf subsided into a comfortable seat by the fire, ale cup in his hand, feet stretched to the flames' warmth. Thorvald passed on certain messages to his mother and heard her own news. A son born to Eyvind and Nessa; a decision coming soon, as to which ties must be put first, those with Rogaland or with Caithness; a great council at Freyrsfjord in the summer, which
Eyvind would attend, though he was reluctant to part with small Eirik for long: what if the child learned to walk, he had protested, and he was not there to see it?

A messenger from Eyvind's household came promptly; he must have been despatched straight after the other arrived. They were to ride on in the morning. Eyvind could not summon all the landholders in less than three days, but he wished to see Thorvald alone, tomorrow. Nessa and Eyvind were glad Thorvald was home safely and sent their regards to Margaret and Ash.

Only Skapti went with him. Ranulf had a monstrous headache and could not leave his bed, and Ash wanted to show Orm his two best rams, and talk to him about wool. Thorvald was somewhat relieved; today's meeting would not be easy. Perhaps only Skapti had an idea what it meant to him.

It was not such a long ride. The rain was gone; in time they came up over a rise and there before them, across a patchwork of neat, walled fields, were a fine heather-thatched longhouse and outbuildings set around a courtyard where folk moved about purposefully, some leading horses, some with dogs at heel. Thorvald did not see anyone he knew among them. The two men rode down the hillside. Thorvald rehearsed in his mind what he would say to Eyvind. His belly churned with trepidation, as if he were no leader of men but a foolish youth caught out in some piece of mischief.

“Thorvald?” Skapti said quietly. He was pointing down toward the stone dyke that circled the outermost field, where two small figures could now be seen, baskets in hand, stooping to gather herbs that grew in the damp by a little stream. Two figures; no, three, for one girl carried an infant on her back in a sling, an infant with the same wheaten-fair hair as her own. Thorvald's heart seemed to halt in its tracks a moment, then beat again. Without a word he turned his horse, and Skapti followed. A little later, both girls stood upright, watching them come.

The men rode up to the wall and dismounted. There was a charged silence; Thorvald and Skapti were both staring at Creidhe, a Creidhe they scarcely recognized, for she was so thin and pale she looked like a ghost. Whatever had ailed her, those last days in the Lost Isles, had clearly not been cured now she was home. Her eyes were shadowed, her lips set tight. The sight of the rosy, cheerful Brona standing by her sister's side only made Creidhe's woeful state the more shocking.

Brona found her voice. “Welcome home, Thorvald. It's good to see you. And you—?”

“Skapti,” the big man mumbled, ducking his head in a kind of bow. “You'll be Creidhe's sister.”

“Yes, I'm Brona. Betrothed to Sam. I've heard lots about you. Didn't you once flatten Thorvald in a fight? Or maybe that was your brother. Sam tells me he was a great warrior too.” Brona glanced at her sister, then at Thorvald. “Creidhe, I'm going to take my basket back to the house, I'm sure we've picked enough. I'll show Skapti where the stables are and introduce him to Mother.”

Creidhe was silent, staring out toward the sea, away from Thorvald.

“Shall I take Eirik?” Brona offered.

“It's all right,” Creidhe said, not turning. “He's asleep. I'll bring him up soon.” And indeed, the infant slept deeply and peacefully on his sister's back, his small, blond head drooping against her neck, one thumb plugged firmly into his mouth. His eyelids were soft with dreams.

Brona headed off briskly toward the longhouse. Skapti followed, leading the two horses. Whether it was what Eyvind would have wanted or no, Creidhe and Thorvald were left alone.

Thorvald sat on the wall. She stood by him, looking away.

“A fine boy,” he commented, glancing at the infant. “Your parents must be pleased.”

She said nothing. The silence drew out.

“You look terrible,” Thorvald said eventually. “Sick. Sad. I don't know what to say to you.” It was the truth; there was no point in disguising it.

“You need not say anything, Thorvald.” Creidhe's voice was flat.

He tried a new tack. “My father is well. So is Brother Breccan. He has a small following now among the people of Brightwater. He has great hopes of baptising three or four by next Yule. Both wished to be remembered to you.”

Creidhe acknowledged this with a nod. It was better than nothing.

“So Sam and Brona are to be married,” he said. “Your father agreed to that? I'm surprised. Sam and I always believed Eyvind would accept no less than Jarls for you and your sisters. I'm happy for Sam; he's a good man, a good friend. I always thought it was you he preferred.”

She looked at him then, eyes wide, expression wary. “Strange, isn't it, how we think we know what we want,” she said. “And how wrong we can be about it. For a long time I thought you were the only man in the world. If I'd seen another girl so much as look at you, I would have wanted to kill her. Then, for a little, I despised you. Now I just wish you would go away, and stay away.”

For a while Thorvald could not speak. Her words had hurt him more than he could have imagined possible. Creidhe gazed out westward, features devoid of expression.

“You've made it quite clear what you think of me,” he managed eventually, “and I suppose I must accept that, though I had hoped—I had entertained a slight hope that things might be different between us, that they might be as they were before—”

“How was that, Thorvald? You getting on with your life and me following you, invisible until you decided you needed me for a little comfort? Was that what you expected?” She had turned back toward him now; the anger in her eyes was at least better than that terrifying, blank indifference. “I pity any girl who marries you. She'll always come second, or perhaps third. After yourself and whatever quest currently absorbs you.”

Thorvald swallowed. “This is not like you, Creidhe.” He knew the words were feeble.

“It is like me. I am simply not as I was. If you don't care for the way I am now, look to your own actions for the reason. It doesn't matter anyway. After today we need never see each other again.”

“Creidhe!” The word burst out, vibrant with feeling; he could not hold it back. “Don't say that!”

“I have said it.”

“At least tell me—at least give me the chance—”

“Tell you what?” Her voice was cold and tight.

“What I'm supposed to have done that's so terrible, what it is I can never be forgiven for. I had hoped for more than friendship from you. I was deluding myself to think that possible, obviously. But to lose even your friendship, that would be like—like—” He faltered to a stop, alarmed to hear such words spilling from his lips, and he a seasoned leader of men.

“Like losing a part of yourself,” Creidhe said quietly. “I cannot believe you still haven't worked it out, Thorvald. You were always so clever, so good at puzzles. You would have given up Foxmask to the Unspoken, even though their intention was to blind and cripple him. All for your own glory. That was bad enough. But in seeking to take the seer, you dealt me a heart wound. You killed the man who was the other part of me. You snatched away his happiness and mine with a single stroke of your sword. Because of you, I'll lead only half a life. Because of you, Keeper never knew an existence beyond the terror of those lonely years on the island and the dark days of the hunt. That was what you did. You can't change it now. You can't bring him back.” Her voice was itself like that of a seer, hollow and ringing. Her words made his heart quail. She was wrong about him, deeply wrong, and he longed to explain. He longed to tell her everything, how perhaps his quest had begun in a desire to impress Asgrim, to prove his own worth, but had changed to
something far bigger: the will to bring peace, to give the men back their pride in themselves, to build a new community. He ached to tell her all that he had learned. But that was of no matter now. You can't bring him back, she had said. If he read her aright, he could indeed do just that. He could restore to her the very thing whose loss had leached the life from her spirit and emptied her eyes of joy; in doing so, he must lose her forever.

“Creidhe,” he said carefully, knowing there was no choice in this at all, “for the sake of the bond we once had, the friendship we shared all those years, I beg you to listen to me now. This is important; you can't know how important. Please don't turn away; please don't go silent again. Who is this man Keeper? Do you mean the fellow who held you prisoner on the Isle of Clouds? Asgrim's son, Erling?”

“He didn't like that name,” Creidhe said quietly. Thorvald did not miss the change in her tone; it had softened, warmed. “He called himself Keeper, because that was his life's purpose, keeping his sister's son safe. He called the child Small One. Never Foxmask: he lived in horror of what the Unspoken would do to the boy if they got their hands on him.”

“Wrong, in the end.”

“Wrong, yes; but he did not live to know that. And they would still have done it.”

“But for you. You were very brave that day. You spoke to them like a goddess.”

Something unaccountable happened then: tears began to stream down Creidhe's wan cheeks in total silence. She put up her hands to scrub them away, as a child might. On her back her small brother slept on, oblivious. Thorvald was transfixed; the sudden change from the cold expression of judgment to this flood of grieving filled him with anguish. She was his dear friend and he could not touch her, could not offer a simple embrace of comfort. She loathed him. She had said so.