Foxmask (79 page)

“Creidhe.” His voice was urgent. “Stop it. Stop crying, please, I can't bear it. And listen to me. You must listen.” His mind was racing ahead to the remoteness of the island, the vagaries of the Fool's Tide, the fellow's feral nature, the tally of men slain: clearly, the thing was impossible, ridiculous. Still, he must tell her. “Sit down, here.” He fumbled for a handkerchief, passed it to her, his hands shaking. “That's better. Let me see your face, Creidhe. You must look at me while I say this.”

She raised brimming eyes to him; her cheeks were wet, her lips trembling.

“I lied to you, Creidhe. I've only ever done that once, and I did it because
I thought it was for the best. I thought you'd been held prisoner and abused. I thought the way you were behaving was because of that: shock and terror. So I lied.”

“Wh-what are you saying?”

“I would have killed him. He accounted for four men that hunt; he had slain many more over the years, good men, honest men like Skapti's brother, who died slowly and cruelly from poison. I thought the fellow had taken you by force. I stood ready, sword in hand, as he lay senseless before me. But don't forget, I still believed Asgrim was my father then. That made this man Erling a kind of brother. When it came to the point, I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill my brother. So I dragged him to the shelter and left him.”

Creidhe was mute, her eyes wide with shock, staring into his. He knew, in that moment, that her happiness was infinitely more important to him than his own.

“He's still alive, Creidhe. He was the only one on the island, wasn't he? Some of the fellows have been saying they've seen smoke from a little fire. They talk about the Seal Tribe, as fishermen do. There's certainly someone there on the Isle of Clouds; it can only be your Keeper.”

Her eyes blazed. Her cheeks flushed scarlet. Her mouth curved in a smile of such joy it brought tears to his own eyes. An instant later she had sprung to her feet and thrown her arms around him, and, cruelly, Thorvald felt her body pressed to his own, frail and thin, but nonetheless providing a piercing reminder of how things might have been if he had not been so blind.

“Oh!” Creidhe breathed. “Oh, Thorvald, oh, Thorvald, thank you! How soon can we go back? We must be there by midsummer, because of the tide—oh, Thorvald, my dear, my friend, you can't know how happy I am! But to think, all this time he's been there alone, he must have thought—oh, how terrible, with Small One taken, and me gone as well, he would have believed—but he didn't give up, he waited for me—when can we leave?”

To anyone watching from a distance, and several members of Creidhe's family were doing just that, the scene would have had a single, obvious interpretation. A discussion, an argument, tears, then a fierce embrace, moderated somewhat by the presence of small Eirik: what else but a lovers' falling-out, ended in the best way possible? Then Creidhe practically skipping back to the house despite the child on her back, Creidhe leading Thorvald by the hand, Creidhe with her thin features radiant and blissful: how else might one read so dramatic a change?

Nessa waited by the steps. She was a wise woman, a priestess, for all she had set aside the formal observances for a life as wife and mother, councillor
and arbiter. She, at least, knew that things are seldom as they seem on the surface.

“Mother!” Creidhe called, beaming. “Mother, I'm going back! He's alive, he's still there waiting for me!” And she threw her arms around Nessa, hugging her with a strength that seemed suddenly, miraculously restored to her. Eirik awoke and began to utter infant sounds that suggested hunger; he was a strapping child. Nessa looked over her daughter's shoulder and into Thorvald's dark eyes. She saw the hurt on his face, the wounded, lost look, turn at some silent self-command to the composed, guarded expression of a man of affairs, a leader. He was, beyond doubt, his father's son.

“Welcome, Thorvald,” Nessa said, reaching to help Creidhe unfasten the bindings that held the child. “It's good to see you.”

“Thank you. I'm glad to be back, though somewhat nervous, I have to say. Creidhe has more news for you; it's unlikely to please you, I fear, nor her father.”

Nessa took Eirik in her arms; he was damp and beginning to squall. “Creidhe can tell me first, and then we'll speak to Eyvind together,” she said, heading indoors. “After this small tyrant is fed, I think. My husband's out in the fields; you have a little time to gather your thoughts. Brona will fetch you some ale.” She paused, taking in the white-knuckled tightness of his clenched fists. “Thorvald,” she said, “this has been a very worrying time, a difficult time for us all. I have to say to you, anything that can bring such a smile to Creidhe's face and put such a spring in her step must be acceptable to Eyvind. Whatever it may be. Even if it means we must lose her again.”

“It's ridiculous,” Eyvind said, pacing up and down the short length of their bedchamber. “It's too far away. We'd never see her again.”

“Ask yourself,” said Nessa, “if you would travel such a distance if it were I who lived on that far isle. Ask yourself if you would allow anyone to stop you.”

“What has the fellow to offer?” Eyvind demanded, glowering. “From what Creidhe tells us, he knows nothing but fighting. What sort of a life can such a man make for our daughter?”

Nessa did not offer a reply, but simply looked at him. Her lips curved in a little smile.

“It was different with us,” he said after a pause. “I did my best to change. You helped me change.”

“And Creidhe will help Keeper, if there's a need,” Nessa said tranquilly.

“Maybe. But this is not an ordinary man; this is some strange combination of man and sea creature. What would their children be? How could they ever live a life among men and women? It's unthinkable.”

“From what Creidhe tells me,” Nessa said, “Keeper is man enough.”

“You're not married,” Eyvind told his daughter sternly. “The alliance you're proposing is not sanctioned in any way. Your reputation—”

“We have exchanged vows, Father,” Creidhe said. “Solemn vows under moon and stars, promises witnessed by the ancestors themselves. We are husband and wife, forever. No oath could be more binding.”

“What if you have a child?” Nessa asked her daughter in the privacy of her sleeping quarters. “How can you manage that, alone on this island, so far from anyone? Capable as he sounds, Keeper's unlikely to be much help with that. How can you look after an infant properly without a warm house, and good food, and folk to support you? Aren't you afraid of what might happen?”

“We'll manage,” Creidhe said with complete confidence. “Don't forget, Keeper had the care of his sister's child since Small One was not much older than Eirik is now. He's a good provider, Mother.”

“We'll never see you again,” Eyvind said to Creidhe, baldly. His tone was desolate. “You'll never come home. It's plain this fellow is wild and alien; he can never live among men.”

“You surprise me, Father,” said Creidhe, taking his hand. “You've always been generous in your assessment of men. How can you say such a thing when you have not even seen Keeper?”

“I've heard more than enough,” Eyvind growled.

“He can learn,” Creidhe said. “It won't be quick; he's lived alone on the island, save for the child, since he was twelve years old. It will take time. But we will come back some day. Do not say never.”

“I would sail with you if I could,” Eyvind said to Thorvald. “At least that way I could meet the fellow and assess him before I gave my consent. I don't like the sound of him, for all Creidhe's ecstatic descriptions. He sounds entirely unsuitable.”

Thorvald held his tongue, though privately he agreed wholeheartedly.

“Curse this council! Curse this trip to Freyrsfjord! The timing could hardly be worse.”

“We cannot delay our return,” Thorvald said. “As we've told you, Creidhe must cross to the island by midsummer or the tides make it too dangerous.” They had been careful to keep from Nessa and Eyvind the precise truth about the Fool's Tide: that there were in fact only two days of the year when it might be easily passed. “And the council's crucial. Rogaland can offer you excellent trade prospects; protection, too, in times of war. You must be there to reinforce that.”

Eyvind regarded him quizzically. “You realize, of course, that the Norwegian king may take it into his head to give us an overlord, one of his preferred chieftains, set in place as Jarl of the Light Isles? That would be quite a price to pay for their fine timber and their protection against invaders from the south.”

“All the same.”

“All the same, you're right; my mind is made up, and I must go there and put my case.”

“There's nothing to stop you from sailing to the Lost Isles another summer, and seeing for yourself that Creidhe is well and flourishing with her new husband.” There was a question in Thorvald's tone.

“Would he want that, do you think?” Both men knew Eyvind was not referring to Keeper.

“Oh, yes,” Thorvald said softly. “I'm in no doubt at all of that. He's thirsty for news of you.”

“I don't know,” Eyvind said. “Even after all these years, even after so many changes, I don't know if I could bear to see him.”

“A good father would have said no,” Eyvind told Nessa. His tone was heavy. “A good father wouldn't have given such a proposition a moment's consideration.”

“How could you say no? You've seen how she looks. I imagine I once looked at you that way: as if you held the sum of my happiness.”

“
Once
looked at me?”

“And still do, my dear, believe me. And Creidhe will look thus at her Keeper even when they are middle-aged and set in their ways, as you and I are.”

“Middle-aged?” Eyvind raised his brows. “You still look about Creidhe's age to me, and as mysterious and lovely as the first time I saw you.”
He glanced at the child sleeping on her lap. “We've been so lucky. So lucky.”

“Yes,” agreed Nessa softly. “We cannot deny our daughter the same happiness.”

“Strange,” Nessa observed, watching the little boat sail away from Hafnarvagr. “The Seal Tribe did take one of my children after all.”

“I thought you wanted her to go. It was you who persuaded me.”

“I do want her to go. I want her to be happy. That doesn't make it hurt any less. I'll never see her children; I'll never meet her daughters, who carry on the royal line I vowed to protect.”

“Don't say never.” Eyvind's tone was gentle. “I heard Eanna say once, all is change. Creidhe will come home one day, and her man with her. I'm sure of it.”

Beside them on the shore Ingigerd, seven years old and relishing her new role as big sister, was struggling to prevent the wriggling Eirik from crawling over the edge of the track and down into the sea. Brona and Sam stood arm in arm, waving as the vessel grew smaller and smaller on the silvery waters.

“Well then,” said Margaret shakily, wiping her eyes, “this calls for some good ale, and a fire, and some talk among friends. Our door is open to you all; let's ride there and celebrate, and enjoy one another's company.”

“Celebrate?” echoed Eyvind. “I'm not sure there's much cause for jubilation.”

“Of course there is, Father,” said Brona, chuckling. “Two daughters off your hands in the same season? What more could you ask for? Come on, let's go. I'm getting hungry. Aunt Margaret tells me there's spice cake.” Eyes dancing, she led the way back to the horses, and the others followed her.

It was a rare quality his daughters had, Eyvind thought: a gift for happiness. He could not think where it had come from. If he had to let them go to see that bright flame flourish and grow, then so be it. Who was he to hold them back?

“You're not to drop anchor,” Creidhe told the men sharply. “You're not to beach her either. Just hold her still and let me down over the side with my bags. Then go. No waiting around.”

“Creidhe,” protested Thorvald as they edged the
Swiftwing
into the narrow
inlet that was the one safe landing place on the Isle of Clouds, “that's ridiculous. We must at least be certain he's here, and prepared to receive you. Besides, you can't carry everything. We must come ashore with your supplies. You're going to be here a whole year.” While they had waited at Council Fjord for the lull in the Fool's Tide, he had ensured the boat was loaded with full provisioning for Creidhe's stay on the island. As her friend, and as leader here, he was bound to do no less.

“I'll be here longer than that,” Creidhe said. “And I'm not taking the supplies. All I need is my little bag and that roll of bedding.”

“Odin's bones, Creidhe,” Thorvald ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, “there's no grain on this island, no vegetables, no proper shelter, no cattle . . . You must take the sack of flour at least, and the crock of onions. You must take the tools. And we can't just drop you in the water, we have to get you ashore—”

“Keeper will provide for me.”

“Creidhe—”

“He will provide for me. This is important, Thorvald. You can't understand how important. It's to do with what he is; with what he has done here. To take those things he cannot offer me is to insult him, to challenge his very reason for being. I will go with no more than I carried last time: the clothes I stand up in and my little bag. That's all.”

“What about that?” Thorvald challenged, pointing to the roll of bedding, covered in oiled cloth, which she had insisted on bringing. “You didn't have that before.”

Creidhe blushed. “That's different. It is of my own choosing. A gift. You must not come ashore. Don't forget, he's known only the hunt. He has cause to feel much bitterness toward you. We cannot be sure he will not strike the moment your foot touches his land; that has long been his way.”