Seer of Sevenwaters (31 page)

I felt cold all over. “When did Knut threaten you?” I asked.

“Soon after we came here. Early days, when I could remember almost nothing. He thought I was dissembling, biding my time before I chose to tell. He said if I spoke of what had happened he would slit my throat.” A silence, as his audience exchanged shocked glances. “And when he believed I had disregarded his warning, he threatened you, Sibeal. It was the day when you found that man’s body. Knut said . . . ” Felix cleared his throat. “He said he knew you and I were friends. He told me how you liked to walk on the cliff paths, alone. He . . . he suggested an accident might befall you.” He looked up, and straight across toward Knut, who watched him, tight-lipped. “I did not understand what dark secret could drive a man to such baseness. Not then. So I planned to leave Inis Eala as soon as I could, knowing that if I was gone, I could tell no secrets, and you would be safe, Sibeal.”

“I have a question for Knut,” Gareth said.

Johnny nodded.

“Knut, if this is true, what stories were you talking about? As far as I know, Felix has hardly left the infirmary since he was washed up on Inis Eala, and barely exchanged a word with anyone save the healers and Sibeal. I’ve heard no tales at all about you or your past beyond what you told Johnny, and nothing at all suggesting ill-doing. I’d wager that when I say that, I speak for all the men. They think highly of you.”

When Kalev had translated this, Knut fixed Felix with an icy stare. “He lies,” he said. “I made no threats. His story is sheer fantasy.”

“So we have one man’s word against another’s,” said Johnny. “Sibeal, we’d best hear the rest of Felix’s account.”

I had a host of questions, but they would have to wait. Conducting this conversation as Johnny needed it to be done was my best way of helping Felix in the long run. Dear gods, whatever he was going to tell us, let them not call him a liar.

“Felix, we’ll go back to tonight. You told us you woke to find Knut with his hands on your throat. What happened after that?”

“Everything fading, my heart about to burst, everything turning to dark. So weak, oh gods, so weak—I could do nothing against the press of his hand. A sudden scream—yours, Sibeal—and my assailant struck out, but still he held me. The fire flared strangely, I saw shadows leaping above me, and the pressure was gone . . . I rolled from pallet to floor, and there you were, Sibeal, crouched, hurt. I had been scared before, with his fingers on my neck. The wheels of the Ankou’s cart were creaking just outside the door. Now I really knew fear.

“You rose to your feet, like a brave warrior, and confronted Knut with the truth. He said it was all a mistake, but he lied, for as he spoke he drew his knife and moved toward you. I did not stop to think. I was there, standing between the two of you, hoping I could be strong for long enough. Then, welcome as warm sun at midwinter, came Gull. The door creaked, he called to us, Knut slashed with his knife, one, two. My head struck something as I fell. I lost consciousness. When I woke . . . ” He shivered convulsively. “When I woke, it was there in my mind, the memory that has eluded me for so long. There is a tale to tell, a tale to make men weep. Before morning, that tale must be told.” Felix looked across at Knut, whose face was like stone. “We have done a terrible thing,” he said. “We have betrayed our comrades. Knut would have killed to keep that tale from coming out.” He lowered his eyes. “A strange twist, Sibeal. Until he cut me, until I struck my head in falling, I had not remembered the story he so feared.”

For a little, then, there was utter silence in the infirmary, save for the distant, restless wash of the sea.

“Thank you, Felix,” Johnny said. “We’d best hear this tale of yours.” He looked around the circle of watchers: Cathal with his shoulder against the wall, long form wrapped in his cloak; Muirrin and Evan seated together on one side of the hearth, Gull on the other beside Felix, I cross-legged on the mat. Grim Knut with his two tall guardians. The firelight flickered on the circle of somber faces. “Is there anyone else you believe should be present to hear it?” Johnny asked.

Felix shook his head. Johnny looked at me and gave a little nod.

“Felix,” I said, still finding it quite odd to use this name, “where does this tale begin? With the departure of the ship from Ulfricsfjord, or earlier? Will you tell us what brought you and your brother to Erin?”

“I . . . of course, but I . . . ” He drew a shuddering breath. “I come from Finistère, in Breizh—the region known to you as Armorica. My father is a councillor to Duke Remont, who rules there. My mother is a Norsewoman. My brother and I grew up speaking both tongues. We left our home when . . . ” He faltered, eyes dark with memory.

“Take it step by step,” I said quietly.

“Paul had the skills and strength to be a warrior; he was a member of the Duke’s guard. I was more apt at scholarly pursuits. Full of ideas. Argumentative. Too ready to speak out. My tutors warned me, but I never learned to hold my tongue.”

A sound of derision from Knut, when Kalev translated that for him. Gareth hissed something in Knut’s ear, and he fell silent.

“Not all of this need be heard tonight,” Felix said. “Enough to say that certain words of mine came to the Duke’s ears, words challenging the authority of the Church and the influence of the bishops over Remont. My father’s secure position at court, which he had held for many years, was suddenly under threat. Rather than make a groveling public apology, I left. Paul came with me.

“We crossed the water, first to the southwest of Britain, to a place where other Breizhiz had settled. Our skills found us roofs to sleep under, coins for our pockets, food to sustain us. Paul was a strong-hearted man.” His voice cracked. “He could set his hand to anything. I found work as scribe and translator—I can read and write Latin, and I knew Irish already, thanks to Brother Seanan, a traveling scholar who stayed at Remont’s court. So we came to Erin.

“I helped Paul. Helped him with his Irish, helped him learn. And he . . . he guarded me, he kept me safe. He was the home I carried with me.” His head came up, his eyes went to Knut, and if I had seen death on the Norseman’s face before, now there was a look to equal it on Felix’s gaunt features. “You killed him,” he said, and his tone was the punishing stroke of a flail. “If you had not bound him, he would have swum to safe shore. My brother was young. He was strong. For his courage, you fettered him, and he died.”

I saw Johnny look at Gareth, and Gareth give him a little nod. What it meant, I did not know.

“Felix,” said Gull, not bothering to ask Johnny for permission to speak, “how long is it since you and your brother left home?”

“Almost three years. I was seventeen when we left that shore, Paul one year my senior. For the last two years, we have been at the court of Muredach, King of Munster. I am—was—the king’s translator and chief scribe. Paul was personal guard to Muredach’s son Eoghan.” A pause. “He became both guard and friend.”

“Was it on behalf of the king of Munster that you were on the ship?” I ventured.

“We bore gifts,” Felix said. His eyes were calmer now, as if he saw the bright promise of the voyage, the hope with which it was begun. “Muredach’s son is to wed the daughter of Jarl Thorkel, ruler of the Orcades. Those items you showed me were chosen by Eoghan as gifts for his betrothed and for her mother. Our party was led by Muredach’s senior councillor—one of the men you buried here on the island, along with Paul. Paul . . . my brother did not need to come on the voyage. There were others in our party who could have fulfilled the role of guard. Eoghan did not want Paul to come with us; the two of them had become close, and the prince said he would miss Paul too much. But my brother said that he had made a promise to watch over me, and that Eoghan would be so busy over the summer with riding and hawking and games that he would scarcely miss us. Either he stood by his little brother, Paul told the prince, or he left Eoghan’s service altogether. Eoghan let him come with me. He let my brother follow me to his death.”

A silence followed Kalev’s translation to Knut, and then came Cathal’s voice. “Have I permission to ask a question, Johnny?”

“Very well.”

“How many people were aboard the ship when she left Ulfricsfjord?”

Felix sighed. “Forty oarsmen, Knut among them. Five other crew. Eight passengers.”

“And how many were on the ship when she sank off the coast here?”

“Cathal—” I protested, but it seemed Felix was prepared to face this dark truth.

“When we approached this isle, seventeen were left. The last seventeen.” After a moment he added, “Eighteen, with the woman.”

Cathal regarded him levelly. “Only seventeen, for a ship of that size,” he said. “No wonder your hands bore blisters.”

Knut stirred as Kalev murmured a translation, but he did not speak.

“There were catastrophic losses, then,” Cathal said, “even before you reached here. If you’re telling the truth, why didn’t Knut—”

“Cathal,” said Johnny. “Let him tell it in his own time.”

“You left from Ulfricsfjord,” I said quietly. “You must have traveled some distance by land to reach the ship.”

“We rode for some days, yes. Muredach had procured passage for our party of eight. A Norse vessel; there were men among the crew who intended to stay in the Orcades. I understood the plan was to pick up crewmen on the islands for the return voyage.”

“You said forty oarsmen, five other crew and eight passengers—those passengers were your own party, I assume, from Muredach’s court.”

“That is correct, Sibeal. The councillor, Matha, who was to discuss certain sensitive matters with the Jarl; my brother and I; and five other men, all Irish.”

“We know that Svala and the child were traveling with Knut,” I said. “Didn’t some of the other crewmen who were planning to settle in the Orcades have wives and children with them?” Knut had told Johnny this was so. The numbers did not add up.

Felix glanced at Knut. “When we sailed from Ulfricsfjord, there were no women on
Freyja
, and no children,” he said. “Coming back, there was only the one woman. I cannot tell you how she came to be on board. He says she is his wife. I do not think that can be true.”

Johnny held up a hand, signaling for Felix to wait until Kalev had completed the translation before he went on. Hearing it, Knut gave a derisive laugh.

“This is complete nonsense, a fabrication!” he exclaimed. “I told you this man is full of wild stories. He is jealous, like many others. What man would not wish for such a fine woman to warm his bed at night? No doubt the rest of his tale is equally foolish. There were wives on board, four or five of them. They traveled in the hold, with the cargo. All perished in the sinking of
Freyja
.” After a moment, he added, “He makes a mockery of my loss.”

As Kalev finished translating this, Felix got up abruptly, swaying on his feet. “How dare you lie about this?” he demanded, then gulped in a rasping breath. He was strung so tight I could feel the vibrations of his anger. I thought he might hurl himself across the chamber at Knut and perform his own act of violence. “With so many dead, with so many lost, after what we did, how can you have room in your mind for anything but the need to go back, to save those we abandoned, to make good what little part of this we can—”

“Steady, son,” murmured Gull, putting his hand on Felix’s arm.

I summoned a tone I had heard Ciarán use on certain occasions with argumentative novices. “Sit down, Felix,” I said. “Breathe slowly, as if you were preparing for a divination. It’s time for this story to come out. Tell it calmly, as a druid might.”

Felix drew a deep, shuddering breath and subsided onto the bench beside Gull. The chamber became utterly silent. “We set off for the Orcades,” he said. “We were following an established trade path, or so Paul told me—he knew more about such things than I. The plan was to skirt the coast of Erin, then thread a way between Dalriada and the isles before heading northeast.
Freyja
went by sail when the winds allowed. The oarsmen did the work at other times. At night we trailed a sea anchor. Each man prayed to his own god, that between dusk and dawn we would not drift too far from our true course. From the seasoned seafarer to the boy on his first adventure, each feared to wake and find himself in unknown waters. It is a potent terror to turn and turn again and see measureless ocean on every side, and not a sign of land.

“The oarsmen slept at their benches; there was nowhere else. We passengers sheltered in the hold, out of the crew’s way. Most of us were sick. Matha, the king’s councillor, was worst affected. The endless rocking motion of the ship, the confinement below made his belly churn. He could not keep anything down but sips of water. When the ship was under sail we were allowed on deck, but Matha could not go up.

“On the second night, what we had most feared came to pass. In the darkness we were seized by contrary currents and borne far west of our intended path, west and then north into seas uncharted. We woke to driving wind, to waves tall as mountains, on which
Freyja
was tossed about like a child’s toy. There would be no going by sail—the sail would be torn to shreds as soon as it was raised. There would be no going by oars, for the strongest crew of rowers could not hold firm against such seas. We clung to whatever we could find—benches, oars, ropes, each other—and prayed for a miracle.

“The storm had come from nowhere. All that endless day, all the lonely and fearful night, and long into the next day it bore us onward. Heavy cloud blanketed the sun. What little light penetrated the thin veil revealed here two men, here three huddled close against the spray, faces like those of wan ghosts. Paul and I took turns in the hold with Matha, who could not be left on his own. I saw in my brother’s eyes a reflection of my own thought:
What matters this seasickness now, when all of us teeter on the brink of death?
”

Felix had his audience spellbound. Now that he was telling the story at last, he was far calmer. I had heard a poet’s voice from him before, and it was present again in this grim telling. Even Knut seemed captive to the tale. The Norseman sat very still, eyes straight ahead, and I wondered if he was living it again.