The Island House (65 page)
“Yes.” She was short. Simon might be kind and attractive, but she actually owed him nothing. “That’s the truth. Now, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay. Understood.” He said nothing more as he strode from the burial chamber.
Freya called after him, “I’d appreciate keeping this confidential, Simon.” She hurried forward a few steps. “Simon?” He must have heard her.
Katherine joined her. “Well, really. Manners.”
Freya mumbled, “He’s a nice man actually. He was just upset about something.”
Dan returned. Grinning, he handed Freya a tarpaulin. “I’m thinking he’s big enough to get over it without you holding his hand.”
T
HE CHURCH
was certainly a fine building, the largest in Portsol—even bigger than the rebuilt hall—though it was dark inside.
It was a pity then,
thought Idorn,
that the old bastard hadn’t finally lived long enough to see it finished.
Idorn stood with the men to one side of the altar as the priest intoned the funeral Mass. He smiled at Isolde, standing with the women.
Not much longer.
His wife was in the pride of late pregnancy and found it hard to stand for very long. This was their first child, and they were happy together though, sometimes, another face swam through his dreams.
My name is Signy. Remember me.
The priest censed the congregation. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, we commit the body of our brother Solwaer, Lord of Portsol, to the earth.”
Idorn was the only person in the church who understood what the man was saying. Latin was useful in trade, and he’d acquired working knowledge of the language in the last year from this same priest. Clergy had become valuable clients again, though Findnar would be a long time rebuilding.
There was a closed stone coffin—more of a box, to be accurate—before the altar. Solwaer had been frightened of dying, and only Idorn knew that it contained one or two things the priest would not like. They’d had to fold the old man’s body to get him in there, but he’d asked for that too. Perhaps Idorn knew why.
Too little and too late, Solwaer. You’d better hope the Christians aren’t right about Hell.
Idorn sighed. They were here today because the old man had
given up. The raid on Findnar had signaled some years of prosperity in Portsol, but Solwaer had never seemed to enjoy it, and he’d taken to his bed after his only son drowned in the strait last year and his chief wife, the mother of the boy, killed herself.
Deep in the winter dark, just after the Christ-mass. What had the boy been doing out there on the water? He’d taken Solwaer’s new ship—the one with the finely carved steering rudder—down with him, as well as too many youths from Portsol. How do you put a price on that kind of loss? The ship and the boys. He must have been testing his strength as all young men do, but death stalks vainglorious fools.
Lucky for Idorn, of course. He, rather than Solwaer’s reckless son, was standing here now as the new Lord of Portsol. Maybe Signy’s curse had found the boy and drowned him?
Idorn crossed himself quickly.
Lord, protect my child from harm and Isolde, in the birth to come.
In so many ways, he hoped they had a daughter.
He knelt as the congregation was censed again. On and on the service went, and Idorn’s mind drifted. He wondered, sometimes, if Signy had cursed him, too, cursed him with her memory so that no other woman was ever quite enough.
Idorn crossed himself again, more slowly. The past was the past; it could not come back, and ghosts did not walk. Personally, he did not believe in spirits, but Solwaer, of course, was superstitious to the last. He’d made Idorn promise one last favor. It seemed a waste, but he would do as he’d been asked; he would honor the deathbed promise. Solwaer’s torque and arm rings, the ones Bear had made, would be thrown into the marsh on the island, asking release for Solwaer’s soul from Signy’s curse.
Won’t do any good, old man. Signy didn’t care about gold anyway, and you can’t buy salvation.
Then, of course, there was the stone outside the burial chamber on Findnar.
Grimor and Magni, sons of Ragnar, lie here. Solwaer made me.
The old man had been quite specific. Idorn had
been practical; he’d had the runes carved on the back of a tumbled stone from the standing circle. Signy’s people had already used the front—that seemed fair to him, for it had been their clan tomb too. He’d made sure that the stone was well buried as, of course, was the entrance to the tomb. The slaves who’d done the work, and the carver, had all been killed; perhaps he’d learned something from Solwaer.
The congregation was muttering. They were restless, for they’d been promised a feast when the service was done. If the priest would just stop droning on, Solwaer would be gone for good and they could all get on with life. The old barbarian and the old ways. Strange to think of the brutality they’d all taken for granted as the only way life could be. With the exception of sensible lapses, Idorn knew he was a leader of a different kind—he was grateful for what he’d been given, and he’d defend it, if he had to, but war was wasteful. Religion, on the other hand, settled life down for everyone because with it you knew where you stood. Perhaps, in the end, all the ceremonial nonsense made sense for this alone.
The priest signaled the congregation to rise. At last, he led them down toward the crypt as six men of Portsol shouldered the stone box and followed behind.
The newest Lord of Portsol held out his hand to his wife. They were the chief mourners, since none of Solwaer’s legitimate blood family survived. Isolde leaned on his arm.
Nearly there,
he mouthed, and she smiled at him trustingly.
Family, land, children—in the end, these were all that mattered, the here and now. The past was the past, and the future would take care of itself.
W
E NEED
to give them back.”
It was late morning; Freya, Dan, and Katherine were together at the grave in the circle of stones. Freya had the crucifix in her hand, and the little lead box with the diary was inside.
“I agree,” Dan said, though he sounded uncertain.
“So do I.” Katherine did not.
Freya looked from face to face. “And I think we must take her to lie in the hull. They should be together. That’s what she’s been trying to tell us, and Dad, too, I’m sure of it. Finding this”—she held up the crucifix—“started it all. Sometimes, just saying this stuff, it feels like I’ve taken drugs, and not in a good way.” She smiled an apologetic half-smile.
Katherine nodded thoughtfully. After they’d cleaned up yesterday—the luxury of hot water and clean clothes—she’d been told the whole story—the details of Freya and Dan’s visions—over eggs and bacon and a good deal of coffee. “Extreme exhaustion
can
be compared to hallucinogens, I often think. A very similar effect.”
Freya and Dan stared at each other, and back at Katherine.
The librarian cleared her throat. “Or so I’ve heard. But I support what you’d like to do, Freya. It seems right.”
“Dan, what do you really think?” Freya was better able to read him now.
His eyes were troubled. “Of course it’s the right thing to do. But these finds—this grave, the ship, maybe even the girl you
found who was murdered—they’re important. Especially in context. And . . .” He stopped, at a loss.
Freya sagged. “I know. We have to inform Historic Scotland, and things should not, ordinarily, be touched. But someone has to keep faith with that poor girl.” She rubbed her eyes. The elation of yesterday had gone because she was troubled about Simon. That whole experience had been upsetting. She’d tried to call him several times, but he’d not called her back.
Katherine coughed. “If I may make a suggestion?”
“Of course. Please.”
“I think there is no harm in restoring the crucifix and the diary—the last prayer included—to this girl. If she is who we think she is, she has a right to these objects because they were hers. As to moving her, why not think about that when you’re a little more sure about what you will do with the other finds? She’s waited a very long time; a few more weeks will be neither here nor there.”
Freya brightened. “Dan, what do you think?”
“It seems verra sensible to me. Verra.”
Freya laughed. That naughty glint was back in those gray eyes, and she felt a whole, whole lot better.
It was a nice day, and Simon closed his eyes as he tipped his head back, the sun warming his throat. The churchyard was peaceful; perhaps that helped.
A shadow fell across his face. He opened his eyes. “Rob, thanks for coming.” He picked up his laptop, making room on the bench.
“You said it was urgent.” Robert Buchan sat. He stared at the church. “For the life of me, I don’t know why you bought this church. Lot of work for such an ugly building.”
Simon shrugged. “Just my bit of the past—we suit each other somehow. And it’s what I do. Work.” A wry half-smile.
Robert sniffed. “Not all so lucky, are we?” A tone between offense and gloom.
“Luck is a capricious mistress, Rob. And cruel sometimes. Unfortunately, I’ve got something to show you.” Simon flipped open the laptop and pointed to a file on the desktop.
“What?” But Rob took the computer and clicked obediently. And almost dropped it. “Where did these . . .” His tone was half-strangled.
“Keep going. There’s more. Lots more.”
“That bloody girl!” Rob bubbled with fury.
“Pretty, though.” An image of Freya clicked on screen. Gilded by the light of that midsummer dawn, she standing beside the longship.
“The hoard. She’s found it.” Robert was almost crying. “She’s got no right, not to this.”
Simon was surprisingly gentle. “Time to walk away, Rob. Freya owns Findnar. Accept it, or I think the past will consume you. More than it has already.” He gestured at the images. “I’m doing you a favor. And you still have the battle helm. Sell it. Start a new life. Really.”
“Easy for you to say, this isn’t your home.” Robert’s face was a sick yellow.
Simon stared at the restless sea. In the misty distance, Findnar rode the horizon.
Never say die.
He flicked Rob a glance. “We’ll see. But you know what they say in Hollywood. ‘They won, we lost. Next.’ So, why don’t I get us a beer and we can discuss what to do with your helm. I know people who know people.” He strode off to the church, tipping an imaginary hat to Michael Dane. “Dr. Dane, you have a remarkable daughter.”
Left to himself, Robert Buchan glared at the headstone. “There’s another word I’d use.”
But when Simon returned, the graveyard was deserted and his laptop was gone.