“It’s not true! Everyone died, little babies, old men, hard-working folk, all kinds of people. How can you say everything’s all right when it’s so wrong? My sisters died before they could grow up and be married and have children, before they could do anything. There’s no reason at all for that. Why were my people taken, and the strangers spared? We have not deserved this, it is cruel and unjust. I spit on your god and his false words of love. I despise him.”
“Now, Nessa,” said Tadhg, “you do not believe me, I know, but this will become easier to bear in time.”
“How can it?” Nessa snapped, furious with his patience.
“It will,” he said. “You will never forget them, but you will put them away in your memory, and move on. We all do.”
There was a silence.
“Tell me,” said Tadhg, “do you think if I were not here, and you had never heard of Jesus Christ and his teachings, this plague would not have come?”
“No,” she conceded.
“Who would you have blamed then?” asked Tadhg softly. “This is not his doing, and it is not the fault of Ulf’s people. They have shown their strength and their kindness during this dark time; my opinion of them is changing. Now come, shall we walk back together? I find prayers helpful. Why not seek answers in your own faith? We must heal our wounds in whatever way we can.”
After that, Nessa made time to walk on the shore and look at the patterns on the stones. She went south down the coast to the high cliffs and sat in a hollow looking out to the west, hearing the seabirds squabbling on the ledges below, not so many at this time of year but still enough to set the air alive around her. She stood on the rocks where she had seen the silent warrior, and watched the sea. These journeys were indeed a kind of prayer, her own kind. The hurt did not seem to lessen, not when little things kept reminding her: a bone comb carved with seals, which had been her sister’s, left behind in a corner of a shelf; a pair of green felt slippers, which had been her other sister’s, and that she had always wanted for herself. Now the slippers sat by her bed, and she could not bear to put them on.
And all the time, Engus’s eyes were on her, assessing, appraising. For everything had changed. Her uncle had been proud to see her become Rona’s student, proud of what she would be for the Folk. But that was before. Since the sickness, the family was no longer rich in girls. Kinart could not take his father’s place. The royal line was the women’s line; it had always been thus, for such a manner of succession ensured strong blood and meant disputes between kin were few. In the space of a season’s turning, Nessa had become the last princess of the Folk, and it was no longer possible that she devote her life to the mysteries. If the crown were not to pass to the Caitt, Nessa must wed and bear a son: a son who would one day be king of the Light Isles.
SIX
Once he had counted kills. Now he counted days, endless days until they might at last take ship for home. Thor’s voice had grown faint as a whisper, so far away he strained to hear it. These islands were no place for a warrior.
Eyvind had hoped Ulf’s building plans might include a temple. That way at least the rituals might be observed, the sacrifices made. That way at least Thor might understand this was temporary, an exile imposed purely by a quirk of Somerled’s thinking. Soon enough, both longship and knarr would be on the way back to Rogaland, and Eyvind and Eirik would be going home: home to the Jarl’s court, home to a life of honor and pride, serving the god with axe and sword. But Ulf had built no temple, and there were no rituals. Eyvind was obliged to call on Thor as best he could from lonely shore or desolate rock or open field. I am your right hand! Do not forget me!
Others were of different mind. Hakon had lost no time at all. Perhaps he could not hear so well anymore, but that had not slowed his other faculties. With remarkable promptness, he had moved out of Ulf’s settlement and into the isolated cottage of a comely young widow with two small sons. And, Eirik commented with a grin, by the look of the widow’s burgeoning figure, another infant was already on the way. Hakon looked as sleek and content as a well-fed cat. They took wagers on who’d be next to move out; Thord was top of the list. His lively slave girl had him wrapped around her little finger, and it was common knowledge that she preferred her man to be close to home, where she could keep an eye on him. It wouldn’t be long before this battle-scarred warrior succumbed to her coaxings and put aside his sword in favor of a plow or fishing net.
It shocked Eyvind that a Wolfskin might change thus, as if Thor’s call no longer inspired him. The islands had done that. They had woven a kind of magic that made men forget who they were and what vows they were bound by.
There had been work of a sort. At first, Ulf had maintained a personal guard: two close by him, two more at a slight distance, others carefully placed to observe. But there had been no attacks, no plotting, no threats. There was nothing to see but a summer of cooperation and hard labor on the land. Now Ulf had all but dispensed with his Wolfskins’ services, saying he had an agreement with King Engus, and there would be no need for fighting until such time as they might stand side by side with the islanders against some common enemy. He posted Eirik in the south to oversee the maintenance of the ships, and to ensure all was well with those who had remained there. The crew of the knarr had not joined Ulf’s settlement, but sat out the summer months among the fisherfolk who dwelt near that peaceful anchorage, which Ulf had named Hafnarvagr, haven bay. In the north, Erlend and Grim and the others were as often found shifting stones or cutting heather for thatch as sharpening their weapons and rehearsing the moves of combat.
With time on his hands, Eyvind observed. He saw that Ulf was much away. At first he was establishing boundaries, planning houses and a hall, negotiating the purchase of stock and supplies. Later, he seemed to spend a great deal of time with Engus’s translator, the Christian priest. Tadhg was a slightly built, harmless-looking fellow. Nobody took his ideas seriously; nobody, that is, except Ulf. Ulf found them interesting. Indeed, he found them so interesting he would be gone for days at a time, traveling to that island where the fellow and his followers lived a life of privation and solitude, quite happy to exist on a fish or two, a broth of boiled seaweed, and a day shaped by prayer. Each time Ulf returned from these sojourns he was quieter and more remote. His dark features began to assume the same serenity of expression as one could see in the eyes of the translator. Folk started to talk, and the talk was uneasy. Surely their chieftain would not abandon the old gods? Was it possible that Ulf, whom they so admired and respected, might turn against Odin? It could not be so. Still, the whispers continued.
Somerled had surprised Eyvind. Somerled, accustomed to the clever talk and complex games of court, did not chafe at the restrictions of this new life. He did not long for home as Eyvind did. Somerled, who had ever been a solitary fellow, now had a tight circle of friends and followers, and they were not smooth courtiers such as himself, but tough, working men. Among them were the crewmen from the knarr, and others who were, at best, on the periphery of Ulf’s household: a farrier, a smith, one or two who had been housecarls. All were men without families, men who had made the voyage alone. There were no islanders in Somerled’s group. They would meet of an evening at the dwelling house that the knarr’s crew shared in Hafnarvagr and drink ale together, and Somerled would teach them games with dice and tell tales that made them roar with laughter.
It was at about this time that Somerled acquired another name, and increased his popularity still further into the bargain. Ulf’s people lacked horses, and in this land horses were an essential commodity, since the gentle contours and complete lack of forests made riding the most efficient means of getting about. Engus had provided Ulf with some strong, heavy creatures for farm work, and a riding animal for his personal use; any further requirements must be purchased from the local landholders, and not all of them had much need for the silver jewelry or fine furs offered in exchange. This was a frugal country where each animal had its own unique value.
&n
bsp; So, when a farmer named Gernard offered to sell a fine young stallion for a bag of scrap silver to whatever man could stay on its back to the count of twenty, there was plenty of interest. The fact that the offer was made in the drinking hall late at night only added to the number of enthusiastic takers. Had Eyvind been present that night, he might himself have acquired a horse and perhaps a name as well, but Eyvind was occupied in the north, and heard it all later from an astonished Thord. They’d gathered at the fellow’s farm the morning after the offer had been made, most of them a little the worse for wear, and once they’d seen the stallion with its twitching tail and rolling eyes and its nervous, sidling gait, all of a sudden there were only three men left who really wanted a bargain. One of the three was Somerled.
It was plain the creature was quite mad and scarcely worth even the low price mentioned. They’d barely begun to count before the first fellow was sprawled on the ground, groaning and clutching his side. Broken ribs, possibly: bruised pride, certainly. They hauled him back over the stone wall, and the second man went in. The stallion was tied; it wore a rudimentary halter with a long rope fastened to a hook in the barn wall. Three men had to hold the rope before Einar Long-Nose could get on the horse’s back. When they let go, he dug his fists into its mane and clung with his knees, his face turning the color of soft cheese, and before they counted to six he, too, was tossed from his perch, narrowly avoiding cracking his head on the stones that bordered the horse yard.
“Not worth the risk,” Einar growled, clambering back to safety as the stallion reared, flailing with its hooves and sending men scattering. “Creature like that’ll never be any good to ride. Look at its eyes.”
“You think?” Somerled was rolling up his sleeves, frowning a little, dark eyes thoughtful as he regarded the plunging, thrashing animal. “Perhaps it only needs to be shown who’s in charge here. Give me a hand, will you?”
There were theories afterward about how Somerled had done it. Some said it was because he was light and agile; some put it down to raw courage. Everyone knew the man was no athlete. There was talk that he used a goad of some kind and terrified the creature into submission. The exact details of it hardly mattered; all present that day agreed that Ulf’s brother had indeed managed to stay on the wild horse’s back for the allotted time, and in addition, caused the stallion to give up its fight and stand in shivering, trembling submission. Somerled had dismounted and walked calmly over to the owner, Gernard, while reaching into his pouch to pull out the animal’s price: a small bag of scrap silver.
“Never underestimate me,” Somerled had said, according to Thord’s account. “It is only a horse, after all.”
That night he had taken them all back to the drinking hall, and amid much laughter and festivity they had given him his second name: they called him Somerled Horse-Master. In a way, the news did not surprise Eyvind. With Somerled, one always expected the unexpected. If his boldness had acquired him a fine animal, albeit a somewhat troublesome one, good luck to him. The name had a certain ring to it. Eyvind was glad he himself had not yet acquired something similar, for he had long feared the choice would be Little Ox, and he did not know how he would explain that to his mother.
One could not fault Margaret’s efforts to be a good wife. When the sickness had come, and cut the islanders down like so many fragile stalks of wheat, it was she who’d dispatched men and women to help, it was she who’d admonished those too fearful to enter a plague-ridden house, and bade them put others first for a change. Many days had passed before Ulf was fetched back from Holy Island. By the time that happened, Margaret had the harvest organized, and men digging graves, and women making soup and tending to motherless infants. Eyvind wondered if she herself were sick, for the elegant girl of Freyrsfjord now looked wan and tired, with a grim set about her mouth, which showed no sign of disappearing when her husband returned to add his own offers of help to those she had already set in place. Ulf thanked his wife before the whole household for what she had done in his absence, but there was a certain stiffness, a formality about it, and Eyvind saw the look of hurt in Margaret’s eyes. Privately, he thought Ulf’s wife would have greatly preferred her husband just to put his arms around her, hold her close, and tell her he loved her. He wondered if Ulf had thought of this, or whether the passions that compelled him to a new shore, a new faith, had driven the importance of something so simple out of his mind. Perhaps Ulf had forgotten how young his wife was.
When Somerled came back to the north, riding his newly won horse and leading two more, a slight flush appeared on Margaret’s pale cheeks and a trace of the old brightness returned to her eyes. It seemed not at all inappropriate for the two of them to go out riding, with Eyvind as their chosen escort. They might travel inland, Ulf suggested, and see what traces of game might be found in the hills there, for the men had been complaining of the constant diet of fish, supplemented only by a hare or two. Eyvind took his axe and a bow, expecting to use neither. It was an insult to Thor, he thought, that he was reduced thus to a token guard, and as soon as he got back to Rogaland he would set that to rights. It could not be long now. Delay much further and they would miss the autumn viking altogether.
Margaret and Somerled rode ahead, Eyvind behind. He could not hear what they said to each other. The day was fair; later in the afternoon, a mist would roll in from the sea and blanket hill and crag and glittering waterway in a thick veil of damp. There was a pattern to this, which he had learned to recognize. They must not go too far, for to ride home in such a mist was to invite trouble. And they had not journeyed east as Ulf suggested, but far to the southwest, into a wild place, a forbidden place, part of King Engus’s own realm.
“Somerled,” Eyvind called as they rode farther toward the coast. “We’re already across the boundary. You’ll find no game here. What about Engus’s sentries? We’re in breach of your brother’s agreement.”
Somerled glanced back over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry yourself with it, Eyvind,” he said. “These islanders have scarcely enough folk left to draw water and catch fish for their supper: certainly none to bother with keeping us off their land. Besides, I have something to show Margaret.”
With that, he kicked his horse to a canter, and Margaret’s mount followed, and there was nothing for it but to go after them, cursing Somerled’s propensity for disregarding rules whenever it pleased him.
It was quite a long way. At last they came to a place where the land fell away sharply, and there, far below, the sea smashed in great plumes of white on a jumble of unforgiving rocks. Somerled dismounted and helped Margaret down.
“We need to walk a little farther,” he said. “That way, over the rise. It’s too dangerous for the horses. You’d best stay here, Eyvind, and watch them. We won’t be long.”
“But—” Eyvind began.
Somerled’s brows rose. “You’re a bodyguard, not a nursemaid,” he said. “And we’re under no threat here, I told you. Why would the islanders attack us? I’m Ulf’s brother, after all.”
“But—”
“It’s all right, Eyvind,” Margaret said. “Somerled will look after me.”
And when Eyvind looked at the two of them, standing there side by side, he saw that their mouths had the same set, and their eyes the same expression, and it seemed to him that whatever was between them, the working out of it was quite beyond his power to stop.
“Poor Eyvind,” Somerled said with a half smile. “Don’t think so hard—it hurts your head and does you no good at all. Enjoy the day. Enjoy the view.”
But Eyvind could not. All the time he waited for them to come back, he felt a shadow over himself, and Ulf, and Margaret, and the whole of the crazy endeavor that had brought them to this far corner of the world. He was jumping to conclusions, he told himself. Surely Somerled would not take advantage of his brother’s wife? Surely Margaret would not betray a man as transparently good as Ulf? Probably they only wanted a chance to talk in private together. Margaret was unhappy, a blin
d man could see that. And Somerled had been her friend; they understood one another. Perhaps she only wanted to tell him her troubles. Why, then, did he feel so worried, why did that sense of dread hang over him? Even if his worst suspicions were true, it would not be the first time such a breaking of the marriage vows had happened. It might be over quickly, and Ulf never the wiser.
Eyvind waited while the horses cropped the meager grasses near the clifftop. He watched the birds circling and the clouds gathering to the south. He thought about the sickness, and the people he had helped bury, small infants just days old, young women of Margaret’s age, old men laid hastily in earth without due ritual, since there was barely time to attend to one burial before the next must come. They were a strange folk, little and dark. There was something about these people and this land that suggested secrets, mysteries hidden below the surface. The hills here were dotted with ancient mounds, the dunes with half-buried structures of neatly laid slabs. You’d be walking across open ground and come suddenly upon some great standing stone, lichen-crusted, a monumental thing like a huge earth troll, and you could hardly go by without asking its permission. He wondered if the people, too, were not quite what they seemed; he had sensed this. Brother Tadhg, now: who’d have thought such a plain little fellow could wield such influence over a strong leader like Ulf? The rumors were increasing daily in the drinking hall; they whispered that Ulf would be baptised a Christian before Yuletide. It seemed that Tadhg had strengths not visible on the surface. And there was that girl, Eyvind had only seen her once, on the beach down by the tidal island, on a day when misery had sent him farther than he should have gone, to seek Thor in the thunderous expanses of the western sky. Her footsteps had been soft as a wren’s, but something had made him turn, and when he saw her, he couldn’t tell if she were human or spirit, a waif of a thing with long hair streaming in the wind, and eyes such as he’d never seen before, the palest sea-gray with a darker rim to them. She’d fled, as if by looking he had uncovered something best left untouched. He wondered if she had died with the rest of them.