The rope parted; Ulf’s dead arm fell limp by his side, the hand hanging by a thread of skin, a shard of bone. Eyvind gritted his teeth and reached to start on the other wrist. He had to lean across, his body pressed against Ulf’s, the staring eye not a hand’s breadth from his face. The knife slashed; the bonds were severed. Ulf’s body sagged forward, but the net still held.
“Right,” Eyvind whispered to himself. “One step at a time.” He held the knife in his teeth; it was necessary, now, to find a position in which he could cling on and at the same time use his hands to untie the rope. Impossible. There was no choice but to trust those last shreds of net. He edged across until the tattered web of cords was around his upper body. He leaned back cautiously against it, testing its strength. It seemed to hold, just; the real test would be when he untied the rope from around his waist.
“What are you doing?” Holgar shouted. “Is everything all right? The mist’s coming in, you’ll have to hurry!”
“Wait!” he called. And told himself, Don’t think, Eyvind, just do it.
He untied the rope. The net creaked ominously under his weight. He reached to put the rope around Ulf’s body. There was something in the way, something caught behind: the buckle of Ulf’s belt, twisted around and tangled with his bonds. The knife: he’d have to cut blind. Thor’s hammer, this was an embrace to make any right-thinking man recoil, to hold a dead man thus in your arms and look into the socket of an eye picked clean by hungry seabirds; to feel his body pressed to yours and know that within the space of that last desperate search, he had probably still been alive. How long had he hung here, fighting against the encroaching darkness?
Eyvind severed the buckle from the belt, though it was still entangled with a network of knotted cords. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, intricately wrought in silver; he knew it had been Ulf’s father’s. Eyvind stuffed it into the pouch at his own belt, cords and all, and slipped the rope around Ulf’s waist. A good knot; it would be enough, for Holgar knew what he was doing, and would have this burden up quickly and neatly. A slash here, a cut there, and Ulf was free of the net; the shreds that held Eyvind shivered and trembled.
“Right!” Eyvind shouted. “Hold tight; I’m letting him go now. Haul him up, then send the rope back down. And be quick about it, will you?” He tugged at the rope once, twice, and then he released his hold, and Ulf’s body swung free to hang, like some crude effigy of a man, dangling sickeningly high above the sea. The wind snatched at the chieftain’s dark hair, and sent the stained wool of his tunic fluttering like a banner. He moved in ghastly semblance of life, and vanished from sight as the men on the clifftop hauled on the rope.
They told Eyvind, later, that he had been very brave: a hero. This was wrong, of course. If he had not done what he did, someone else would have: Eirik, Holgar, any of the others. If he had been a clever man, if he had been good at working things out, he would have looked on the clifftops first, instead of wasting time scouring the hillsides. Perhaps, then, he might have found Ulf still alive. Then he would have been a hero. But he had got it wrong, and all he had rescued was a blood-drained husk of a man, a limp, white thing with one eye gone: the stuff of nightmare. Expert hunter though he was, Eyvind had misread the signs. He had felt a shadow, that day, and had not known what it was. But soon enough he understood. It was not just a premonition of Ulf’s death; it was a warning of things to come. For that day ushered in a time of darkness such as he had never known before.
Somerled did not accuse Engus to his face, but all through the grim walk back to the anchorage and the swift voyage home, his eyes and his mouth and the set of his shoulders made his thoughts plain. You’d have to be stupid to believe Ulf’s death was an accident. Whose was the voice that had led them astray in the night, calling strange words they could not understand? How was it a net had been conveniently at hand in that out-of-the-way place? Whose were the hands that had crammed Ulf’s mouth full of sticky weed, so that he could not cry out for help? What cruel mind had determined that he hang there like a sacrifice, fighting for his life, rather than perish with merciful speed on the rocks below? It was no chance that had led their leader to this terrible end, and it was only Eirik’s muttered warnings and Somerled’s silence that kept the men from speaking out then and there. Perhaps they had thought these islanders generous, before. Perhaps they had believed they could be friends, in time. Not now. They had seen what kind of people these really were, and it was all they could do to keep their hands off their swords and on the oars, rowing swift for home.
As soon as they got back to Ulf’s settlement, Somerled assumed control. The white-faced panic of the clifftop had been replaced by a tight-jawed sternness of manner, and nobody questioned his authority. He broke the news to Margaret. He arranged the burial. He made it clear that the ceremony would be conducted in full accordance with the rites of Odin. Indeed, in his very first speech to the assembled folk of his brother’s household, Somerled left no doubt about his own unswerving allegiance to the gods of his homeland, and his repudiation of the tenets of other faiths, such as Christianity.
At home in Rogaland a chieftain of Ulf’s status would have been laid to rest in a fine ship of oak, along with those treasures that had aided him in life: his sword, his spear, his gold and silver jewelry, his fine cloak of beaver pelt. Here there was no oak, there was not the smallest pine to be felled in order to make even the semblance of a ship to bear Ulf to the afterlife. Instead they laid rocks, placing them to form the shape of a vessel. Within this, they laid Ulf’s body on a platform of flagstones, softened with a layer of heather, and they covered him with his cloak of wool dyed red, which he had worn for feast days. They put his possessions by him, his weapons, his helm, his arm-ring and torc, the silver brooch that had fastened his cloak. Somerled suggested they might sacrifice the hunting dogs and lay them beside their master in his grave, and he sent Eyvind to fetch them from the place where they were kennelled. The hounds heard him coming and pricked up their ears. As he opened the gate to their enclosure, they fixed their eyes on him with soulful dignity, an effect somewhat undermined by the furious wagging of their tails. Eyvind slipped their chains and walked away, leaving the gate ajar. Perhaps understanding Ulf would not be back for them, the hounds departed swiftly and silently across the fields. Eyvind hoped Odin would not be offended; it seemed to him there had been enough bloodshed already. He told Somerled the dogs were nowhere to be found. By then, it was the truth.
Margaret had chosen a place atop a small hill with a distant view of the western sea. It was a peaceful spot, where few would pass save a grazing sheep or two, a meadow pipit, a foraging vole. Here Ulf was buried with what ceremony they could give him, and by dusk that day there was only an earthen mound to show that he had lived, and dreamed, and died. In time, grasses would creep up over it, and it would be just like all those other secret howes that were everywhere on these islands, hinting at the hidden things below the surface. Who knew how many kings, how many queens, how many brave visionaries lay under this fertile soil? It made Eyvind shiver to think of it. So many old bones, so many wandering spirits. You could feel them all around you. These days, he could almost hear their whispers as he passed. For him, spring could not come soon enough.
The days grew shorter. King Engus sent a messenger, accompanied by Brother Tadhg. They had not seen Brother Tadhg since the time of Ulf’s death, when he had made the sign of a cross over the body and begun to mutter what was undoubtedly a Christian prayer. Somerled, furious, had grabbed the little man by the shoulders and shaken him hard, shouting what right had he to impose his ridiculous faith, how dared he assume that Ulf would want such nonsense spoken over his deathbed? Eyvind had restrained Somerled before any real harm was done. Tadhg, being what he was, had taken this calmly, but King Engus had been less than pleased.
Engus had requested, politely, that he might attend Ulf’s funeral. For obvious reasons, Somerled had refused. At the time, it had occurred to Eyvind that Ulf himself might
have wished the islanders to be present, whatever questions still existed over the manner of his death. It would have been in keeping with his vision for the two peoples to stand by his grave-side in peace. But he did not say this to Somerled. It was becoming harder and harder to say much to Somerled, for he was a chieftain now, and people jumped to obey him. Those fellows who had crewed the knarr had all moved up from Hafnarvagr to the settlement by the lake, and wandered about armed with cudgels and short swords. They shadowed Somerled wherever he went, and some folk had begun to be afraid of them. As for the Wolfskins, Grim, Holgar, and Erlend did Somerled’s bidding without question, as they had done his brother’s. That was their job. Thord kept himself to himself; Eirik, too, was very quiet. Soon he would return to the south and wait out the winter close to the boats, just in case of trouble.
Engus’s messenger came one evening as they sat at supper. He was clad in a good tunic of green-dyed wool and was armed with a dagger at the belt. Brother Tadhg wore his coarse brown robe, with sandals on his feet. Somerled had guards all around the perimeters of the settlement now, and the visitors entered flanked by two fellows with their swords drawn.
“Well, well,” Somerled remarked, raising his brows. “What have we here?”
“My lord,” Brother Tadhg began, “this man is called Brude, son of Elpin. He is of the king’s household, and he bears you a message. We come in peace; there is no need for naked blades.”
“So Engus uses Christian priests as his emissaries now.” Somerled’s smile was dangerous. “Are these his words, that we should lay down our swords and make you welcome?”
“As you know, my lord, I am no puppet.” The little man’s gray eyes were perfectly tranquil. “There are many of you and just the two of us, and I am unarmed. You might bid your men sheathe their weapons, at least.”
“As to that,” Somerled said, “there have been changes here. You’d do well to remember that I am chieftain now, and that I expect matters to be conducted according to my own rules. What is this message? Has the other fellow no tongue in his head, that he keeps silent and leaves it to you to be his mouthpiece?”
Eyvind was taken aback by Somerled’s manner, and even more taken aback by the way folk nodded approvingly as he spoke. Certainly, Ulf’s death had caused suspicion and distrust toward the islanders, and toward this priest in particular, for the way he had worked on Ulf’s mind, subverting his belief in the old gods. Still, it disquieted him that things could turn around so quickly.
The green-clad islander began to speak, and Tadhg rendered his words calmly into their own tongue.
“King Engus sends his respects to the lady Margaret. He regrets greatly what has occurred. The king requests a meeting, my lord. It can be here, or in his own hall on the Whaleback, whatever you prefer. He is anxious to ensure the agreement he made with your brother will be honored.”
Somerled raised his brows. “Agreement?” he queried in a voice smooth as silk.
When Tadhg translated this, the islander’s jaw tightened. “Yes, my lord.” His voice had changed too. “An agreement of peace between our two peoples, sworn on the Great Stone of Oaths, that we would not take up arms against each other, and would respect each other’s boundaries. Lord Ulf undertook to assist us over the winter, should there be the need. There was also the matter of a cargo of timber that was promised.”
Somerled regarded him levelly. “This agreement has already been broken, and not by us,” he said. “Tell Engus that Somerled Horse-Master sees no reason to treat with him. I am affronted that he should expect this so soon after my brother’s death. He must know the suspicion that attaches to him concerning that tragic event.”
“I see,” the man said. His voice was shaking. It seemed to Eyvind that this was not fear, but furious anger. “Am I to tell the king you will not meet with him? That you refuse to discuss these matters?”
Olaf Sveinsson, who had been Ulf’s chief adviser, rose to his feet, frowning.
“This translator is a Christian. We know how he tried to influence your brother with his dangerous doctrines. We cannot trust him. We cannot trust any of them, my lord.”
“Hear, hear,” rumbled Harald Silvertongue, who had been Ulf’s law speaker. “Send them packing, that’s my advice.”
At this point Margaret, who had been sitting tight-lipped and pale at Somerled’s side, leaned toward him and spoke quietly.
Then Somerled said, “Lord Ulf’s widow is more magnanimous than I. If it were my choice alone, I would say Engus is the last man on earth with whom I would share my salt. Lady Margaret advises a middle road. Inform your master that I will advise a meeting on my own terms, and in my own time. You may go now. Eyvind? Escort these fellows across our boundaries, will you?”
There was a brief silence. Then Eyvind stepped forward from where he had stood behind Somerled’s chair, and with a jerk of his head indicated to their two visitors that it was time to go. Brother Tadhg gave a little nod in Margaret’s direction; the other man only grimaced. As they went out, talk and laughter and the sounds of eating and drinking began again behind them.
It was pitch dark beyond the environs of the settlement, and bitterly cold. Eyvind had lit a torch from the one that burned in a socket at the hall’s entry, wondering how their visitors had expected to find their way back. They walked in silence for a while. It was Brother Tadhg who spoke first.
“I’m sorry that Ulf died. He was a friend to me: a wise man, a good man.”
Eyvind nodded, saying nothing.
“It was not Engus’s people who killed him,” Tadhg said.
“You can’t know that.” Eyvind was not sure if he should speak; these were dangerous matters.
“Ah, but I can.” Tadhg’s voice was very soft, very certain. “If there is one thing I understand, it is faith. That clifftop where your chieftain died, it is a sacred place, a place much revered by the Folk. It is heavy with the presence of those they call the ancestors; it is alive with the lore that is the very backbone of these islands. If a man of the Folk wished to murder his enemy, he would choose a spot where there were few local spirits to be offended: the back room of a drinking hall maybe, or the pallet of a faithless lover. To kill a man on those cliffs would be like defacing an altar. It is not possible.”
“But…someone killed him,” Eyvind said hesitantly. “It was no accident.”
“Yes,” agreed Tadhg gravely. “Someone killed him, and set your people at bitter enmity with the Folk. I ask myself, why?”
The islander made some muttered remark, perhaps asking what they spoke of, and Tadhg replied in reassuring tones.
“I can’t talk to you about these things,” Eyvind said. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“Not right to want to know the truth?”
“I’m only a warrior. It’s my duty to guard my patron and fight his battles, not to ask questions. I do as Thor commands, or as my chieftain orders. I will not speak of these matters to you.”
“Tell me,” Tadhg said. “If this Thor told you to go out and kill a man, and you knew that man was a good man and innocent of any wrongdoing, would you do as you were bid?”
“Why are you asking me this? Of course I would,” said Eyvind, more than a little irked at this turn of the conversation. “I am a warrior and sworn to Thor, and a warrior keeps his oath, always. It is my duty to do the god’s will; it is my life. But that does not mean I killed Ulf.”
“No indeed. That was not what I meant. Tell me. Somerled Horse-Master is your chieftain now. Will you kill at his bidding, even if you think it wrong?”
Eyvind scowled. “Somerled is my blood brother. Long ago, we swore loyalty to one another. That must be sufficient answer for you.”
“What if he ordered you to kill me?” Tadhg’s tone was light.
“He wouldn’t,” Eyvind said curtly. “You’re too useful. But don’t think you’re any different from another man where I’m concerned. The thing I do best is killing. If Thor bid me cleave your skull with this axe, I woul
d do it, priest or no priest.”
“How sad,” Tadhg observed.
“Sad? What’s sad about it?” Odin’s bones, the fellow certainly had a way of getting under your skin and making you feel uncomfortable.
“That your calling prevents you from making your own choices, from being your own man. On Holy Island, we have no axes and swords and fine spears, we have no golden torcs and arm-rings, we have no chieftains. We need none of these things, for we have two gifts of priceless worth.”
“What gifts?” Eyvind was intrigued, despite his annoyance.
Tadhg smiled in the torchlight. His words came softly to Eyvind’s ears.
“God’s love, and the freedom to choose what is right.”
Winter came, and there was no meeting between Somerled and the king. The situation went from bad to worse. There was a skirmish on the border between their own land and Engus’s farms, and one of the islanders was killed. There was another encounter in the south, and men on both sides were injured. Eyvind did not take part in either, for Somerled had sent him off to check on the security of their easternmost holdings, and by the time he came back to the settlement, it was all over. But the first blood had been spilled. It seemed to Eyvind that now would be a good time to talk to the king, before matters got completely out of hand. Indeed, he wondered why Somerled had not arranged this already. He mentioned it, diffidently, to Harald Silvertongue and to Olaf Sveinsson. Both greeted his idea with indifference. He asked Holgar what he thought, and Holgar said, “Aren’t you his friend? Speak to him yourself.” So he did, though by now he was beginning to remember things Somerled had said in the past, about how a Wolfskin should stick to what he knew best, which was fighting, and leave thinking to those who had the wit for it.