“Wisely?” he echoed. “I don’t know. I’ll probably never know.”
“We must be prepared for troubled dreams,” said Margaret, “for shadows on the edge of our thoughts. He leaves us that legacy. But we must not let that hold us helpless. Life goes on; we must make of it what we can, I suppose.” She sounded so bleak and hopeless, Eyvind was hard-pressed to summon any response at all. He was saved by Rona, who approached with a cup containing a steaming brew which smelled even worse than the reviving herbs. It appeared this draft was meant for Margaret. With great relief, Eyvind slipped from the room and back to the Wolfskins’ sleeping chamber, where two men snored on their pallets already and his brother waited, ale cup in hand.
“Sleep,” Eirik ordered, pointing to the bed that bore the best woollen blankets and the plumpest pillow. “Now.” And suddenly it did not seem so very hard at all to obey.
Nessa thought that was the most difficult moment for Eyvind: the touching of hands to the little boat as it rocked in the shallows, ready to bear Somerled westward on his journey into exile. For herself, she felt the somber mood of the occasion, the dark solemnity of it, yet she knew it was at the same time a cleansing. The weight of grief they all carried on their shoulders must be lightened by this man’s departure. It was an ending of sorts, necessary before new beginnings could be made. For Eyvind, it was different. She could look at Somerled’s tight, withdrawn features and feel not a shred of doubt, for she saw there a man who simply did not understand the difference between right and wrong. Eyvind saw his friend, a boy for whom he still felt responsible. And she knew that somewhere, deep down, Eyvind doubted his own judgment. Even now, even after all he had done, the strength he had shown, the wisdom and leadership, Eyvind could not see himself as others did. In his own eyes, he would always be no more than a simple warrior, a man who needed time to understand things, an unsubtle thinker lacking in cleverness. He did not read the admiration and wonder in others’ eyes—the Jarl’s, Margaret’s, Olaf’s—at how he had changed and what he had become. He did not understand how astonishing was his acceptance by her own people: the speed with which he had begun to establish that difficult bond. He was quite blind to it. That was one of the reasons she loved him.
There was a shadow in his clear, blue eyes that morning. Nonetheless, he held himself tall and straight as always, as if he were part of the monumental slab of rock on which he stood. Although the breeze ruffled his hair and stirred the folds of his tunic, he seemed to Nessa an island of stillness. Just so had she seen him on the shore, long ago, before she had known what kind of man he was: before she had understood that he belonged in the islands. Yet in a way she had known, even then. From that moment, the spirits had whispered in her ear, He is part of this tale: your tale, and the tale of the Folk. You must hold him fast. Within this warrior’s breast beats ancient truth.
Nessa was the only woman present on the shore. Margaret had declined the Jarl’s invitation to attend. It was plain Ulf’s widow had reached the point where she could bear no more. They said Somerled had given her a letter before he left the settlement, but nobody knew what was in it. As for Margaret, she had not sought an opportunity to speak with her husband’s killer in private. Nessa guessed there was a certain piece of information that Somerled did not know, and she wondered at Margaret’s decision not to share it with him, but kept her silence.
She would have preferred not to be here herself, but with an eye to Eyvind’s pallor and his grim-set jaw, she had accompanied the small group of men to the chosen place. Not three boat lengths out from this narrow, pebbly stretch of shore, a strong westerly current would seize the curragh and bear it away from the islands. Only the most skilled of sailors might turn the craft and steer it back to land. Her cousin, Kinart, could have done it; Somerled most certainly could not.
It was very quick. Men had worked during the night to place all in readiness; water barrel, fishing gear, and a small, oiled sack of provisions were neatly stowed. There were oars. It was also possible to rig mast and sail. Nessa shivered. The boat was so small. On the shore, Brother Tadhg stood with his wooden cross in his hands, staring out over the choppy waters.
A silence fell. They were waiting for Somerled to step aboard. Nessa had wondered if it would be done without any more words; if now, at the very end, Eyvind and Somerled would have nothing to say to each other. Perhaps there was so much to be said that neither man knew where to start. She could feel Eyvind’s grief, even though she did not fully understand it. As for Somerled, he had surprised her this morning. Quiet, calm, dressed in plain, warm clothing, he had walked down between his Wolfskin guards with perfect dignity. Nessa was forced to admit that outwardly he had conducted himself in every way like a king.
“It’s time,” Magnus said. “You’d best be gone. Have you anything you want to say?”
Somerled looked at him. “Not to you,” he said. “But I have a question for Eyvind. I told him I preferred death. I made that quite clear. Of course, I was not offered a choice. Tell me, Eyvind, what’s to stop me from turning the boat around as soon as the current ceases to grip her, and coming back to land? The locals will finish me off then, if Nessa’s island spirits don’t get to me first. What’s to stop me from slitting my wrists with a fishing knife? I’m sure there’s one on board somewhere. Or I could simply go out a certain distance, then slip overboard and drown. You’ll recall from our boyhood that I’m not the strongest of swimmers. Give me one good reason why I should feel bound to comply with this ridiculous punishment?”
Several people spoke at once.
“Maybe I should go with him—” That was Brother Tadhg, and his words sparked a horrified “No!” from Nessa. Several voices, Eirik’s among them, spoke up telling Somerled to hold his tongue and stop stalling for time. But it was Eyvind’s response that hushed them. He stepped down from the rock, his face ashen, and walked across until he stood not an arm’s length from Somerled.
“Here’s your reason,” he said, and rolled back his left sleeve to show the long, straight scar on the forearm, sign of their blood bonding. “Give me your hand. I have not forgotten the oath we swore. You urged me to loyalty; now I ask you for pledge of that loyalty. Give me your hand, Somerled.”
Somerled pushed back his shirtsleeve. He stared at Eyvind; the dark eyes seemed to devour the blue. Each man clasped the other’s left arm. Now one scar overlaid the other, a perfect match.
“Very well,” Eyvind said. “Now I want your solemn vow, given in the spirit of the friendship we promised as lads, that you will do all that is in your power to survive this journey. Swear that you will head onward with the courage I know is in you, with all the cleverness and wit and ingenuity you possess, until you make landfall on a new shore. And you must promise that, once there, you will make a new life, and strive to be all that you can be.”
He was holding Somerled’s gaze with his own, but Nessa knew he could not see what she saw, what made her heart shrink with pity and with sorrow for the two of them. He could not see the love in Somerled’s eyes. For her, that moment was a glimpse behind the mask, an insight she would rather not have had. She thought now she knew what was in Somerled’s heart: I would never have been good enough for you, never, no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I achieved. And I can never be the man you are.
“It’s a great deal to ask,” Somerled said in a whisper, his mouth curving into a wry half smile. “I don’t think I ever required such a demonstration of loyalty from you.”
“If I did not have faith in you,” Eyvind answered, his own voice scarcely stronger, “I would not ask it. Now swear.”
Finally Somerled had run out of words. He jerked his head in an awkward nod and released Eyvind’s arm abruptly. As he turned to climb into the curragh, Nessa saw him scrub the back of his hand across one cheek and then the other. A king does not weep, not where people can see him.
“Really,” said Brother Tadhg, wading into the water, “really, he should not go alone—”
“Spare me from priestly company, I beg you,” Somerled snapped. “I’ve always much preferred my own. Besides, they’re short on translators here, and it’s going to take you forever to teach Eyvind the language. Now get on with this, will you?”
Then Eirik and Thord and the other men set their hands to the curragh’s stern and pushed, and Somerled took up the oars and, with reasonable competence, began to row out to sea. Nessa moved forward to take Eyvind’s hand in hers, and now she could see the tears that were running down his cheeks. A Wolfskin, it seemed, could weep without shame at such a time of loss. They stood watching until the little boat had been out of sight for some time, until the others had already headed up to the place where the horses were tethered, ready for the ride back to the settlement, and the two of them were alone with the wash of the waves and the call of the gulls. Then Eyvind wiped his face with his hand just as Somerled had done, and put his arm around Nessa’s shoulders, and they set their steps away from the sea.
She saw Eyvind’s sorrow and his doubt and wanted to comfort him with her counsel, with her body. But it was a busy time and privacy was hard to come by. Before Magnus sailed home to Rogaland, he had determined to take stock of what Ulf had begun, and to deploy his own forces in the restoration of what Somerled had destroyed. Nessa made it known as courteously as she could that the Folk would manage quite well with the help they had chosen for themselves: Eyvind and Thord and one or two others. Her argument was strengthened by the arrival, one afternoon in drizzling spring rain, of no less than twenty of her own people, fishermen and farmers from the far outer islands, come to her aid after word had finally reached them of the slaughter of their kinsmen. Most were gray-haired and the rest little more than boys, but that did nothing to dampen the fire of dedication in their eyes, or mute the ring of fierce commitment in their voices as they knelt before her one by one, each offering himself as her warrior. It would have made her weep, once. Now she gave each her hand, and each his own solemn words of recognition and acceptance.
She explained to them all, afterward, who Eyvind was and what he had done. He was her husband, her partner from this day on; their union lacked but the formal ceremony of handfasting, and that would take place when spring was at its peak. She did not add the words of clarification, When the others are gone, but this was understood. Eyvind would stand by her side; he would help her lead them. He would teach them what they needed to know to get ready for the new times, when the islands were no longer a place apart from the rest of the world. The lads eyed the golden-haired giant with excited anticipation, scarcely tinged with caution. The older men would take longer to win over, but she did not doubt that they too, in time, would follow the Wolfskin into the jaws of death if he called them there. That thought made Nessa shiver, as if a breath of cold had passed through her. So much change: every day brought something new. The times of long, silent meditation, the nights of communion with the ancestors seemed distant memories, and she grieved for the loss of that utter stillness, that space for setting the spirit at rights. Still, this was her choice. She would be a mother before next winter, so Rona said, though how the wise woman could know was a mystery.
The ships were ready: the Golden Dragon proud and sleek at its mooring, the blockish knarr, and Magnus’s pride and joy, the new vessel he had named Lady Hilde, after his wife. Perhaps he had thought by that to sweeten her toward him in view of yet another departure. This time, she would get him back sooner than she expected. The men were eager to be off. Eyvind would be saying farewell to his brother; Eirik had sorely missed his woman and his young sons, and vowed never to sail so far again. Indeed, he was heard to tell his fellow Wolfskins over the ale cups, he’d a fancy to give up the calling of Thor altogether, and go back to Hammarsby to lend his mother a hand on the farm. At five and twenty, he was getting a little long in the tooth for the finer points of wielding sword, club, and axe. The others greeted this with uproarious laughter, telling him he’d never do it, he wouldn’t last one season on the land before he’d be back among them on the longship’s prow, sniffing out Danes. But Eyvind told Nessa they were wrong. He knew his brother, and he had seen the longing for home in Eirik’s eyes.
There would be others staying in the Light Isles besides Eyvind and Thord. Thord’s woman had already made quite a name for herself in Hafnarvagr as a cook. What she could create from the simplest ingredients had grown men lining up with their platters, begging for second helpings. She was a lively girl, admired as much for her saucy manner and outrageous jokes as for her baking. That she had once been a thrall was of no import here.
One afternoon, as Nessa snatched a few moments’ quiet on a bench outside the hall, Margaret came to sit beside her. Ulf’s widow seemed nervous, twisting a handkerchief between her hands. It was clear she wanted to say something, but she hesitated as if unsure how to begin. Nessa waited, hands resting in her lap. At her feet lay Shadow; Guard was away with Eyvind and Thord, bringing up some timbers that had washed in to the beach.
“I–I wanted to ask you something,” Margaret blurted out eventually.
“Of course,” said Nessa.
“I can’t go home.” Margaret’s words came out in a rush now, as if she must say them all before her courage failed her. “Everyone expects me to go, but I just can’t. Would you let me stay here? I could make myself useful, I can order a household, I know how to keep a reckoning and organize stores. Maybe I could do some of the work I would have done if Ulf hadn’t…if he hadn’t…sweet Freya aid me!” She buried her face in her hands. “I just can’t do this, it’s hopeless, how can I even say it? Oh, please—”
Nessa waited a little. Margaret was not crying; she would not do that in the open, even though there were only the two of them about. But her pose, shoulders drooping, head down, neck exposed beneath the heavy bundle of auburn hair, spoke of a helpless despair.
“Rona says I’m going to have a child at the end of autumn,” Nessa said tranquilly. “It was a bit of a surprise. You’re the first person I’ve told, apart from Eyvind.”
Margaret gave a choked gurgle that might have been laughter. “A small, yellow-haired warrior? You are full of surprises!”
“Rona says it will be a girl. But I expect there will be little Wolfskins as well, in due course.”
There was a long pause.
“My own child will be born far earlier than that,” Margaret said in a whisper, “but alas, not soon enough to be called my husband’s son. Though no doubt the brat will bear some sort of family resemblance.” Her tone was bitter. “You understand why I’m reluctant to return home to Rogaland. How could I begin to break such news to my parents? And yet, I know I am foolish to ask you for help. I expect you can hardly wait to see me gone from this shore. Why would you want to give shelter to Somerled’s child?”
“Your child is welcome here, Margaret,” said Nessa gently. “He’ll be a son of the islands. It will be up to you, as his mother, to foster his growing and teach him what your own parents taught you: strength, forbearance, and generosity. As for yourself, you must earn your place here; that much I ask of all who make the choice to stay.”
“Your people must hate me,” Margaret said, but there was hope in her voice now. She straightened her back, lifted her head. “After what was done—after the killings—how can they…?”
“As I said, you must earn your place. You’ll be watched; you all will. But my people remember how you helped them in the time of the sickness. In due course, I think you will be accepted. And I will value your skills and your friendship, for I never expected to be a leader of men and women, not in this way. My path has changed, and I cannot always face it with courage.”
“I fear greatly to have a child,” Margaret said in a low voice, “although, for me, that would have come about eventually. It is the prospect of this particular child that disquiets me. He was not conceived in love. I don’t know if I can be a good mother to him. I think I may hate him.”
“Look at me on the day he is bo
rn and tell me that again,” said Nessa, “and perhaps I may believe it. We are lucky that we have Rona. Why not ask her to seek answers in the fire? She will tell you something of the child, if she can.”
Margaret shivered. “I don’t think so. I would rather not know. Nessa?”
“Yes?”
“My little maid, Gunhild—might she stay as well? And my men, Bjorn and Ash? They are loyal, all of them. They will not want to leave me.”
Nessa frowned. “Gunhild can stay; you’ll have need of her. The men must speak to Eyvind. He will decide. Each must plead his own case and show himself worthy. If your faith in them is justified, perhaps we may keep them.”
“They are good workers,” Margaret said eagerly, “I promise you—”
“As I said, you should speak to Eyvind. It is his choice. I do not set myself up in place of a king here. There are difficult times ahead of us; I intend that we should all face them together. I’ll be glad of your help, Margaret.” Nessa put out a hand; a moment later, she felt the cold touch of Margaret’s fingers, grasping hers. They sat in silence awhile, side by side.
Then Margaret said, “Thank you. Oh gods, I’m going to be sick again.”
“It will pass,” Nessa said, holding the other girl’s head as she doubled over, and wondering how long it might be before this particular malady struck her as well. “I promise you, it will pass.”
Magnus was true to his word. The ships had been gathered together at the safe harbor for final repairs. At the second full moon they sailed for Freyrsfjord, and Eyvind waved goodbye to Eirik and to his old comrades, Erlend and Holgar.
It was a strangely assorted company that stood on the hillside above Hafnarvagr, where the sweep of sheltered water spreads out before the dazzled viewer like an ever-changing shawl of lustrous blues and grays and greens all the way across to High Island. In springtime, that stretch of sea is a vessel of light whose loveliness quiets the heart. They watched in silence as the oars dipped and rose, and the fleet moved farther and farther away across the silver of the bay, threading between the isles on the perilous journey back to the home shores of Rogaland. One might have looked at these people, Nessa thought, and wondered what future the islands could have under their care. There was pale, silent Margaret with her woollen shawl hugged around her, and beside her a small, tight circle of protectors: young Gunhild, pink-cheeked and anxious, and the two stalwart guards, Ash and Bjorn. Behind them were two other men of Ulf’s household. All had convinced Eyvind of their worth and loyalty. To Nessa’s right stood Rona, tall and straight with her iron-gray plait and her shrewd, far-seeing eyes, and beside her the slight, unassuming figure of Brother Tadhg. Thank all the powers he had not followed his first instinct and jumped into that boat with Somerled. How would they ever have managed without this brave, calm little man? On the sloping sward below Nessa, Thord stood with wolfskin on shoulders, a hand lifted in salute as the Golden Dragon hoisted her sail to catch the westerly wind. Thord’s woman, Zaira, watched the ships pass with a dimpled smile. She had it in her to give, that one; Nessa had seen it. And she loved the place: already, among the island women, Zaira had a wide circle of friends. Even thus, quietly and without any fuss at all, is the torn fabric of community mended. Give us time, Nessa prayed, closing her eyes. Give us long enough, so this can be.