“You look angry,” Jofrid said softly, easing the oily tangle of uncarded wool through the wide comb.
Creidhe set the spindle turning, drew the twist of fiber between her fingers. The good thing about spinning was that, once you had the knack of it, you didn’t need to think; your hands simply went ahead and did the work.
“Not angry, just a bit sad. I want to go home. I don’t understand why Thorvald and Sam aren’t here.”
A flicker of expression crossed Jofrid’s pale features, and died. Jofrid had barely begun to talk, so long after that terrible night of loss. Her voice was an apologetic whisper, her whole demeanor one of exhausted defeat. She clung to Creidhe’s side like a wan shadow. It had become habit for the two of them to work together in the mornings; for Creidhe to sit in Jofrid’s cottage and sew in the afternoons, while Jofrid tended to her stock, or sometimes just sat in silence, watching. Returning to Gudrun’s for supper and sleep had become a relief. Big, dour Gudrun had mellowed somewhat; there was a reluctant kindness in her terse comments, her attempts at special cookery.
“I’m sorry,” Creidhe went on, talking more to herself than Jofrid. “It seems selfish to fuss about such things, I know. I didn’t expect to be away so long, that’s all. I miss my family.” She could see them as if they were right there before her: Eyvind striding up and down, wracked with worry and guilt, though her plight was none of his doing; he would believe he had somehow failed in his fatherly duties to let such a disaster occur. Nessa quiet with Ingigerd in her arms, holding her concern inside as always, looking for signs in fire and water, seeking her inner wisdom for answers. Brona, trying to do all her own tasks as well as Creidhe’s, and biting her nails to the quick over Sam. Aunt Margaret, Creidhe’s second mother, standing stern and silent on the steps of her house, gazing out to the west. Ash would be in the background somewhere, maintaining a faithful watch over her. “I miss them terribly.”
Jofrid bowed her head, apparently intent on her task. She laid a handful of carded wool in the basket at Creidhe’s elbow; between the two of them they had prepared enough twist this morning to make a good start on a blanket or a warm tunic for one of the men.
“Jofrid?”
There was no reply; Creidhe had not expected one.
“Have you a husband? Is he away with Asgrim’s men?” Creidhe had not tried this direct question before; now seemed as good a time as any.
A nod. Jofrid’s hands stilled, the soft, teased-out wool like thistledown between them.
“What’s his name?”
“Wieland,” Jofrid whispered, making a little sigh of the name, a small sadness.
“Is he a fisherman?”
“Not anymore,” Jofrid said. “He is a warrior now.” A moment later, a single tear rolled down her cheek. “He—” Her voice cracked; more tears fell, and she put her hands up over her face.
“Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Creidhe began, but as soon as it had started, the moment was over. Jofrid scrubbed a hand across her cheeks, took up the comb again and retreated back into silence.
After that, Creidhe swallowed her frustration a while and went on waiting as late spring turned to early summer and the lambs on the hillside grew sturdier. There was no news at all from Thorvald and Sam. As for Brother Niall and his fellows, she had seen no more of them; she supposed Asgrim had forbidden them access to the settlement at Brightwater. She thought, herself, that the women would have welcomed such voices of calm and common sense among them. Maybe Breccan’s prayers had been powerless to hold off those voices of death, but they could at least provide solace. When it came to such times of loss and grief, Creidhe thought it mattered little which gods one believed in, which faith one adhered to. Anything was good, as long as it helped.
As time passed, it seemed to Creidhe that the women were growing accustomed to her presence, almost as if she were one of them, and because of that she began to hear things that were not intended for her ears, scraps of conversation that worried her. At first she dismissed them. She was lonely, upset, disappointed with Thorvald. She was overreacting. All the same, being her father’s daughter, Creidhe had learned how to listen, and the more she listened, the more a sense of dread, of dark secrets and dangerous shadows, began to creep over her.
Gudrun, clanking pots on the fire, talking to Helga as Creidhe was changing her shoes in the inner room: good little thing . . . seems a shame really . . . and Helga’s response, a sudden hissing, Shh . . .
Frida, invited to share their meal on another evening, silently chewing the overboiled mutton and watching Creidhe with her beady, inimical eyes. Ale poured later; a joke shared with Gudrun, something about the size of men’s noses, that had them all laughing, all but Frida whose shriveled lips never so much as attempted a smile. Then later, words overheard as Frida donned her shawl and Gudrun opened the door for her: careful . . . too friendly . . . just makes it harder . . .
Helga, in the workroom one sunny morning, and Creidhe offering her help with weaving. There was a much more efficient way to beat the weft threads up, a particular grip on the whalebone weaving-sword, a flick of the wrists that was easy to master, once someone showed you. Creidhe demonstrated: the threads aligned themselves, perfectly even and regular. She watched as Helga did it, once to try, twice to be sure; she congratulated her on her quickness to learn.
Helga beamed. “Oh, thank you. You’re such a clever girl, Creidhe, and so kind, it seems a pity—” She blushed crimson and turned away.
“What seems a pity?” Creidhe asked quietly. All of a sudden, the room had gone very still.
“That you won’t be staying,” put in Gudrun from where she sat on her stool, spinning. “That you’ll be off as soon as your young men get back.”
It was a logical answer. But Creidhe knew it was not the one Helga had come close to blurting out. There was something afoot, something they were not saying, and it had to do with her. She wished Asgrim would come back so she could ask him straight out.
Then, at a time when the air was growing appreciably warmer at last, with a hint of real summer in it, they presented her with a gift. It was a gown of finest wool, not made on these islands, she suspected, but borne to this shore from far away and set aside for some special purpose. These women had neither the ability nor the tools for such delicate work. It was palest cream in color, with a narrow green border to neckline and hemline, embroidered with little flowers and birds: both skill and love had gone into its making. The sleeves were narrow, the skirt fell in graceful folds from a wide girdle. There were green ribbons for the hair, to set off the trim. It was a lovely thing, and entirely inappropriate as a gift.
“I can’t take this,” Creidhe said flatly. “It’s like a—a wedding dress. You must save it for one of your own, your daughters . . .” She faltered. This settlement had few daughters; the pair of lads, the awkward, squinting girl made up its full complement of children. “You must not waste such a precious garment on me,” she went on, “though I thank you for your generosity—”
“Take it,” said Gudrun, sounding almost angry. “Try it on. You’ll look bonny in it, with your yellow hair and all.”
“When your young man comes back,” put in Helga, “wouldn’t he like to see you in such a gown?”
“Go on, lass,” said Gudrun.
Creidhe was pushed and prodded through into the sleeping quarters, and found it impossible to refuse their polite, insistent requests to undress and put the gown on. The fit was not bad, the bodice a little tight, the waist a little loose, but comfortable enough. Now that she was doing as they wished, the others had retreated; Jofrid remained, combing Creidhe’s hair, tying in the ribbons, stroking the folds of the skirt so they fell more cleanly from the girdle. It was a strange fashion, showing somewhat more of the figure than was considered respectable at home. Even for dancing, Creidhe and Brona always wore gown and overdress, properly pinned, or the straight skirt and long tunic that were the traditional garb of their mother’s people. This was more like
a nightrobe, low-necked, clinging at breasts and hips, a garment she had absolutely no intention of wearing in front of Thorvald and Sam, though it would have been interesting to see their faces. She stared at herself in the dull bronze of Gudrun’s mirror; her face gazed back, dimly candlelit, shadowy, worried eyes in a pale oval. Her hair was a haze of gold, falling across her shoulders and down her back unbound. Jofrid stood behind her like an anxious wraith.
“Creidhe.”
Jofrid’s whisper was so soft, Creidhe thought at first she’d imagined it: tiny and intense, a breath of danger.
“What?” she whispered back.
“You must go away. In the morning. Go.”
“What?” Shock made her voice louder.
“Shh!” Jofrid hissed. “Not safe. You must not stay here.”
Creidhe’s heart was thumping. She opened her mouth to ask, what is not safe, where must I go, but the moment was past. Jofrid, hearing the others coming, had lapsed back into silence; she moved the comb steadily through Creidhe’s long hair, smoothing the shining strands, her eyes once more blank of expression. It was as if nothing at all had happened.
Creidhe allowed herself to be admired, petted, fussed over. She submitted to the twining of more ribbons in the hair, the small adjustments to the dress, the presentation of a pair of soft slippers deemed more appropriate than her workaday shoes. It became apparent that refusal of the gown would not be allowed; reluctantly, she accepted it, knowing that she could never wear such a garment, save perhaps in the privacy of her own bedchamber, to laugh about with Brona. In this outpost, among these grim folk, to dress in such extravagant clothing was to single oneself out as different, special, and she could see no reason at all for that. When every detail was to their liking, the women stood about and admired her, with little comments about how kind she had been, how helpful, how clever, and how pleased they were to be able to thank her thus. Jofrid wasn’t saying anything now; she stared at the ground or into the corner, as if she were pretending to be somewhere else. But after it was over, and Creidhe was permitted to remove her finery and fold it away neatly, Jofrid looked at her from the doorway, and in Jofrid’s shadowed eyes the message was once more stark and plain: Go! Go now, or it will be too late.
Creidhe passed a sleepless night, trying to set her mind in order while her heart drummed in panic and her body ran with cold sweat. In the predawn she rose in silence. Across the small chamber, Gudrun still snored under her coverlet; the ale had flowed generously last night, and with luck the woman would sleep later than usual. Creidhe packed her bag. There was not time to find everything, but she stuffed in what she could: her knife, her sewing things, a shawl, the comb Sam had made for her, and into the pocket on the outside, the closely furled roll of the Journey. Then, sheepskin boots in one hand, bag on her shoulder, she tiptoed out to the main room of the cottage, where the fire lay in cold ashes and the merest sliver of gray light could be seen through the chinks and cracks around the door. This was all in the timing, and the ability to keep quiet. For all she was a girl, and not destined for life as hunter or warrior, Creidhe had learned a thing or two growing up in her father’s household. For such a big man, Eyvind had an uncanny knack of moving swift as a shadow, silent as a hawk, when there was the need for it. Creidhe had learned, as well, how to watch and listen, how best to seize an advantage. She slipped the bolts on Gudrun’s front door, opened and closed it without a sound, set rocks in place to stop it from swinging and banging. Hood up over her hair, she stood by the wall, every sense alert for danger. The place was quiet; no dog stirred, no bird sang yet in salute to the rising sun, though it was light, the traces of first day a sensation of pallor somewhere beyond the blanket of damp that clung low around the houses. If there were men set to guard the settlement today, they were nowhere to be seen. At such a time, on such a morning, it was probable they sat by a fire somewhere, warming their hands and sharing a flask of ale and a mutton chop or two. One could only hope.
The first part was easy, mist or no mist. She had passed this way daily in rain or shine since her first arrival in Brightwater. Soft-footed as a ghost, Creidhe slipped past cottage and outhouse, pigpen and fowl run, up to the place where a stile in the stone dike marked the end of her permitted territory, the border of forbidden land. She glanced behind her. Down the track, shreds of mist cloaked Gudrun’s dwelling, the communal craft hut, the cottages of Jofrid and Helga. Creidhe hitched up her skirts and clambered over the wall by the straggling vegetable patch. A bird sang suddenly, high above, in confident recognition of morning. Creidhe drew a deep breath, feeling the moisture in the chill air, sensing something odd in her heart, fear maybe, mingled with an awareness of freedom that went far beyond the fact of leaving the small settlement, silent women and half-spoken secrets. She could not capture it yet, not quite: it beat within her, strong but elusive, beautiful and dangerous. Beyond a doubt, this feeling was akin to the vision that had seized her that morning on the cliff path, something wondrous, powerful and ineffably sad. What it was, she did not know; she knew only a profound gratitude that it still lived, somewhere inside her. Shifting her bag higher on her back, Creidhe set her steps forward and began to stride up the valley, away from Brightwater. In time the morning mist lifted, and the squint-eyed girl drove her geese out to forage. By then there was nothing to be seen on the hillside beyond the settlement but the pale, slow forms of grazing sheep.
“She’s not here.” Brother Niall spoke calmly, lying with a practiced ease that sat at odds with tonsure and habit. “Not a sign of her, and Colm’s been outside all morning digging the vegetable patch. He’d have seen Creidhe if she passed by. I did tell the boys when they came up looking. Now you’ve climbed all this way for nothing.”
The two lads had appeared at the hermitage around midday, breathing hard, and had been sent on their way again with a brief answer and a drink of water. Now Gudrun herself had made her way along the valley and up the hill, red-faced, sweating, with a note of real fear in her voice.
“Where else would she go?” she panted. “She must have come this way.”
Brother Niall spread his hands in a gesture indicating helpless perplexity. Funny, that, thought Creidhe as she stood very still, watching through the crack in the inner door of this small, neat dwelling. She’d never known a man who seemed less helpless, except her father.
“I can’t imagine,” said Brother Niall. “I do understand your concern. One’s mind tends to play tricks at such a time. Let us hope Creidhe has merely gone wandering along the lake shore, or into the fields to pick flowers. Girls will do these things. Of course, she may have attempted the path back to Blood Bay. And we all know the danger for a girl of walking alone by the sea. I’m afraid it may already be too late. Asgrim’s not going to be happy.”
Gudrun wrung her hands. Creidhe had never seen her like this, not even on the night of the voices. The large, capable woman seemed at her wits’ end.
“You’re very welcome to join us at prayer,” put in Brother Breccan from the far end of the chamber where he stood at a table that held scrolls of parchment, soapstone pots of ink, quills in a jar. “God may have answers for you. A little quiet reflection can provide great comfort to the troubled spirit.”
By all the ancestors, he was as bad as Niall: bare-faced dissemblers, the two of them. Creidhe watched in silence as Gudrun scowled at the hermits and peered into the corners of the hut as if to seek proof that they were tricking her.
“As you see,” offered Brother Niall in mild, kindly tones, “there are just the two of us here, and Colm out in the fields somewhere. If you like I’ll call him in so you can ask him yourself. Unless you wish to inspect the sleeping quarters of a household of three men, all of them sworn to celibacy in God’s service?” He lifted his brows. Don’t say yes, Creidhe willed Gudrun. If the woman took one step through this inner door, Creidhe would be in plain view. This white-haired hermit certainly seemed to enjoy taking risks.
Gudrun growled a response in which
Creidhe could discern the name Asgrim, then turned on her heel and headed off down the hillside. It was a long walk back to Brightwater, and by no means an easy one. They waited in silence. After a carefully judged interval Brother Breccan moved to close the front door, a massive, heavy thing that had perhaps once been part of an ocean-going vessel, for it was studded with rivets in unlikely places.
“Oh dear,” observed Brother Niall as Creidhe came forth from her hiding place and resumed her seat by the table. He fetched a jug from the stone shelves at the far end of the room, filled a cup, set it before her. “Trouble does seem to follow you, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She had explained herself already, the reasons for her sudden, unannounced arrival, the way her disquiet in the settlement had grown to a real fear. Remembering Brother Niall’s veiled warnings and his offers of help, she had hoped they might take her in. Here, surely she would be safe. Folk did not harm men of faith, nor those whom they sheltered. The brothers had received her calmly, heard what she had to say, fed her vegetable broth and warm flat bread. While she was eating—the hard walk had brought back the appetite that had deserted her in recent times—Breccan had made a few adjustments to the sleeping arrangements in the cottage. Colm would share the outhouse with the cow and calf, he’d announced blithely; it was the warmest place anyway, and a good lesson in humility besides. He and Niall would spread their blankets here in the outer chamber, leaving the sleeping quarters to their guest. Creidhe had begun a protest, but after the walk she’d been weary enough to drop, though it was not yet midday, and she had fallen asleep on one of the hard shelf-beds the instant she lay down. She’d been not long awake when Gudrun had come rapping at the door. Now Gudrun was gone, but others might come; and she realized, sitting here beside these quiet men, with the late afternoon sun streaming in warm and golden between open shutters, that on no account was she going to return to Brightwater, not for Gudrun, not for Asgrim, not for anyone.