Foxmask

The very thought of it made her belly churn with unease. There was such danger in it, peril and uncertainty. Thorvald must have asked around, of course, though she knew he had not spoken to Eyvind. He must have found out the likeliest route, the probable landfall for Somerled’s lonely voyage. Surely Sam, the most practical man in Hrossey, would not have agreed to take him if there had not been suitable safeguards. All the same, there were questions hanging over the very idea. What had it come from, after all, but a chance remark of her own about finding out the truth? Perhaps their destination was far away. Perhaps they would be gone a long time, a whole cycle of the moon or even two. Her mother would be anxious, her father shocked. Eyvind would be furious with Thorvald, even though her presence on the boat would be all her own doing. He might even take it into his head to come after them, though there was no other vessel in the Light Isles that could match Sam’s for speed and maneuverability. Her father could hardly commandeer a longship. And what about Margaret? Who would help her with the weaving? Who would comfort her when she discovered her son had abandoned home and hearth in a wild search for a father he had never known? All the same, Creidhe knew that she must go. It was a knowledge that owed little to logic, but was nonetheless deep and strong, a conviction that beat in the heart and flowed in the blood. She must be there. Without her, Thorvald could not do this. Without her, this quest would fail.

  She was careful to follow her usual routine, making herself useful at home, walking or riding down to Aunt Margaret’s most days. Her parents talked about her trip to the Northern Isles again and she pretended to be thinking about it. It was not a good feeling to deceive them. The household was built on trust and truth; she longed to seek their wise advice but could not, knowing they would never agree to let her go on such a voyage.

  Her sister Brona was the only one who sensed there was something wrong, and it was Brona who helped Creidhe find a way. A wedding was to be held near Stensakir: Grim’s eldest daughter Sigrid was marrying a farmer from West Island, and the whole family was invited. The day before they were to head eastward for the festivities, a messenger came with news that the chieftains of the Caitt had sent a delegation to Hafnarvagr, wanting to speak with Eyvind about some kind of arrangement to protect the straits between the Light Isles and their own northern coastline. The traffic of Norse and Danish vessels in those parts had picked up considerably, and one could never be sure whether an attacker might decide to help himself to a cargo of livestock or fine timber, furs or thralls. It was necessary for Eyvind to travel south immediately, and Nessa, who was looking tired and pale these days, made a sudden decision to stay at home with Ingigerd rather than go to the wedding without her husband.

  Nessa did not want to disappoint her daughters. Creidhe and Brona could still go, she decreed, as long as they traveled there and back with the three men Eyvind had chosen to accompany and guard them, and stayed with Grim and his wife Eira until the celebrations were over. Margaret was not going, and nor was Thorvald.

  At around the same time, Creidhe had an amazing piece of luck. One of Eyvind’s housecarls, a girl called Solveig, was walking out with the fellow who worked on the Sea Dove as deckhand. When Solveig happened to mention that Sam was giving her sweetheart an unexpected holiday soon after the coming wedding, it all fell into place. There could be only one reason, Creidhe thought, for a decision that would cost Sam dearly in lost fish. The Sea Dove must be almost ready to leave. And she herself would be close to Stensakir at just the right time: perfect. It almost seemed meant to be.

  The hurt she was about to inflict on her family weighed heavily on Creidhe, but her mind was made up. The two girls packed their bags: a good gown each for the wedding, Creidhe’s prized string of amber beads, Brona’s favorite yellow ribbon, two pairs of fine stockings of white wool. Gifts for the happy couple had already been stowed away. There was a box carved with images of whales and seals in pale soapstone, holding a good weight of silver pieces, and a woolen wall-hanging of Creidhe’s own making which showed a magical tree whose limbs held fruit and foliage of many shapes and hues, apple, pear and berry all springing from the same branch. Creidhe was glad the blue and red blanket had not been given away as yet. She was pleased her handiwork was so prized, but it was always sad to see it go, for there was a part of herself in every piece she crafted. Thorvald would think that silly; it was the sort of thing she could not tell him. Her mind wandered ahead to the time when the two of them would be man and wife. Perhaps the blue and red blanket might cover the bed they would share. She imagined waking as the dawn light streamed in across the rich colors of the wool; she felt the warmth of Thorvald’s body against hers, the strength of his arm around her . . .

  “Creidhe?”

  She started; Brona must have said something, and she hadn’t even heard her.

  “Why are you packing that?” Brona asked, staring at the rolled-up linen of the Journey, which Creidhe was tucking into the outer pocket of her bag. “We’ll only be there a few days, and there’ll be feasting and dancing every night. You won’t get any time for sewing. I’m not taking mine.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Creidhe said, glad her sister had not noticed some of the other items she had packed: a sharp knife, a length of strong cord, a bar of soap, a roll of soft cloths in case she had her monthly bleeding before they sailed back home, a pair of shears, a piece of flint, bone needles, colored wool, herbs to counter seasickness. At the bottom of the bag was an old shirt and trousers of Thorvald’s, removed surreptitiously from one of Aunt Margaret’s storage chests, and a warm felt hat with ear flaps. Thorvald’s clothes did not fit her very well; her figure was not of the kind one could call boyish. Still, she suspected this would be a voyage ill-suited to her fine linen gowns and soft woolen tunics. It would be wet and cold until they got there, wherever there was. She must be practical.

  “Creidhe?” queried Brona, staring as her sister fastened the strap around her bundle of belongings.

  “What?”

  “That’s a big bag.”

  “So’s yours.”

  “Not as big as yours.”

  “What is this, a competition?”

  Brona frowned. She was a slight, wide-eyed girl with soft brown hair like Nessa’s, and a sweet look about her that did not quite conceal her sharp mind. “Creidhe, you wouldn’t be planning something, would you? You’ve been acting very strangely this last little while.”

  “Planning? What could I possibly be planning?” Creidhe raised her brows in what she hoped was an expression of innocent surprise.

  Brona put her hands on her hips. “Planning to run off with Sam, that’s what,” she snapped. “You’d better not be doing that, because if you marry Sam I’ll never speak to you again, not even when I’m a wrinkled old crone with no teeth.”

  “There wouldn’t be much point in speaking to me if you had no teeth,” Creidhe retorted as relief swept through her, closely followed by the spark of a very useful idea. Brona had come alarmingly near to the truth, and yet had missed it entirely. “I wouldn’t be able to understand a word. Mind you, I’d probably be deaf as a post myself by then.”

  “Well?” glowered Brona. “Are you?”

  “Of course not!” Creidhe said, seeing that her sister was almost in tears, and marveling that she had not noticed how much of a woman Brona had become, so wrapped up had she been in her own concerns. “Sam’s not exactly the running away kind, Brona. If he wanted something, he’d just ask for it.”

  “So has he?”

  “Has he what?”

  “Asked. Asked you to marry him. Asked Father for your hand. I know he made you a comb. I’ve seen him looking at you.”

  “No, Brona,” Creidhe said, sitting down on the bed and putting an arm around her sister’s slender shoulders. “Sam hasn’t asked, and I don’t expect him to.” This was not the time to tell Brona that it was possible their father might consider kindly, hard-working Sam no more suitable as a prospective son-in-law than he did Thorvald. “But I do have a secret; you?
??ve guessed that right.”

  “What?” Brona’s attention was instantly seized by this; the calculating look on her face showed she was sifting the possibilities, all of which probably had a young man in them. Brona had always been fond of tales of romance.

  “I’ll tell you when we get to Grim and Eira’s. But only if you swear to keep it secret.”

  “Why should I swear?”

  “I’ll tell you that when we get there too.” Told just enough and no more, Creidhe thought, her sister might prove immensely useful both to cover for her own departure and to soften the bad news for Eyvind and Nessa. Judging by the look in Brona’s eyes whenever the name Sam was mentioned, it wouldn’t be very hard to dream up a return favor. “Now let’s take these bags out to the horses and say our goodbyes. I hope it’s not going to rain. Make sure you put your winter boots on.”

  Eyvind had already left, riding away to Hafnarvagr at dawn with a group of his most trusted men. They would collect Ash on the way. Margaret’s taciturn steward was a man valued for his ability to ease the awkwardness of negotiations on tricky subjects by summarizing, clarifying and suggesting useful compromises. Eyvind had once remarked that Ash had acquired this useful skill by living in the same household as Thorvald and Margaret, neither of whom was known for a pliant disposition. If Ash could survive that, the fearsome chieftains of the Caitt should present him with little difficulty.

  Nessa bade her daughters farewell with a grave kiss on either cheek. She spoke quietly, first to Brona, then to Creidhe while Brona was hugging her small sister one last time.

  “Be safe, daughter,” Nessa said softly, her gray eyes gazing with alarming clarity into Creidhe’s own. “This is a branching of the path for you. I’ve seen it. There will be a choice of ways, and some of them trouble me.”

  “You looked in the fire for me?” Creidhe whispered. Her mother had once been a powerful priestess. She’d given that up to wed Eyvind, but the skills she had learned were deep and enduring. She had helped to train Eanna in the arts, and Creidhe knew her mother still used them herself when the need arose. The images in flame, the voices in earth, the song of wind and waves each told a little of the ancestors’ wisdom and the paths ahead. “What have you seen?”

  “A journey. A finding and losing. Death. Love. Hurt. I cannot tell if this is a tale encompassed in a single waxing and waning of the moon, or over a far longer span. There’s a strangeness and terror in it that makes me want to keep you here at home, safe where you belong. But I can’t. The ancestors don’t lie to us.”

  Creidhe shivered. Her mother’s eyes were shadowed now.

  “Have you told Father about this? About what you saw?”

  “No,” Nessa said.

  “I’ll stay home if you want.” Creidhe’s words tumbled out in a rush. “You don’t look well. I did wonder—”

  Nessa smiled, and the sudden chill was gone as quickly as it had come. “I’m fine, daughter, and I’ll do well enough here with Ingigerd to keep me company until you girls come home. Enjoy yourselves; it will do you good to have some dancing and fun. Perhaps, for you, the path branches only as far as the Northern Isles and a certain fine young man. What happens will be your own choice. Now go on, the men are waiting. Is this your bundle? What have you got in here, a loom and a sack of wool?”

  Then small Ingigerd began to cry, and Nessa gathered her up with soothing words, and all at once it was time to go. Creidhe looked back over her shoulder as her mother’s slender figure grew smaller and smaller, standing in the doorway with Ingigerd in her arms and a brave smile on her face not quite concealing the unease in her eyes. A shiver ran through Creidhe. How long would it be before she saw them again? And what, oh what would her mother say when she learned Creidhe had sailed away in a little boat toward the edge of the world?

  In the end it was almost too easy. The first night of the wedding celebrations, Sam came up from the settlement in his best tunic with the red embroidery and joined in the dancing. It was quite a party; Grim’s wife Eira had not stinted on the ale, and Grim himself had slaughtered a couple of pigs to complement the usual spread of fish and baked goods. A woman called Zaira, who was famous for her cakes, had made a splendid confection with bere flour and honey, and nuts and spices brought over on a knarr from Norway. The goods had their origin in markets far east, places so far away they were like something in a dream. Zaira herself had come from just such a distant land. She was a fine dancer and, as her husband Thord was away at the same council as Eyvind, she partnered one man after another with her dark hair flying and her red lips smiling. She was a little flirtatious, Creidhe judged, but there was no harm in it. Scarred, gap-toothed Thord, a man built like a monolith, had kept this lively woman’s heart since he’d been awarded her as some sort of prize, long ago in another land. Pairings did not follow any strict pattern of culture or kinship in the Light Isles. Look at the bride herself: her father had once been a Wolfskin warrior, and her mother, much younger, bore island blood at its purest. Look at Eyvind and Nessa. Creidhe herself was part of two races. A suitor who could show he was strong and good, and able to provide for a family, might gain approval regardless of his origins. It was a little different for Creidhe and her sisters. If one’s sons were to be some kind of kings, one could not wed just any man, though it might seem to some people that Nessa herself had done just that. Eyvind was a Norseman, and had once been a warrior servant of Thor. His people had been the enemy, the invaders who had brought devastation to the islands before valor and magic had put an end to that brutal season of conflict. But Eyvind had been as carefully chosen as any princeling or Jarl. Both Nessa and her old teacher, Rona, had subjected him to trials of their own, trials in which he had proved his mettle not just as warrior but as stalwart protector, strong in courage and goodness, wise and loving. If ever a man were fit to be a father of kings, it was he.

  Creidhe sighed. Today she had extracted Brona’s promise of silence, and in return made a promise of her own. Yes, she had told her sister, if Sam asked you-know-what, Creidhe would say no. In addition, she’d do everything she could to ensure Sam turned his attentions to Brona herself, who was nearly fifteen after all, and would be quite ready for marriage in a year or two. Everyone knew Sam wanted to settle down as soon as he was satisfied the house was cozy enough; he was saving his profits and making it all perfect for just that purpose. Seeing the look on Brona’s face, Creidhe knew her sister’s determination. It was going to be Brona lying under those fine woolen blankets, cooking a hearty meal for her man’s return and providing a bouncing baby boy for the new cradle, and not any other girl on the islands.

  So Creidhe promised, and did not say perhaps a fisherman was not the right father for a king, however pleasant a fellow he might happen to be. And in return Brona gave her word to keep quiet for a certain length of time, long enough so it would be too late for someone to take a boat and set off in pursuit with any likelihood of finding the Sea Dove in open water. After that, Brona would tell Nessa and Eyvind what Creidhe had instructed her to tell, a task that would demand no little courage. Creidhe knew the bargain was unfair. Though Brona wouldn’t believe it, she’d never wanted Sam for herself. She liked him, everyone did, but Creidhe could never put another man before Thorvald. It was as simple as that. A pity Sam himself didn’t see it the same way; he was coming across the room toward her with a purposeful tread now, and there was a certain look in his steady blue eyes that worried her. Brona was down the other end with a group of girls. Brona was watching.

  “Will you dance, Creidhe?” Sam asked politely, sketching a little bow that, from another man, would have looked ridiculous. Sam had a natural dignity and could get away with it. Creidhe took his hand and they moved into the circle. Brona was frowning. This was not part of any bargain.

  The music struck up again, and the circle began to move this way and that, hands clasped, feet light or not-so-light in the steps of a chain dance. There was a lot of noise, folk chattering, whistles and drum in lively di
scourse, boots stamping on the earthen floor.

  “You’re looking well, Creidhe,” Sam yelled above the general din.

  “You, too,” Creidhe shouted back. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  “I like a good party.” Sam grinned as the circle broke into couples and began a weaving in-and-out motion.

  “A late night,” Creidhe observed, “if you have to take the boat out at dawn, or before.”

  “Ah, well,” said Sam, whirling her around in a circle rather faster than the other men were doing with their partners, “I might take a day off, work on the cottage.”

  Creidhe nodded. She needed to ask just the right questions, not to sound too inquisitive. “Will you be coming again tomorrow night? Grim says there will be games; I don’t know what kind.”

  Sam drew her adroitly back into the circle. Now Brona was on his other side, partnered by young Hakon, Grim’s son. Sam winked, and a delicate blush rose to Brona’s cheeks. Sam turned back to Creidhe.

  “Games, is it? Well, I suppose I’ll miss those. Going on a bit of a trip; I may be away a few days, perhaps longer. Up north. No late night for me tomorrow; heading off at sunup next day.”

  “Oh?” Creidhe said lightly, though her heart was thudding with excitement; it had been easy, after all—he’d come right out with the information she needed. Only another day to wait, and then she would creep out while the games were on, and . . .

  The pattern of the dance changed again, and she found herself with a tongue-tied farmhand while, behind her, Sam danced with Brona. A glance over her shoulder showed her the two of them were not talking at all; indeed, her normally voluble sister appeared quite lost for words, though Brona cut a graceful figure as she moved to the music, her large gray eyes fixed on her partner’s with a sweetly solemn expression. Brona’s pale complexion was still touched with pink in the cheeks. At least Sam was looking at her. It was a start. The unfortunate part of it was that Brona did not quite comprehend Sam’s role in the expedition to come; how could Creidhe tell her that she was, indeed, running off with the object of her sister’s affections, though not at all in the way Brona would have understood it? There would be some explaining to do when she got back.