Creidhe had left a blank space before she began again, as if there were a certain part of this tale unknown or undecided. On the right of this empty expanse of linen she had fashioned today’s work. Here was a picture of such joy and loveliness it put a lump in Margaret’s throat to see it. A man and a woman flying, or floating, hand in hand; he dark, lean, fierce in appearance; she of rounded form, blue-eyed, with long hair dancing in a golden cloud around her dazzled features. They seemed to hang in air, the two of them, and about them was a cloud of small things, fine, beautiful things, as if Creidhe would show here all the wonders the world held, if only one would open one’s eyes to them: birds of many kinds, and shining fish, and beetles with glowing carapaces. There was a creature like a dog, or a cat, or maybe a fox: Margaret remembered foxes from Rogaland, and this had that same look, bright-eyed and wary. Flowers and grains and grasses, creeping mosses and fronded ferns. Heart’s-eye vibrant in its purple-pink, and celandine, and buttercups. Here, too, were works of man: a scrap of writing in neat black ink, though Creidhe herself could not write; a garment edged in that same heart’s-eye shade; a pair of little boots, like a child’s. Amidst the circling frieze of wonder, the two gazed at one another as if they were the only man and woman in all the world. It was only later, when the first shock of this stunning tapestry of life had passed, that the viewer noticed another figure there: at the bottom, cross-legged on a flat stone, a little ragged child, singing.
“We’ve all been terribly wrong,” Margaret whispered, her fingers moving to touch the bright hair of the joyous, soaring girl. “She did not find cruelty and abuse on that island, she found love.”
“Found it and lost it,” said Ash. “But what goes here?” He was looking at the blank part, the part Creidhe had chosen not to make.
“I have no idea,” Margaret said. “Either she does not know what happened, or is reluctant to set it down. He died, perhaps. Or sent her away, though that seems unlikely if she has made his image truly here. I suspect Eanna may know a little more, but the wise woman keeps her own counsel, she always has. Most certainly, Creidhe’s sorrow is not for Thorvald; what love she felt for my son has been quite eclipsed by this. There is such power in these images. It is as if the gods spoke through her. I can understand why she held back from doing more; and why, once begun, she could not stop until she finished it.”
“I wonder,” mused Ash. “I wonder if it really is finished?”
After a year in the Lost Isles, Thorvald was learning caution. All the same, the boat was ready, a fair copy of the Sea Dove, and the fellows eager to put her to the test in open seas. There was no doubt they badly needed to establish some contact with realms farther afield, particularly with the Light Isles, now more often known by their Norse name of Orkneyjar, Isles of the Seal. They needed wood for boat-building—he knew Eyvind had an agreement with the Jarl in Freyrsfjord for a supply—and good quality iron. They needed breeding stock to replenish what had been lost in the years of the hunt. They had not much to offer in return, but that would change in the future; Thorvald would make sure of it. Meanwhile, a voyage to those shores, just to open preliminary discussions, was desirable. Once there, it was best if Thorvald started the process by approaching those influential men he knew personally, such as Grim and Thord. And Eyvind. He was not looking forward to seeing Eyvind again, but that challenge must be faced some time, and the sooner the better, Niall told him. Eyvind would be angry, no doubt. But Creidhe had been home a long while, provided the Sea Dove had weathered the voyage, and her father would be reconciled, in part, to Thorvald’s actions. Eyvind might be strong enough to take your head off with a single blow, but that didn’t mean he was actually going to do it. The Wolfskin was a leader; furious he might be that his daughter had run away, but he would still be keen to listen. Creidhe was probably married with a child on the way, joked Ranulf, and would have forgotten Thorvald entirely. Thorvald did not respond to this. He had business with Creidhe as well as with her father, business that took up a great deal more of his thoughts than he wished.
They left in spring. After the crossing to the Northern Isles they sailed southward, and when the Light Isles came in sight they hugged the western coastline all the way to the sheltered bay of Hafnarvagr. There they left the Swiftwing at anchor and procured horses for the ride north to Thorvald’s home. He made it plain to his companions that this journey was to be undertaken in a precise order: first his mother, so she would not hear of his arrival from others; then a message sent to Eyvind and Nessa, a formal message from himself as emissary from the Lost Isles, requesting talks on matters of trade and treaties. Then Creidhe, if her parents had not already wed her to some likely nobleman and sent her off to Caithness or all the way to Rogaland. Creidhe alone and in private. He’d have to beg that from Nessa.
It nagged at him, irritating as a burr next to the skin: the need for her, the memory of her, the knowledge that he had somehow failed her. The fact that she had not forgiven him: he had never asked her what it was that he had done that was so terrible it shattered their old friendship. He hoped time, and home, and the support of her family had changed her mind; that it would be the old Creidhe who stepped through the doorway of her parents’ house, her arms open in welcome, her blue eyes alight for him. There was a girl in the Lost Isles, daughter of one of the leaders from the northern region, who had come to the last two councils with her father, lodging in Brightwater. Thorvald had not exchanged more than a few words with her, but he had seen the way she watched him, coolly, gravely, as if assessing what he was made of. She had smooth dark hair and serene gray eyes, and nothing at all of the giggling, mock-shy demeanor other girls showed in his presence. He liked that. He liked her. But she was not Creidhe, and never could be.
Up to a certain point, all went to plan. Skapti, Ranulf and Orm exclaimed in wonder at the smooth and gentle contours of the land, the sleek, fat sheep, the walled fields of bere and oats shooting lush and green. There was a sharp westerly wind, carrying rain; Ranulf, shivering, commented that the weather, at least, was just like home. Still, it was a fair place; it seemed more than likely, Orm reckoned, that Knut would have settled and found a wife, and have no inclination at all to make the journey back.
So far, so good. They reached Margaret’s longhouse and dismounted in the yard. Thorvald felt unaccountably nervous, as if he were still that impulsive youth who had spat words of black resentment at his mother, then sailed away with no explanation whatever. When Ash appeared in the doorway, his plain features alive with astonishment, Thorvald’s manner was more curt than he had intended.
“Ash, I see you haven’t moved on. Please tell my mother I am here, with three companions. I hope they can all be accommodated.”
He was not sure how Ash was going to respond; it almost seemed the poker-faced housecarl was suppressing a smile of amusement. As it was, Ash did not get the chance to speak, for Margaret appeared beside him in the doorway and, an instant later, was running toward Thorvald in a most un-Margaret like way, and he dismounted and felt her arms come around his neck in an embrace such as she had not offered him since he was a tiny child. He might almost have let tears fall, had he been that kind of man. It was good. It was remarkably good. Beside them, he was aware of Ash welcoming his companions as if he were master of the house, and extending an invitation to stay as long as they wished, since the buildings were spacious and could easily accommodate visitors.
Thorvald had done no more than blink with surprise when his mother drew back, releasing him, and moved to Ash’s side, and the two of them reached out to each other, clasping hands like a pair of courting youngsters.
“We’re married now,” Margaret said, her smile something new and, Thorvald was forced to admit, pleasing to see. “I need to tell you straightaway, so there’s no misunderstanding.”
“Oh.” Thorvald could not think what to say. Once, he would have found the very idea repugnant. His own mother, Lady Margaret, daughter of Thorvald Strong-Arm, wed to a—a serving
man? But he had had time for reflection since last spring. As child and youth, he had scorned Ash’s contributions to his education even as he endured the endless practice sessions in armed and unarmed combat, horsemanship and strategy. He had come to realize, over the season of the hunt, that without Ash’s expert teaching, his patient tutoring in the arts of war, it would have been impossible to win the trust of Hogni and Skapti and the other men. He could never have led them into battle. Ash had not always been a housecarl. If he had stayed with Margaret all those years, it was by choice. Thorvald saw in the calm gray eyes, now turned toward his mother in reassurance, that Ash had stayed because of love. How could her son grudge Margaret a moment’s happiness? He himself had hardly made things easy for her, or for Ash himself.
“Well, this is good news,” he made himself say. “What a surprise. I offer my congratulations to you both.”
“Are you home for long?” Margaret asked, and Thorvald felt overwhelming relief that he did not need to explain that this was a brief visit, that he would never return to pick up the pieces of his old life.
“Perhaps one turning of the moon. I need to speak of trade matters; I will tell you more once we’re settled. Mother, how is . . . ?”
“How is Creidhe? Not very well, Thorvald. Changed terribly. Still struggling to make sense of it all, I think. She told us very little. Sam’s fine. He’s courting Brona, and happy as a pig in clover.”
“Creidhe is not yet wed then?” They were going up the steps now, and he spoke quietly, for his mother’s ears alone. He tried to keep his voice cool and dispassionate.
“No, Thorvald,” said Margaret, and it sounded to him, oddly, as if she felt sorry for him. “She’s very sad; too sad to consider such a prospect. We’ve all been extremely worried.” It was a statement of fact, without censure. Then they were inside, and he had to introduce the others properly and could not ask her more.
They sent a messenger, and while they waited for an answer the household moved with brisk efficiency around them, preparing a fine meal of roasted beef accompanied by a particularly good ale. Skapti, grinning, flirted with the serving women; Orm engaged Ash in a long discussion about sheep, and Ranulf subsided into a comfortable seat by the fire, ale cup in his hand, feet stretched to the flames’ warmth. Thorvald passed on certain messages to his mother and heard her own news. A son born to Eyvind and Nessa; a decision coming soon, as to which ties must be put first, those with Rogaland or with Caithness; a great council at Freyrsfjord in the summer, which Eyvind would attend, though he was reluctant to part with small Eirik for long: what if the child learned to walk, he had protested, and he was not there to see it?
A messenger from Eyvind’s household came promptly; he must have been despatched straight after the other arrived. They were to ride on in the morning. Eyvind could not summon all the landholders in less than three days, but he wished to see Thorvald alone, tomorrow. Nessa and Eyvind were glad Thorvald was home safely and sent their regards to Margaret and Ash.
Only Skapti went with him. Ranulf had a monstrous headache and could not leave his bed, and Ash wanted to show Orm his two best rams, and talk to him about wool. Thorvald was somewhat relieved; today’s meeting would not be easy. Perhaps only Skapti had an idea what it meant to him.
It was not such a long ride. The rain was gone; in time they came up over a rise and there before them, across a patchwork of neat, walled fields, were a fine heather-thatched longhouse and outbuildings set around a courtyard where folk moved about purposefully, some leading horses, some with dogs at heel. Thorvald did not see anyone he knew among them. The two men rode down the hillside. Thorvald rehearsed in his mind what he would say to Eyvind. His belly churned with trepidation, as if he were no leader of men but a foolish youth caught out in some piece of mischief.
“Thorvald?” Skapti said quietly. He was pointing down toward the stone dyke that circled the outermost field, where two small figures could now be seen, baskets in hand, stooping to gather herbs that grew in the damp by a little stream. Two figures; no, three, for one girl carried an infant on her back in a sling, an infant with the same wheaten-fair hair as her own. Thorvald’s heart seemed to halt in its tracks a moment, then beat again. Without a word he turned his horse, and Skapti followed. A little later, both girls stood upright, watching them come.
The men rode up to the wall and dismounted. There was a charged silence; Thorvald and Skapti were both staring at Creidhe, a Creidhe they scarcely recognized, for she was so thin and pale she looked like a ghost. Whatever had ailed her, those last days in the Lost Isles, had clearly not been cured now she was home. Her eyes were shadowed, her lips set tight. The sight of the rosy, cheerful Brona standing by her sister’s side only made Creidhe’s woeful state the more shocking.
Brona found her voice. “Welcome home, Thorvald. It’s good to see you. And you—?”
“Skapti,” the big man mumbled, ducking his head in a kind of bow. “You’ll be Creidhe’s sister.”
“Yes, I’m Brona. Betrothed to Sam. I’ve heard lots about you. Didn’t you once flatten Thorvald in a fight? Or maybe that was your brother. Sam tells me he was a great warrior too.” Brona glanced at her sister, then at Thorvald. “Creidhe, I’m going to take my basket back to the house, I’m sure we’ve picked enough. I’ll show Skapti where the stables are and introduce him to Mother.”
Creidhe was silent, staring out toward the sea, away from Thorvald.
“Shall I take Eirik?” Brona offered.
“It’s all right,” Creidhe said, not turning. “He’s asleep. I’ll bring him up soon.” And indeed, the infant slept deeply and peacefully on his sister’s back, his small, blond head drooping against her neck, one thumb plugged firmly into his mouth. His eyelids were soft with dreams.
Brona headed off briskly toward the longhouse. Skapti followed, leading the two horses. Whether it was what Eyvind would have wanted or no, Creidhe and Thorvald were left alone.
Thorvald sat on the wall. She stood by him, looking away.
“A fine boy,” he commented, glancing at the infant. “Your parents must be pleased.”
She said nothing. The silence drew out.
“You look terrible,” Thorvald said eventually. “Sick. Sad. I don’t know what to say to you.” It was the truth; there was no point in disguising it.
“You need not say anything, Thorvald.” Creidhe’s voice was flat.
He tried a new tack. “My father is well. So is Brother Breccan. He has a small following now among the people of Brightwater. He has great hopes of baptising three or four by next Yule. Both wished to be remembered to you.”
Creidhe acknowledged this with a nod. It was better than nothing.
“So Sam and Brona are to be married,” he said. “Your father agreed to that? I’m surprised. Sam and I always believed Eyvind would accept no less than Jarls for you and your sisters. I’m happy for Sam; he’s a good man, a good friend. I always thought it was you he preferred.”
She looked at him then, eyes wide, expression wary. “Strange, isn’t it, how we think we know what we want,” she said. “And how wrong we can be about it. For a long time I thought you were the only man in the world. If I’d seen another girl so much as look at you, I would have wanted to kill her. Then, for a little, I despised you. Now I just wish you would go away, and stay away.”
For a while Thorvald could not speak. Her words had hurt him more than he could have imagined possible. Creidhe gazed out westward, features devoid of expression.
“You’ve made it quite clear what you think of me,” he managed eventually, “and I suppose I must accept that, though I had hoped—I had entertained a slight hope that things might be different between us, that they might be as they were before—”
“How was that, Thorvald? You getting on with your life and me following you, invisible until you decided you needed me for a little comfort? Was that what you expected?” She had turned back toward him now; the anger in her eyes was at least better than that terrify
ing, blank indifference. “I pity any girl who marries you. She’ll always come second, or perhaps third. After yourself and whatever quest currently absorbs you.”
Thorvald swallowed. “This is not like you, Creidhe.” He knew the words were feeble.
“It is like me. I am simply not as I was. If you don’t care for the way I am now, look to your own actions for the reason. It doesn’t matter anyway. After today we need never see each other again.”
“Creidhe!” The word burst out, vibrant with feeling; he could not hold it back. “Don’t say that!”
“I have said it.”
“At least tell me—at least give me the chance—”
“Tell you what?” Her voice was cold and tight.
“What I’m supposed to have done that’s so terrible, what it is I can never be forgiven for. I had hoped for more than friendship from you. I was deluding myself to think that possible, obviously. But to lose even your friendship, that would be like—like—” He faltered to a stop, alarmed to hear such words spilling from his lips, and he a seasoned leader of men.