Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

  “Heard you grumbling often enough about how you couldn’t wait to get home,” put in the knarr’s captain. “Cursing the idle days—a waste of time, I think you said once.”

  “Maybe I was bored. That doesn’t make me a murderer,” Eyvind said. “Besides, I slept by my brother and the others that night. I could not have carried out the deed.”

  “He’s right.” Heads turned; Erlend had stepped forward at the bottom of the hall. His blunt features were tight with unease. “Holgar and I lay close to Eyvind that night in the mist. It was cold enough to freeze your bollocks off. None of us slept longer than a snatch at a time. Eyvind couldn’t have gone away without our knowing it. It wasn’t possible.”

  “That’s true.” Holgar came out to stand beside his fellow Wolfskin; the two of them together made an impressive sight with their great height, their broad, fur-cloaked shoulders, and their fierce eyes. “And he couldn’t have done it next day either, nobody went out searching alone. Eyvind had one of Engus’s men with him all morning, until he went off with Somerled. They called me when they found the body. Eyvind didn’t have the demeanor of a man who’d just murdered his chieftain.”

  “And I did?” queried Somerled very quietly. A little muscle in his cheek had begun to twitch, something Eyvind had witnessed before from time to time. At long last, perhaps Somerled was worried.

  “No, my lord,” Holgar said. “If I’d been asked, I’d have said neither of you could have done it. Eyvind was distressed, and you were…beside yourself with grief, it seemed to me, almost as if you’d have leaped off the cliff yourself. That was a terrible day.”

  “A black day,” put in Erlend. “My lords, I cannot condone what Eyvind did at the Whaleback, for it runs contrary to a warrior’s code to turn against his own comrades, to defy his own leader. In mitigation, I’m obliged to say it was quite clear to the three of us that Eyvind didn’t intend to kill us, nor to inflict any serious injury. If he’d wanted to do that, he would have done it, war fetter or no. The man’s unparalleled in close combat. We knew he sought only to delay the attack. We didn’t understand why. Perhaps the revelations of tonight are the key to that. I can only tell you, Eyvind is well known to all of us, and all of us will say, Eyvind would never have slain Ulf. Not only had he no reason to do so, the manner of Ulf’s death rules him out as a suspect. Eyvind’s been an expert hunter since he was a boy, we all know that. A hunter kills efficiently, with compassion. With respect for the life he takes.”

  “Theories, theories,” grumbled Harald Silvertongue, “no case was ever proven on speculations such as these. What about some hard facts? Say we accept the premise that Eyvind could not have done the deed that night. We must, of course, bear in mind that you are the accused man’s close comrades, bound by your oath to Thor, and that loyalty may play a greater part in your testimony than truth. However, say we accept what you tell us about that night. There is still the next day. You mentioned that no man went off alone in the morning. You say Eyvind had one of the islanders with him. In view of the king’s talk of treachery, of the poison these folk put in the Wolfskin’s mind, the presence of one of Engus’s men by his side scarcely constitutes an alibi.”

  “It’s the opposite,” put in the knarr’s captain suddenly. “That just made it easier to do the deed. Ulf was wandering as his brother was; they ambushed him, they set it up. Easy. There had to have been accomplices on the island to bring the net and the ropes. It could only have been done thus.”

  Somerled nodded gravely. “Indeed. A shocking affair. Of course, nothing’s proven. It’s my word against Eyvind’s. I would only ask you to bear in mind that I have been as open as I could, allowing Eyvind full rein to speak his mind although his account of himself was rambling and irrelevant. I produced the evidence he wanted, evidence he thought to use to incriminate me. I had no reason to do so, I could have concealed the fact that this buckle was in my possession. I’ve told you honestly that I would have pardoned the man’s transgression had he been prepared to admit the islanders corrupted and used him. Why would I lay myself open thus if I were guilty of the heinous crime Eyvind seeks to pin on me? Still, it’s not that particular offense we’re examining here tonight. We risk forgetting the nature of the original charges if we allow this thread of argument to continue.”

  Nobody commented. Harald was nodding sagely, even as his fingers played restlessly with the buckle. Olaf was staring down at his linked hands as if they were of deep interest to him. Others shuffled restlessly.

  “You heard what Eyvind said.” The voice was Grim’s, though Eyvind could not see him, for he was lost in the press of men by the west door. “Did it sound as if he was lying? The fellow’s never told a lie in his life, he wouldn’t know how. He’s confessed to the charges against him, and he’s given his reasons for doing what he did. Why would he let himself be brought back here, except to tell the truth?”

  “We’re all tired,” said Somerled, rising to his feet. “Tired and distressed. You men can sit down.” His eyes passed over the tall figures of Erlend and Holgar; there was a chill in his gaze that made Eyvind shudder. To speak out as his fellow Wolfskins had done was to place one’s whole future at risk. He did, indeed, have friends here, brave friends.

  “This part of the proceedings is closed,” Somerled continued. “We’ll discuss the evidence in private, and return with a verdict. Meanwhile, I want you all to enjoy some ale and a bite to eat; you’ve been patient. Let’s finish this and allow Eyvind here to return to his cell and rest those shaky legs. Unless anyone else has a mind to jump up and say their little piece in his defense.”

  Surely, Eyvind thought, the edge in the king’s voice and the glint in his eye must be enough to deter the most determined of advocates. This was over. Harald Silvertongue began to rise, somewhat creakily, for he was getting on in years and the cold weather hurt his joints. The knarr’s captain was already up and talking with some animation to those of his crew who stood nearby.

  “I’d like to speak in Eyvind’s defense, if I may.” It was a mild, inoffensive voice, which nonetheless carried right down the length of the hall, over the hubbub of chatter.

  “Quiet!” barked Olaf Sveinsson, and silence fell. In the hush, the man who had spoken moved on his sandalled feet to the center of the hall, facing the table. He gave Eyvind a courteous nod. The curiously tonsured head was held high, the shoulders square; the little man in the threadbare brown robe made a strangely dignified figure amidst this company of tall warriors and richly dressed courtiers. There was a livid bruise on his left cheek and a deep, oozing cut over his eye.

  “I have some words to add to the case, before you conclude,” Brother Tadhg said. “I came in late, of course. It’s quite a way from Hafnarvagr, and my journey was interrupted. But I think I follow the thrust of your arguments. May I speak?”

  Margaret dismissed the two guards with a few crisp words, then reached out a hand to guide Nessa up the steps and into the cottage. A savory smell wafted out the door; supper was cooking. Nessa’s mouth watered.

  “Here,” Margaret was saying, “let me take that,” and her hand came out toward the bag Nessa held.

  “No!” Nessa started in alarm, her grip tightening instinctively. Within its covering, the bone harp shivered and spoke. I am…I am…

  Margaret froze in the doorway, her hands at her throat, her face blanching to a sickly white. “What is that?” she breathed.

  Nessa swallowed. “I’ll explain,” she managed. The ancestors aid her, what she bore was made with the very bone and sinew of this girl’s husband; it was his body she had opened to find the makings of her charm. Explain? How could she even begin? “Let me come in first; this is not a matter we can speak of out here. I’m cold and hungry, and I badly need your help.”

  Perhaps something in her eyes spoke to the young widow; perhaps Margaret remembered a time not so long ago when she herself had asked for aid.

  “Come, then. Warm yourself by the fire and share our supper. I am not s
o neglectful of my duty that I would leave you out in the dark. Come in.”

  The cottage was cozy; a fire burned on the central hearth, and lamps stood at either end of the room. Shelf beds were well furnished with rugs and linen, and cups and bowls stood on a stone slab. The two dogs were already making themselves at home, Guard lapping thirstily from a bowl of water, Shadow sitting quietly next to a woman who was crouched by the fire, stirring the soup pot. Nessa blinked. Surely she was seeing things; hunger and exhaustion must have addled her wits. Yet the smell was unique; there was nothing in the world as good as Rona’s onion broth.

  “As you see,” Margaret said awkwardly, her eyes sharp on the dark, swathed form of the harp, “you are among friends here.”

  Nessa came close to dropping the instrument then, overcome by a sudden flood of feelings, hope and sorrow and fear, grief and joy and terrible anxiety. Half-blinded by hot tears, she set harp and wolfskin carefully on the floor and ran to throw her arms around her old friend and mentor.

  “Rona! By all the powers! I thought you were dead, Eyvind said you went off all by yourself—how is it you are here, with her? Don’t you know what happened? They’re all dead, all of them, Engus and Kinart and all the men who stood up with them, they cut off their heads and left them lying, and they took the women from the Whaleback, and now Eyvind is a prisoner, and Somerled—”

  “Hush,” Rona said, patting Nessa’s shoulder, “hush now, little one. I’m very well, as you see. This girl’s been nothing but kind to me, though she’s weary and sick and full of sadness, and I can’t understand a word she says. Hush your weeping, now. I know what happened at the Whaleback. That’s a morning will never be forgotten. A terrible sorrow; a great wrong. Knowing such evils are to come makes bearing them no easier. You must sit down, Nessa. Here. And get this soup into you, girl. There’s a task to be done, and your mind won’t be fit for it if you neglect to nourish your body. There, now. Dry your tears.”

  “I have—I made—”

  “Shh. Drink the soup first. Then tell us.” Rona’s deep eyes were calm, watching as Nessa ate broth and bread, as Guard feasted on crusts and scraps of mutton bone. Margaret did not eat. She stood silent by the fire, waiting.

  “How can I tell her?” Nessa whispered when the meal was over. “What I carry here is…it is the final witness to her husband’s murder, the only voice that cannot be denied. You remember what I was told. Find the truth in ash and bone. Already this harp speaks, though the last string is not yet wound tight. How can I say it? She’ll think me no better than grave-robbing carrion.”

  Rona nodded. “Tell her the truth. What else can you do?”

  “You must explain yourself now,” Margaret said. “Speak in this language so that I can understand. There’s to be no more talk in the island tongue. I must be careful here; how do I know I can trust you? Tell me why you are on this land, and where you are going. Tell me how you escaped the…tell me how you got away from the Whaleback, that morning. Show me what you carry in this bag. And be quick about it. I have many armed men here, and I am under no obligation to help you.”

  “I understand. Still, we share a bond as women, the three of us, and I see honesty in your face, as I did the last time we met,” Nessa said. What was this girl doing here, all by herself among guards in an isolated cottage? Wasn’t she Somerled’s sister-in-law? Why wasn’t she at his court? “I helped you then, or tried to. Did you make use of the charm I gave you?”

  Margaret’s lips tightened. Nessa noticed how thin she had grown, thin and worn, the skin of the cheeks pale and dry, the eyes shadowed. Her hands were clenched together, her shoulders tense.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Margaret snapped. “That’s past now. Tell me. Give me answers, and quickly.”

  Nessa’s heart was pounding. There was no right way to say this. “Before I do that, I would thank you for giving Rona refuge here. I don’t know how that came about, but it is no longer safe for my folk to wander abroad, and I recognize that your kindness has probably saved her life.” She turned to Rona. “I said thank you,” she told the wise woman in her own tongue. “For putting up with you, that is. You’re a stubborn old woman, and too brave for your own good.”

  “It was no trouble,” Margaret said gravely. “Your friend makes undemanding company, and she’s earned her keep cooking for the men, though I could do without her herbal teas. Now go on. I need your account of yourself. They say you are King Engus’s close kin. I did not know that the day I came to your dwelling. You must have thought me somewhat ill-mannered.”

  Nessa managed a smile. “No, my lady. I thought you a little misguided, but courageous and open. You’ve given me no cause to change my mind, even though your people have cut down my own with heedless savagery. I need your help tonight. I must make my way to Somerled’s hall. I must be there by dawn. I need a horse, and I need you to let me pass unhindered.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened. “That, surely, would be the height of folly,” she said. “If you are indeed Engus’s kin, you should go anywhere but there. If Somerled knew you lived, he would see you only as an enemy and a threat to his authority. You should leave the islands forever. To travel to the settlement spells only death or captivity for you. Why would you do it? You do not seem a foolish girl.”

  “I can explain. But…this will be very shocking to you; it will distress you greatly.”

  “I can’t consider letting you go unless you tell me what you’re doing,” Margaret said gravely. “My husband was chieftain here. I have a certain responsibility.”

  Nessa could not hold back a flare of sudden anger. “Forgive me,” she said, “but is not that responsibility somewhat shadowed now that your husband’s men have hacked down my kinsmen and taken my kinswomen captive? You should hang your head in shame that our good king was burned in his hall, and the ancient seat of the Folk made into a bloody killing field, only because your husband’s people chose to set foot on these islands. This place has been our home since the time before memory. You tell me to leave forever. It is I who should bid you leave, I think. Your responsibility should have been to stop those acts of slaughter. It is too late now.”

  Margaret stood very still. Her lips were a thin line. The restless hands clutched and twisted together.

  “If it is too late,” she said in a whisper, “then why are you here?”

  “Ah,” said Nessa. “Will you listen? Will you listen until I am finished?”

  Margaret gave a tight nod.

  So Nessa told the tale: how they had found Eyvind and sheltered him, how she had spoken to him about Ulf’s murder, and how the Wolfskin had confirmed what the Folk already knew in their hearts for truth. Somerled had killed his own brother because he wanted what Ulf had: land, power, chieftainship. She did not say what trembled on the tip of her tongue: that perhaps Somerled wanted Ulf’s wife as well. That part of it was Margaret’s; the truth of what was between those two would probably never be told. Nessa described Eyvind’s stand against the men who would have captured Rona; she told how he had gone to confront Somerled, and escaped, and how he had given himself up so that Nessa might go free. There was a part of the tale she left out; it was just as well, she thought, that Rona could not follow the details of this narrative, for the wise woman was an acute interpreter of the unspoken. And Nessa could barely utter her warrior’s name without trembling, without feeling such conflict inside her that she was hard-pressed to keep her mind on what must be done. She had made a promise, a deep and solemn one. Just how she would keep it was a matter for later, once the task was complete.

  Margaret listened in silence. At one point she bowed her head; later she sat down and put her hands over her face. It was not so much a reaction of shock, more the response of one who sees that her worst imaginings are indeed true.

  The hardest part was still to come. “I need to ask you,” Nessa said carefully, “if, in the old tales of your people, the stories of Thor and—and Odin, and your ancestors, there are any that touch on—�
� She glanced helplessly at Rona, but Rona only shrugged, unable to comprehend the foreign words, though her eyes showed she had an idea of what it was that Nessa wrestled with. “Among our tales, there is one about a princess drowned by her sister,” Nessa went on, her voice shaking. “Her body floats downstream and a miller finds it. He makes a—he makes a harp from her bones and hair and carries it to the king’s court, and there it plays a terrible tune, a song that relates the tale of the wrong that was done.” She was unable to look Margaret in the eyes. “Have you any such stories? Do the people from the snow lands know of the instrument of bone, which speaks only truth? The undeniable witness?”

  Margaret said not a word. She rose and took two steps forward, and with trembling fingers she reached to draw back the wrapping, revealing the graceful, small harp gleaming in the firelight, the neat pegs of finger bone, the twists of sea wrack that bound the joints, the dark, silent strings. The harp quivered of itself. Ulf… it hummed low. Ulf…chieftain…

  Margaret’s face was gray, her eyes dark pools of horror. She stepped back, made a choking noise, and fled out the back door of the cottage. Sounds of painful retching could be heard, punctuated by strangled gasps for air. Nessa’s heart was pounding; she made to go after the other girl.

  “No,” said Rona. “Leave her be. There’s nothing ails her that time and a bit of hard thinking won’t cure, poor lass. Now tell me. I see what you’ve made, and I know what it’s for. I’m impressed. You summoned the Seal Tribe? That was risky. What did they want in return?”

  “They didn’t ask me for anything,” Nessa said, shivering. “Not yet, anyway. The Hidden Tribe helped me, too. All played a part.”

  “It’s as well the old ones are stirring.” The old woman’s voice was grave. “There aren’t many of us left. That day on the Whaleback, the flower of our people was plucked before its time. Say you get to court with this harp, and it tells its tale, and people believe it. What then? The Folk are weakened almost beyond saving, and these Norsemen have weaponry and numbers. Maybe you persuade them this cruel chieftain is not the best leader they have, but what do you see them doing about it? They’ll set up another in his place and start the whole thing again.”