He smiled. “And yet I want you to go, although I’ll miss that roast mutton terribly.”
“I have to think about it,” Creidhe said, swallowing hard. It was as good as an edict, what they had said and what they had so carefully not said. We do not think Thorvald a suitable husband for you. She almost wished they were not so sweet and tactful, the two of them, so she could scream and yell and stamp her foot at them. Inside her head was a jumble of feelings clamoring to be released, and there was no way to let them go. Creidhe rolled up her embroidery and rose to her feet.
“Goodnight, Father. Sweet dreams, Mother.”
“Creidhe—” Nessa began. But Creidhe had turned her back, heading for bed. It was only when she had snuffed out the lamp and wriggled under the covers next to the sleeping Brona that she let her tears fall. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. The ancestors played tricks sometimes, and turned things all awry. If she’d been at all interested in Gartnait from the Northern Isles, this would have been simple, since the fellow seemed to view her as a catalog of feminine virtues without so much as meeting her once in the flesh. Gartnait was probably exactly as her father had said, a fine specimen of young manhood and utterly suitable to father a future king. Why did she have to love the one man in the world who hardly seemed to see her on some days, and on others treated her as if she were no different from a boy? It just wasn’t fair.
“Creidhe?” Brona’s voice was muffled by layers of blankets. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” sniffed Creidhe, moving closer to the warmth of her sister’s body. It might be spring, but the air was bitterly cold, and even in this well-made house, little drafts stirred in corners. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
It was like a curse, a darkness that would hang over him for the rest of his life, shadowing every step he took. It was one thing to have a heroic dead father whom one had never met, a man who was remembered, still, as leader of the first bold voyage from Norway to the Light Isles. It was quite another to discover your father was a crazed murderer, a tyrant who had unleashed a tide of blood and terror on the islands. Thorvald did not want to acknowledge, even to himself, what that seemed to mean. Striding along the track toward Stensakir with a violent wind whipping his hair out behind him and tugging at his cloak with insistent, cold fingers, he shrank from the terrible truth that had hit him like a hammer blow after the first numbing shock of his mother’s news. But he could not shut it out. This made sense of everything. His legacy was not Ulf’s but Somerled’s, not light but darkness, not order and sanity but discord and chaos. This was the missing piece of a puzzle. It told him why he had always felt outside the world of other people, why he could not smile and clasp hands readily, why he turned on those who tried to befriend him, despite himself. It gave the reason why, some days, he felt as if he carried his own gray cloud of misery with him, which nobody else could see. No wonder he’d never fitted in. No wonder he’d never felt a part of things. No wonder he had so few true friends.
Thorvald shivered. As his father’s son, by rights he did not deserve friends, most certainly not loyal ones like Creidhe, who could always be relied upon to listen and wait by him even when his dark mood made him snap and snarl like a feral cur. Creidhe would be better off staying right away from him. Who knew when this bad blood would surface? It was not safe for any man to befriend him, nor any woman, least of all a guileless girl like Creidhe with her cozy domestic pursuits. She was a child, and knew nothing of the world. She was innocent of such destructive forces as those he bore hidden inside him. From now on nobody would be safe. Unless . . . unless, against all evidence, what they told of Somerled was somehow wrong. If the tale had been twisted and changed, as is the pattern of stories over so many years, if that were so then maybe there was a glimmer of hope. If his mother said Somerled had killed Ulf, that fact must stand. But perhaps there was a reason for it, a justification. Why had Somerled acted as he did? And what had become of the man? He’d been cast out to sea from the west coast, near the Whaleback. Trackless ocean was all that lay before him then, until he reached the rim of the world. What a punishment that was, a penalty grand and terrible enough to belong to an ancient saga, like a burden imposed by a vengeful god or thwarted monarch. That it was Eyvind who had determined it was unbelievable. Creidhe’s father was widely respected in the islands, not just as husband of a royal princess of the Folk, but also as a mainstay of the group of landholders who assembled twice yearly at the Thing to maintain order and administer justice. Eyvind was known as scrupulously honest and absolutely fair, a model of strength and honor. But he was most certainly not a man of devious imagination or cunning irony. To devise such a method of exile seemed to Thorvald quite out of character. Maybe there were parts of the story Margaret hadn’t told him.
Asking Eyvind was just not possible. Pride forbade it. He couldn’t talk to his mother. The thought of what she had done disgusted him. If she had such a model husband as Ulf, why lie with some misfit wretch of a brother-killer? And how could she not tell her own son, all these years? It was this that hurt Thorvald most. Up till now, when he was angry or upset, he had relied on Margaret’s grave advice, her calm words to soothe him. When he could see his mother was lonely or out of sorts he had done his best to divert her with a game or a walk or a tale of what he’d been doing. It had been thus ever since he could remember: mostly just the two of them, unless you counted Ash hovering silently somewhere in the background. Why his mother kept Ash, Thorvald couldn’t comprehend. It was quite clear to him the fellow wanted a bit more than the relationship of trusted servant to mistress of the household, and that Margaret was not in the least interested. A man who would hang around like a stray dog for years and years, waiting for table scraps that never came his way, seemed to Thorvald a lost cause. But silent, poker-faced Ash stayed while other servants came and went. All the same, they were a small family of two, Thorvald and Margaret, neither much given to open displays of affection, yet trusting and depending on each other. Until now. That closeness was destroyed forever now. She might as well have thrust a blade through his heart, Thorvald thought, kicking savagely at a stone that lay on the track in his way. She might as well have cast him out like his father, away from the paths of right-thinking men and women, so he could be conveniently forgotten. How could he ever forgive her for this?
It was late afternoon when he came down the hill past the small settlement at Stensakir, where smoke from cottage fires was whipped sideways by the wind, and the heather thatch shivered, straining at its bindings. Thorvald could see the Sea Dove making a steady course back to shore, the red-striped sail taut before the gale. His timing was perfect. He must talk to Sam; must tell him as much as he needed to know. He’d have preferred to keep his news to himself, but this was necessary. Thorvald needed a boat. Sam had one. He just hoped Sam would be able to keep his mouth shut.
It would be a while before his friend reached the jetty, doubtless with a good catch from the treacherous waters between this northeastern shore of Hrossey and the rising ground of Hrolfsey, which the old folk called Queen’s Isle. It was most certainly not the safest place to fish, but Sam was an expert sailor and an astute judge of currents and tides. He had prospered and built his own cottage in Stensakir; he talked of marrying and starting a family. Thorvald thought that ridiculous, and had told his friend so. Being an equable sort of fellow, Sam had only smiled.
Not only was this waterway a perilous fishing ground, it also housed the strangest of dwelling places. On the level ground of Holy Island, situated halfway between the larger isles, lived a community of Christian hermits. The brothers had traveled across the ocean from a land far to the southwest, in tiny, frail shells of boats. This small isle with its weight of lore had been their chosen home. Folk had shunned the place for generations; it was known to be a dwelling place of the Seal Tribe, a dangerous people at home both in water and on land, the women of unearthly beauty, the men so fearsome they could scare a person to death with a single glance o
f their dark green eyes. Shielded by the courage of their faith—or by blind ignorance, depending on how you looked at it—the brothers had settled on Holy Island nonetheless, and now lived in a well-ordered though simple fashion, running a few sheep, a goat or two, some chickens. As far as anyone knew, the Seal Tribe had never bothered them, though it was said that the sea folk were immensely patient and had long memories. Say someone offended them, or received a favor. Generations might pass and all seem forgotten, and then suddenly there they’d be, demanding vengeance or asking for payment. Because of that, there were very few visitors to Holy Island, and those who made the trip always carried a piece of iron with them for protection. If you forgot this essential item, there was no saying you’d ever get home safely. Sam was one of the few who put in regularly to the brothers’ small jetty, with a message or a gift of bread or fresh fish. Sam was a big fellow and not easily frightened.
Thorvald waited on the shore, watching as the Sea Dove bobbed closer. This was a superior kind of craft, a vessel such as a young fisherman like Sam might dream of all his life and never hope to own. Sam had built her for a man called Olaf Egilsson, who had wealth enough to buy in the fine oak from Rogaland. The Sea Dove was perfect in every detail, from her eye-sweet lines to the sturdy strength of her keel. The lower strakes were of oak, the sheer strake of lighter pine. She was a haaf-boat, an ocean-going craft, though small. The two pairs of oars she carried were seldom employed, for she went far better under sail, with one man stationed near the stern to handle the steering oar, which was mounted on the starboard side, the other adjusting the trim as required. Sometimes they rowed in and out from the jetty; that was all. Sam had made the sail himself, not trusting any other man in Hrossey with such a critical piece of craftsmanship. On the day she was finished, Olaf Egilsson had taken sick with an ague, and within seven nights he was dead, but not before he told every one of his kin that nobody was getting their hands on his boat but the man who had made her with such love. If he were to die, the Sea Dove must be Sam’s, for only Sam would use her as she deserved.
The haaf-boat was as well maintained as any vessel in the islands; her master had a reputation for thoroughness, for all he was barely twenty years of age. The boards that formed the small decks fore and aft had been replaced last autumn when squalls drove a handy supply of pine trunks up on the beach at Skaill. The mast could be lowered to rest on a low, crutch-like frame, though Sam never undertook this maneuver at sea; the mast remained in place save when the Sea Dove was hauled up for work in winter. Every year Sam’s pride and joy was recaulked, her hull scraped clean, her thwarts rubbed down with coarse sand then oiled against the saltwater. In the right conditions the boat could be handled comfortably by two, at least in the coastal waters around Hrossey, which were not without their challenges. All in all, Thorvald thought the Sea Dove seemed up to a longer voyage. He hoped very much that his friend would agree.
Sam had a passenger today. The gray-haired priest stepped out neatly onto the jetty while Sam and the deckhand tied up the boat and began to unload their catch in a seamless sequence of well-practiced moves. Of all the brothers, it was Tadhg who was best known in the islands, for it was his practice to travel widely, telling his tales of the Christian faith. Tadhg was an old friend of both Eyvind and Nessa. A long time ago he had known Nessa’s uncle, the last great king of the Light Isles. His appearance now was remarkably convenient; Thorvald must make the most of the opportunity it offered.
“Go on up to the house, Thorvald!” Sam yelled as he hefted a crate of fish onto his shoulder. “Take Brother Tadhg with you, and stir up the fire for me. I’ll be done here soon.”
Thorvald made his way up to the settlement and let himself into Sam’s neat cottage, main room open and light with a shuttered window to the east so you could read the moods of the sea, back room housing sleeping platforms and a separate small hearth, and a snug little shelter beyond for stores of various kinds. Today there appeared to be a broody hen in there, grumbling to herself in a cozy basket of straw. Brother Tadhg came in behind Thorvald, the skirts of his brown robe blown crazily about him by the fierce wind. He shut the door with some difficulty. Thorvald raked out the embers of the fire, fetched turf, set a kettle to heat. Because there was limited time, he decided to dispense with the niceties.
“I want to ask you something.”
“Go ahead,” said Tadhg, seating himself by the fledgling fire and reaching down to warm his hands.
“I found out about Somerled. That he was my father. My mother told me. You must have known him back then. I want you to tell me what sort of man he was. I want to find out why he killed his brother. And . . .”
“And what, Thorvald?” The brother did not sound at all perturbed by this volley of difficult questions.
The fire was starting to pick up now. Thorvald put on more turf. “And I want you to tell me where you think he would have gone, when Eyvind set him adrift. On Holy Island you’ve got men who sailed here from far away, men who must know the pattern of the currents out there in the western ocean, and where the islands and skerries lie. Tell me what you think. Could he have survived?”
Tadhg did not reply immediately. It looked as if he were rehearsing the words in his head, choosing each one with care.
“Tell me!” Thorvald demanded. “Don’t bother to couch it in comforting terms. If you think he would have died, just say so. If you think he was evil and depraved, tell me straight out. My mother held back the truth for eighteen years. I’ve no patience for falsehoods nor for polite half-truths. Whatever you have to say, it can be no worse than finding out I’ve lived a lie my whole life.”
“You’re a young man, Thorvald,” Tadhg observed, regarding him gravely. “You have many years ahead of you. It is those years that matter, not the ones that are past. What your father was, and where he went, makes no real difference. It’s your own life you are living, not Somerled’s.”
“Spare me your philosophy!” Thorvald snapped. “Give me facts. Why did my father kill Ulf? Is it true that he single-handedly wiped out most of the islanders before Eyvind stopped him?”
“You wish me to answer before your friend arrives home? These are big questions, Thorvald.”
“Please.” It took some effort to get this word out; still, he saw understanding in the priest’s gray eyes, and heard compassion in his voice. It was expedient to take a deep breath and attempt calm if he were to have a chance of getting the answers he needed.
“Only Somerled could tell you why he killed his brother,” Tadhg said. “There seemed obvious reasons: the lust for power, jealousy, frustration that there was no real role for him here. His feelings for your mother, perhaps. There were older reasons, which he brought with him from Rogaland, matters of the distant past. You’d need to ask Eyvind about those.”
“Eyvind? Why?”
“The two of them were close friends: blood brothers. It was in a sense of responsibility for Somerled’s ill deeds that Eyvind banished him. He could have killed him. Instead he chose a way that gave his friend a second chance. It was a wise and generous decision.”
“A second chance! A chance to sail over the edge of the world and perish.”
“That is one possibility,” agreed Tadhg evenly.
“You think there are others? Tell me!”
“I will, Thorvald. One answer at a time. Somerled brought a weight of trouble with him when he came here with his brother’s expedition. Ulf was a friend of mine; we spoke much during his all too brief season as chieftain here. For all Somerled was his own brother, Ulf feared him greatly. It was not on his invitation that Somerled came here, but at the behest of the Jarl back home. Ulf was under pressure to agree, since the Jarl had financed his venture. The result was catastrophic. Somerled did terrible things as leader here. He was a clever man, subtle, ingenious. He was also completely ruthless. It seemed to me he had no awareness at all of the suffering of others; it was as if some essential part of a man’s understanding were closed to him, a
nd always had been. It is troubling to consider that, had it not been for Eyvind’s intervention, and Nessa’s, he would have remained king here, and none of the island folk would have survived. Your father believed the Norse people to be superior in every way, and far better fitted to rule. He saw no place here for folk he believed to be primitive, weak and ineffectual. He’d have wiped them out entirely. Somerled never understood them; he never understood the islands. He’d have killed Nessa; she was too influential to be left alive. Eyvind, too. At one point both the Wolfskin and myself were imprisoned and on the verge of execution. Somerled did not take kindly to hearing the truth if it happened not to suit his own purposes.”
There seemed to be nothing for Thorvald to say. He had asked for answers, after all. Too bad if it hurt to hear them, when he had believed nothing could hurt much after what his mother had told him.
“King,” he said finally, his tone hollow.
“Indeed. That was his lifelong ambition, so Eyvind told me. For a short while, he achieved it. The cost was high.”
Thorvald felt a bitter laugh escaping from his throat. “Hah! Just think, if he’d stayed on here, I might have been king after him. King Thorvald. Very amusing, that. And Eanna would never have been born, nor Creidhe, nor the others. Thank the gods he was sent away. As ruler here I probably would have turned out just like him.”
“We must concern ourselves with the path that was taken, not the one abandoned,” Tadhg said, using an iron hook to lift the kettle’s lid and see if the water was boiling. “You want to know where he might have gone. Why?”
This one must be answered carefully. “He was my father. It is of some interest to me whether he lived or died.”
“I can speak of possibilities, Thorvald. But nobody can say what happened. Your mother told you, I imagine, that there has been no news of Somerled since that day, no sign at all that he ever reached safe shore. All I can give you is surmise.”
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