The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  “Belt!” Solwaer was starting to feel better, or at least warmer.

  Fiachna bowed and held the object to his master. Broad and polished as a new chestnut, the leather was closed with a silver buckle.

  “Cloak!”

  With an evil look, Fiachna snatched it from one of the attendant monks, unnerving the man greatly. The cloak clasp was worked gold and very valuable also, as was the plaid cloak itself, lined with winter marten. Finally there were the shoes, bright yellow-green and very soft.

  “Much better. Give me the torque.”

  The chief carl had kept this last object hidden in a rabbit-skin pouch. Bear had made it—a reason, perhaps, why the man remained alive. Reverently, he placed the worked gold around Solwaer’s throat; fully arrayed, his master was kingly.

  Solwaer nodded to the Abbot. “I am ready.”

  But Cuillin was not—shock still gripped his body from the near disaster, and he sent up a fervent prayer. Help me, Lord. Lend me your strength. Turning toward the men massed on the beach, he intoned, “Dear friends in Christ, this is a joyous day.” His voice shook, and he cleared his throat. “Please join our community in a Mass of thanksgiving.” The words were steadier, and he took that as the signal for the procession to begin.

  A shivering novice led the gathering toward the path. He swung a silver censer—a baptismal gift to Findnar from Solwaer—as the monks formed up in pairs to conduct the converts to the Abbey.

  Solwaer had not told Cuillin the censer’s provenance. This holy item had been looted from another monastery and had found its way to him, along with a gold platter embossed with equal-armed crosses. He had purchased both objects with a well-grown girl he’d fathered on one of his slaves plus an excellent bull of good size. He’d been sad to see the animal, renowned for its potency, go. The censer he’d brought to the Abbey this morning; the gold platter had been melted down weeks ago by Bear and reworked into the torque. Solwaer liked to think of all the gold crosses melting into this other form—it seemed appropriate, somehow.

  At the Abbey, it took some time to gather the press of men into Findnar’s church, since the building had not accommodated so great a gathering before.

  Anxious to make a good impression, Solwaer glared at any of his followers who spat on the floor—the monks frowned on such behavior. If he was honest, though, the gloom depressed him. The church stank of old, cold sweat and tallow. It was dank, too, as well as dark. Still, it was necessary that he do this, necessary to gain the trust of Cuillin and his monks—and nuns. Solwaer looked around. Where were the nuns?

  As Cuillin had earlier explained, after the regrettable occasion of the previous year, separation of the sexes was now strictly enforced, with the exception of confession. A long screen had been installed along one side of the nave, and Solwaer could hear a certain amount of coughing and whispering behind it.

  The regrettable occasion. Solwaer’s attention drifted as the Mass began. Was the cause of that scandal behind the screen with her sisters? He remembered the girl kneeling in this very place only so few months ago. Solwaer fingered the torque. He owed the girl thanks, for unwittingly, by her actions, she had provided him with a useful follower. Perhaps he should tell her so, personally.

  Bored by the endless prayers, the nasal chanting of the brothers, Solwaer stared toward the meadow through a part-open door. There were sheep and cows in the distance, and something human moved among them.

  It was her, the pretty novice. She’d been hard to see at first, dressed in a dirt-colored kirtle. He narrowed his eyes. They’ve shaved her head! The barbarity shocked him.

  He returned his attention to the Mass with an effort. Bear would not be pleased when he heard—if he heard.

  The Abbey had lost one slave, it seemed, and gained another.

  CHAPTER 31

  SOLWAER SAT alone on the honor seat, brooding. Perhaps it was a mistake being baptized. He’d entered a pact with a God more powerful than he’d thought, for after the Mass, Fiachna told him of Cuillin’s miracle with the sea. Such a deity would have expectations . . .

  The door to the hall hurled back, almost broken from its post. Bear, wetter than a seal, came in from the howling black, and he brought the storm behind him. So violent was the gale, rain was blown as far as the fire pit, and the coals threw a geyser of steam and smoke into the roof void.

  “Close it!” Fiachna stood behind his master, pointing. He didn’t name Bear, he would not acknowledge the man, but others rushed to wrestle the door back against the night. No one told the Demon what to do.

  Bear, oblivious to the fuss, advanced through the hall, a sword in one hand, an ax in the other. He walked easily, as untroubled as any animal when it’s the largest in the pack.

  “You cannot come armed into the hall. Put your weapons away.” Solwaer was irritated by Bear’s lack of manners.

  Imperturbable, the Demon dropped the sword into the leather scabbard on his back and leaned on the ax shaft. “Let’s talk about the island,” he said.

  Solwaer rolled his eyes. “Is this about the girl?”

  “You didn’t tell me what they did. Time to teach them a lesson.”

  Solwaer shifted irritably in his seat. Lately he’d been troubled by piles, which itched and stung—it was like sitting on hornets sometimes. “The Lord Abbot administers his own domain, as do I. Besides, I am a Christian now, and I must listen for Jesus to speak in my heart so that I know what is right.”

  Bear’s guffaw bent the candle flames. Fiachna started forward, a sword in one hand. Bear turned. An efficient twist and the weapon was twitched from the chief carl’s fingers. The crowd in the hall surged forward, anxious to see the fight.

  Solwaer bellowed, “Enough!” He peeled Bear with a glance that might have stripped skin from an apple. Fiachna stepped back first; he was breathing hard. Bear was not.

  “You”—Solwaer pointed at Bear—“in there.” He waved his hand toward the hangings. “Fiachna!”

  Fiachna swept the curtain aside to allow Solwaer to pass. As Bear prowled after him, the carl muttered, “One day. One day soon . . .”

  “It will be my day and your head.” Bear did not have to sneer. This was simple fact.

  “What is this nonsense?”

  The two men were in the Chieftain’s quarters. A substantial chamber behind the hall, it was constructed from logs and hung with cattle hides.

  “You know, don’t lie. The island, that’s what you want, and we can take it.”

  Solwaer shrugged. “Why should I do such a thing?”

  “It commands the strait from the other side. To control this coast properly, you need Findnar and Portsol. You’ve built this place from ruins; if we burn the Christians out, you can do the same over there.”

  “Are you deaf? I am baptized in Christ and I am a man of peace.” Solwaer deliberately crossed himself.

  Bear snorted.

  Solwaer kicked a log into the fire pit. Sparks flew up in a billow of smoke. He coughed, spat, and sat heavily on a stool; even here, in his private quarters, it stood on a low dais. He said, pleasantly, “With the palisade, even monks can hold Findnar now, and there’s nowhere to land except that cove. The monastery is safe from raiders, safe from you too. Deo gratias.”

  Bear swayed forward, one foot planted on the riser. “What if I said there was another way to get onto Findnar?”

  Solwaer frowned. “If so, that is a serious matter, and Abbot Cuillin must be informed. You will tell me, I shall tell him, and our Lord in Heaven will bless you.”

  “You lie. There is no Lord.” Bear bellowed like a bull.

  Solwaer was annoyed by the histrionics. “I have promised to build a church in Portsol in His name; that is not a lie.” He held up a hand for a horn of ale, and a girl—quite pretty and young, though bruised—scuttled from the shadows. Solwaer was hard on slaves.

  Raising the horn, he pointed at Bear. The girl hesitated. “He won’t bite unless you annoy him. Careful now, demons like girl flesh.” Trem
bling, the child offered the monster a horn.

  Solwaer waved toward the door. “Outside. Do not listen.” He settled himself on the stool as the girl ran. “Why do you hate them so much?” He leaned back, his face in shadow.

  “You know why.”

  “My feared demon, and here you are months later still hankering after a scrawny nun.” Solwaer’s laugh was hard. “This does no good for your reputation, sword maker. Plenty more girls to be had by my smith, even with that face. I’ll tell them to close their eyes.” This time the guffaw came from his belly.

  Bear glowered. “She’s not a nun. They just think she is.”

  Solwaer sputtered. Ale shot into the fire, which spat back. “They just think she is. Oh, that’s good.” He happily wiped tears from his eyes. “But, my demon, she is scrawny. I saw. Small breasts. Not even a handful.”

  Bear glared at Solwaer. Red danced in his eyes.

  Solwaer sighed. “The problem with you is, you’re never satisfied. I freed you from those monks.”

  Bear glared. “To become your slave.”

  Solwaer continued, unperturbed. “Are you a slave now? No. I took you in, gave you a place of honor beside my fire.”

  Bear stood straighter. “Honor? Night and day I work in your interest. Weapons, jewelry, carvings such as no one else makes on this coast.”

  Solwaer waved a dismissive hand. “And what do you do? You frighten the children, and the women, and disturb the peace of my hall.”

  Bear laughed derisively. “Listen to me, old man.”

  The goad was successful. Now Solwaer glowered.

  Bear raised his voice. “I know what you are, and I know what you want. You’re building this little empire very cleverly, but you’re a trader, not a fighter. Guile is your natural game, but your followers are fishers and farmers; war is not their calling. But, of course, you’re a Christian.” Bear smiled like a dog. “You don’t want to take the place yourself, though you’d like to have it. And this is not a lie.” Perhaps the truth was dangerous.

  The Lord of Portsol smoothed all expression from his face. “Speak on, Bear, if you wish to seem more foolish than you are. But not for too long.” He looked Bear in the eyes and yawned.

  “Given men who know what they’re doing, I’ll take that island for you. And I want a third of it.” Bear stared back at Solwaer, that unsettling look, wide and blank.

  The older man’s scalp shifted. He’d spared this maniac’s life. In the end, might that prove to be a mistake? “So tell me. If you were me, would you trust a demon?”

  A smile split Bear’s face. “If we come to terms, I will swear an oath, and I am not an oath breaker. If you will not do this, perhaps another may. I repeat. My price is a third.”

  Solwaer grunted. “Girl!”

  Skittish as a hare, the slave peered out from behind the skin of a large, black cow. “Yes, Lord?” It was almost a squeak.

  “More.”

  The slave hurried toward her master, cradling the swollen ale sack like a baby. She poured, trying not to look at the demon on the far side of the fire pit.

  Solwaer pointed at the discarded horn. “Fill it.” As the slave scuttled from the room, he stared into the flames. “So, what is this other way you speak of?”

  Bear grinned. “Terms first, Solwaer. When those are sworn, you will know.” He held up the horn, and Solwaer raised his own.

  CHAPTER 32

  TURN IT off.” Walter spoke into his son’s ear. Dan was planing timber, and the workshop rang with howling cacophony.

  Dan took his time. Only when the board had gone the distance did he hit the Off button and pull the ear protectors from his head. “What did you say?”

  “Time to lock up.” Walter pointed at his watch. “Fourteen-hour days are all very well, but you have to sleep sometime.”

  Dan hoisted the plank and placed it on a small stack beside the bench.

  Walter asked, “Have you heard from Freya?”

  “Not expecting to.” Dan put the ear protectors on again.

  As casually as he could, Walter said, “You still expecting to go to the island this weekend?” His words were obliterated by the scream of the planer. Walter rolled his eyes. For impenetrable, perfectly honed obstinacy, there was no one like Daniel Boyne—except himself.

  He yelled, “Maybe you should call the girl. Confirm you’ll come.” The planer whined and died. Walter was suddenly conscious of the silence.

  Dan slung chains around the bundle of planks. Moving them with an overhead gantry, he lined them up above a larger stack and released the slings. The timber dropped with a crack like a shot.

  Walter gave up. He set off toward the office.

  Dan called after him, “There’s no point ringing. She turns her phone off.”

  Walter nodded. “Still and all, you said she needed help over there.” He tried to pretend there were no stakes in any of this.

  Dan clambered into the forklift. The engine whirred. “She’s pretty self-sufficient, Dad.” He set off toward a stack of rough-sawn timber.

  Was it an opening? Walter followed his son, waited until he hoisted another load of wood and dropped it near the bench. “This girl is different, Dan.”

  Patiently Dan said, “I’m not thirteen, Dad. I’m past needing advice.” He climbed down.

  Before Dan could avoid it, Walter pulled his son into his arms, held him as he would have long ago, when his boy needed comfort. “Look, Freya Dane might talk like she’s different, but she wants what they all want. A man strong enough to stand beside her through the hard times. She might not know that, but she does.” He smiled. “Get in the boat, Son. Not life and death, is it?”

  Dan gazed at his father.

  Walter thought the boy was coming to his senses. “Go on.” He gave Dan a bit of a push.

  Dan stared at the workshop door as if expecting it to open. His eyes snapped back to Walter’s. Life and death. “And time.” He smiled.

  “Time?” Walter was confused, but he hadn’t seen his son happy in a while. That was enough for him.

  “You left out time.” Dan dropped the ear protectors on the bench. “See you later.”

  It was two days since she’d taken Simon back to Portsolly, and nothing at all had happened. Of course. She’d even managed dreamless sleep two nights in a row—that was a first on Findnar.

  Freya straightened her back. She was stiff from all the digging, and discouraged. Three more trenches in the center of the stones, and precisely zilch result, not even pottery shards.

  “So? Tell me. Come on.” She stared at the stones severely. “Where should I dig?”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Freya swung around. “Dan!” She hadn’t heard him approach. “What are you doing here? I mean, um, . . .” That went well.

  Dan laughed. “And lovely to see you, too, Freya.” He limped toward her.

  “You’re smiling.” It was almost an accusation. And that came out wrong too. Freya leaned on her shovel in the trench. “Let’s start again.”

  He was only a pace or two away. His eyes were brilliant; there were points of light deep in the gray. “Why not? It’s what we do.”

  Freya choked back a laugh. “Hello, Daniel Boyne. How nice you dropped over.”

  “Very good—almost a welcome. Hello, Freya Dane. Dad sent me.”

  “Now, why would he do that?”

  “He’s into advice at the moment—told me to get over here and help out.” Dan smiled disarmingly. “What was I to do?”

  “He’s right. I do need you.” Freya’s eyes flew wide. “That is, oh . . . I just can’t get this right, can I?” She started to scramble out of the shallow trench.

  “Like a hand?” Dan leaned down.

  She hesitated. “Why not?”

  “Up you come.”

  Dan pulled, and Freya found herself on the edge of the trench. Only three days and she’d forgotten how strong he was. “Oops. Nearly trod on your foot.” Self-conscious, she brushed her jeans. “Blim
ey, I’m filthy.”

  Dan grinned. “I’ve seen worse.

  You’re frequently worse.” How different he seemed—open, almost carefree. And such a contrast from Simon. Was that good? A neat wriggle and she moved past him. “I’ve been thinking.” She strode toward the groundsheet covering the stone slab.

  “A good start.” He limped after her.

  “Very funny. Anyway, you found this almost as soon as you started looking—the stone slab. I’ve had nearly three stupid days, killing myself, and I’ve found precisely nothing. You’re a human dowsing rod, Dan. You are, really. That’s why I need you.” She tried to keep it light.

  “If that’s a compliment, I accept.”

  “What I mean is, I know—I just know—there’s something here.” Freya waved her arms around, a wide, jittery sweep. “But I can’t make it land—whatever it is. You, though . . .” She looked at him hopefully.

  Dan went to say something and frowned. His eyes traveled from stone to stone, and then back to Freya.

  “What is it?”

  “Come here.” He held out a hand. His voice was low, and his eyes had changed. They were distant.

  Freya hesitated, but she stepped closer, linked her fingers through his. Her palm tingled. “Do you see something?” She spoke very softly.

  He looked away and lifted his head. He was listening.

  Freya tried to match Dan breath for breath, tried to slow the lurch of her heart.

  His eyes swung back to hers, the pupils huge and dark. He offered his other hand. “Yes. I see them.”

  Freya linked her fingers through his, and then she saw what he saw.

  A naked girl and a naked man. The girl was small, with wild, dark hair falling down her back. Eyes wide, she was laughing, teasing her lover, her red mouth stubbornly closed under the man’s insistence. But then she opened her lips and gasped, writhing against his body, one small hand caressing the nape of his neck, the other twisted deep into the mass of his hair.