The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Fiachna rolled his eyes behind his master’s back—too late for that. “See that they keep the peace too.” Solwaer waved the chief carl off the dais with shooing motions.

  Fiachna was reluctant to leave. He wanted to hear what was said; worse, he could feel the balance of power shifting beneath his feet.

  Solwaer smiled as he watched his carl prowl the length of the hall, scowling. It was good to keep his people on edge; in the end, the best retainers were so often the insecure ones.

  It was late in the night, and carousing sputtered on. The older men slept where they’d slumped, the women and the children were long gone to bed, but some Portsol girls giggled on the beach with the hard-bodied men from the ships as glowering locals watched in the shadows.

  In the hall, Solwaer stood at last. “Come with me, Lord Grimor, and you, Magni. There are things to discuss.” He beckoned to Fiachna. “Preside for me.”

  A stool was quickly placed beside the other three. It was lower, and that did not please Fiachna. As drunk as the rest of them, he was well past surly and heading for rage.

  Solwaer belched at the man’s sour face. He clapped his chief carl on the shoulder. “Now, old friend, you be the placeholder; they’ll obey you, of course they will. Who else would I trust with this? And, remember, no fights. Use this.” He tapped Fiachna on the skull. “Not this,” he directed, slapping the man’s biceps.

  One arm slung around Grimor’s shoulders and the other around Bear’s, Solwaer led the brothers from the hall.

  Idorn was unsure of his welcome, but he edged into Grimor’s chamber behind the trio. Technically, he was still a hostage—his life forfeit for . . . what? That he did not know, but he’d proved his value today to both Solwaer and Grimor. Did that count?

  “Idorn.” Grimor was scowling at the frightened chamber slave as she hurried to pour ale for the visitors.

  “Yes, Lord Grimor, what shall I say?”

  “Solwaer wants something. Ask him what it is.” He stared at Idorn with hooded eyes.

  Idorn nodded, but his heart ramped up. This was a bald question, latent with menace, and there was the tang of hot metal, suddenly, in the air. He began to sweat.

  “Lord Solwaer, the Lord Grimor has journeyed far, and you have brought his lost brother to his heart once more. He thanks you for that most sincerely and seeks to show his gratitude. He asks how that may best be accomplished. He also asks that this conversation be a private one.”

  Grimor blinked. His eyes became slits. “A lot of words, Idorn.”

  Solwaer’s eyes were half-closed also, but for different reasons. He’d tried not to drink much of the ale for which Portsol was, justly, renowned, but it was rude to refuse a toast, the many toasts, proposed by his guests. Red-eyed and thick-tongued, he frowned at the chamber slave. “You. Go.”

  The girl blanched. Sober, Solwaer frightened her; drunk, he was utterly unpredictable. She fled.

  Solwaer enjoyed obedience—it always improved his mood. “I am honored, but Lord Grimor owes me nothing.” He waved grandly. “And yet there are things, important things, that I shall propose for our mutual benefit. I wish to speak of these . . .” He belched; it was all becoming very, very foggy . . .

  The Lord of Portsol fell forward right off his stool, a slow, boneless slump.

  Idorn grabbed his master just before he rolled into the fire pit. Solwaer pushed Idorn’s hand aside good-naturedly. “Just you listen, Idorn. Ears are good.” He collapsed sideways, snoring before he hit the floor.

  But Grimor was not drunk, and neither was Bear. The elder brother prodded their host cautiously with his foot, and Solwaer twitched like a dreaming hound.

  “Is this real?”

  Idorn translated Grimor’s words without a qualm.

  Bear crouched beside Solwaer. He shouted, “Wake!”

  Solwaer farted and slept on.

  Grimor stood. “Idorn, is there a way out of here?”

  “Without going through the hall?” Idorn nodded. He felt along the line of hangings. “Here.” A door was concealed in the back wall.

  Followed by Idorn, the brothers walked through the darkened settlement. Small fires flickered outside some houses, and there were scuffles and giggles as couples drew back from the light, but the rest of the town slept as they strolled toward the landing beach. Even the sea was quiet, the slump and whisper of the waves enough to cover their words but not hide the meaning.

  Grimor stopped. “Is the man a fool, Brother?”

  Idorn quickly translated—they all knew who the man was.

  Bear shook his head. “Solwaer means to consolidate his position as the most powerful man on this coast. He has guile and courage, but desire for wealth drives everything he does, as with all his kind—those who come from nothing. I am the key to the future he craves. So are you, Brother. That is why he asked you to come to Portsol. This could be good for us both.” Bear gazed dispassionately at the hostage. “Tell my brother what I have said, Idorn. Do not lie. I may not speak as fast as you, but I understand much.”

  Idorn gulped. Words hurried from his mouth.

  As Grimor listened, he stared at his brother, trying to sense what he had become. Magni had been a child all those years ago, and it was hard to see that skinny boy in this man of knotted muscle. And more than fire had burned those scars into his face; fury lurked close beneath the skin, a desire for vengeance. That could be good.

  Grimor held up his hand, palm out, the classic gesture of peace. “What do you want in this, Magni?”

  Bear stared at his older brother. The red stare. “Reparation. There is a girl on Findnar.”

  “Ah. A girl.” Grimor smiled faintly.

  “You do not understand.” Bear did not expect him to. “You and I will take the island—the Christians have had it long enough—and there will be profit, which we will share.”

  “With the farter?”

  Idorn paused—and then translated the word exactly.

  Bear did not smile. “To a degree. There is mutual advantage here, but afterward he will not hold the island or the strait. Those will be ours, our fleet base in the East, and he can expand on the western shore if he proves loyal. I told Solwaer to be careful of alliances; we shall learn if he has listened well enough.” His lips curled back from his teeth.

  Grimor nodded slowly. “You have fulfilled the promise I saw in you as a boy. I am proud. We will sail the wide seas together, and none shall prevent our passage. They will sing of us two when we are gone. But first we will make children. Many children. You with this girl, if that is your taste, me with fifty to make up for your one.” He guffawed and slapped his brother’s back.

  Idorn rushed to keep up as the conversation flowed back and forth between the brothers. Soon it would be morning, and another day. Was he still a hostage?

  CHAPTER 37

  ON HIS summer break, Simon liked to sleep in, but this morning, first light found him awake. He was thinking about Freya and about Findnar—sexy girl, intriguing place, and both so full of possibilities.

  Drinking with Rob Buchan at the pub had sparked the internal conversation. Simon had not spent much time with his childhood friend since he’d returned to Portsolly. He’d told himself he was too busy, but that was not true. Rob, in fact, made Simon uncomfortable. Their lives had taken such different paths and that was part of the problem. Simon was proud of his success, the result of bloody hard work, where Rob—that lively kid of those distant summers—had morphed into a loser living in the past. Simon felt sorry for the guy because Rob’s sense of entitlement trapped him like a fly in a closed room, and it provided neither the will nor the energy to recapture the much-insisted-on status and power of his ancestors. Resentful and bitter, Rob had quickly become tedious, and that “quiet little drink” at the pub had started to feel like a mistake, especially since his old friend could drink for Scotland when someone else was buying. Whisky, too, inflamed Rob’s indignation, especially against Freya.

  “A backpacker. An Austr
alian! But I’ve got her measure. She knows she’s vulnerable now. More than one way to send that message. She’ll be gone by winter.” He tapped his nose. “Then I’ll drive the price down and buy the island back.” Rob snorted. He was pleased with himself.

  “Vulnerable?” Simon had stared at him. “You took Freya’s boat?”

  “Freya, is it?” Robert had lifted his empty glass, waggled it winningly. “And why would I do that?”

  “I have no idea.” Simon had been impatient. “Just one more. It’s late.” He’d gone to the bar and when he’d returned, Rob was morose. “More than fifty generations, father to son. All gone. My birthright. But I found the helmet, she didn’t. Or her dad. Don’t know the island like I do.”

  “Helmet?” Lying in bed, Simon thought about why he’d asked the question. Having decided Rob was a fantasist, perhaps he’d seemed bored because the response was petulant. “It’s true! I’d go over there when Dane was away. He never knew. I’ll find the rest of the hoard when she goes and she will, trust me.”

  “Ah, the hoard.” Simon had drained the last of his whisky. “Must go. Lots to do.” Rob had grabbed his arm. “Come with me. I haven’t shown anyone else. Old times’ sake? You can tell me what it’s worth.”

  Why had he gone? Simon threw the bedcovers back and padded to the bathroom in the vestry. Cleaning his teeth, he thought about it. Conscience, the obligation to be polite to a childhood friend, had been laid to rest after the third drink. No, it had been the expression in Rob’s eyes. Honest greed.

  And there, in the sitting room of the tiny cottage—all that remained of the glory of the Buchans—it truly was. Wrapped in newspaper, hidden in a cupboard among sporting trophies from long, long ago, was an actual helm. Viking era or earlier. After washing himself—no shower yet, that would come—Simon flipped through the shots he’d taken on his phone last night when Rob had gone to the bathroom. Bronze, had to be, and the amount and quality of the ornamentation (gold, couldn’t be anything else) was extraordinary. This was the work of a master, a very great smith. At first he’d thought it a ceremonial object and not designed for battle. But the dent in the side said otherwise. Someone important had owned this helmet, and maybe died wearing it too.

  It had been after midnight when Simon left Robert’s cottage. He’d been glad to go. The atmosphere of unwashed clothes, old dog, and toxic narcissism had become oppressive, as had Rob’s increasingly wild schemes for reclaiming Findnar. But the helm had been real, a genuine treasure. Perhaps the hoard, after all, was not a myth.

  He knew a lot about himself, Simon Fettler, and thought he’d sorted out the pattern of his life quite nicely. He’d had a lot of women in his life, too, even lived semiseriously with one or two at different times. But he was fussy, fatally so—or so his friends said. And if they were all busy getting married—and good luck to them—Simon still guarded his emotional independence. Yet spending time with Freya on the island—kissing her—and then meeting Robert last night at the pub had set fate’s wheel turning. He could feel it—the game changer had arrived. Perhaps this could be the girl, and Findnar the place he was meant to be? The island with such glittering possibilities . . .

  Omens. Simon laughed. Was he, after all, superstitious? It seemed unlikely after a life lived, most definitely, in the material world. His was a fortunate existence, one that provided him with pleasure and interest. Didn’t mean, though, that there wasn’t room for a challenge. A treasure hunt, say, and a very good-looking girl with an interesting edge. These were both challenges undoubtedly. And what was life without the spice of risk? Unlike so many people, Simon Fettler liked change, he really did. He’d always been a rover.

  “Hello, Mr. Boyne.” Katherine knocked on the office door.

  Walter swung around startled. “Miss MacAllister. Something I can do for you?” He was glad of the distraction—finally he’d made a start on filing.

  “I’m looking for Daniel. Is he around?”

  Walter got up; a man does not sit in the presence of a lady, and Miss MacAllister was certainly a lady. “He’s gone to get coffee.”

  The workshop door swung open, and Dan appeared in the rectangle of light holding two coffees and a brown paper bag.

  “Here we go, Dad, got us a treat too.” He shouldered the door closed. Then he registered the visitor. “Hello, Katherine.”

  The librarian nodded to Walter. She hurried toward Dan. “Have you a moment?”

  “For you, Katherine, always.” He grinned.

  “I should like to go to the island. Now.” Katherine did her best to sound composed. Her eyes said something else.

  Dan blinked; he hesitated. “Okay with you, Dad?”

  Walter exhaled. Relief did not begin to describe what he felt about the change in Dan in the last twenty-four hours. “Of course. Denny’ll be back soon. Take your time.”

  Dan’s belly tightened. “Right then.” He put one of the coffees down, and the little bag of pastries. “You have this, Dad. Just give me a moment, Katherine. Need to load the stuff.” As Katherine watched, Dan limped toward a heap of equipment lying beside one of the benches. “Freya needs to shift that bit of stone we found.” He dumped coils of slender steel hawser and assorted other equipment onto a flatbed trolley with large rubber wheels, and slung a box of tools, including a battery-driven drill, on top. “Dad, did you move the steel?”

  “Stacked it out of the way.” Walter pointed.

  “Give me a hand?” Father and son loaded lengths of steel on top of the other materials.

  Dan opened the workshop door. “After you, Katherine.”

  It was a clear, high day. Gulls wheeled over the water and dived for scraps in the harbor, and the little port was busy with comings and goings as Katherine automatically slowed her stride to Dan’s. But she was left behind as, pushing the trolley, he limped energetically toward the runabout moored at the stern of The Holy Isle.

  “Dan, wait.” She hurried after him.

  “Day’s wasting.” He was already in the hull. “Can you pass the stuff down? None of it’s heavy, just cumbersome.”

  Katherine and he worked well together. Five minutes and everything was neatly stacked, and the trolley had been loaded too.

  “Let’s go.”

  Katherine nodded; she jumped down into the boat. No skirt today. Something had made her wear jeans this morning, and she’d left a key with her neighbor so that Ishbelle and her babies could be fed. Just in case . . .

  Compline’s back door was unlocked. Katherine knocked. “Freya, hello?” She opened the door, listened for a reply. “Freya?”

  “She’s not here.” Dan stared out over the meadow, shading his eyes. “We’ll find her.” He nodded at the loaded trolley. “Let’s get this to the standing stones. Won’t be nearly as hard as hauling it up the cliff, I promise.”

  With some asperity Katherine said, “Wishful thinking, Daniel Boyne.” The beach, not to mention the cliff path, had been a struggle for them both.

  “Dan.”

  He wheeled. Freya was standing in Compline’s open doorway. He smiled warmly. “Hiding, were you?” And then he saw how stressed she was.

  Katherine started forward at the same moment. “Child, are you all right?” But Dan got there first. He pulled Freya into his arms, holding her close.

  She tried to speak calmly. “I saw her, Dan. Last night. I was inside, she was on the other side of the glass, and then she was gone. She looked at me. Right in my eyes. I searched everywhere, and then, back in the house I found, I found—” She swallowed, couldn’t go on.

  Dan held Freya tighter. “You’re safe, that’s what matters. No need to be frightened.”

  “I’m not scared, Dan, it’s not that. But each time she’s closer, and I don’t know what it means.” Defeated, Freya leaned against his chest. “But thank you so much for coming back. And you, too, Katherine. At least you’re both real.”

  “Real?” Katherine’s expression changed.

  A quick glance at Freya and
Dan said, “It’s a long story, a tale for the fire tonight, Katherine. But we’re here to work and the day’s wasting.”

  Freya’s expression brightened. “Okay, then. Let’s move that stone. It’s important, I know it is.”

  As the pair took hold of the trolley and pushed it toward the meadow, Katherine hung back. She so wanted to ask who she was, but did not have the courage. Michael, tell me what I should say.

  “That’s ingenious, Dan. Really clever.” Freya stood back to admire his work. It had taken some hours, but a squat, cross-braced tower stood at each end of the trench that housed the slab.

  Bolted together from short lengths of steel, a thick arm, also of steel, jutted from each of the towers at head height. Behind a guard, a loop of steel hawser ran through a pulley to form a sling under the stone. A chain-driven mechanism, cranked by hand, would allow the hawser to be ratcheted tight, and then two people working together, one at each end, could raise the stone.

  “I played with Meccano as a kid. This is a bigger version—it’s all just problem solving, using what’s to hand.”

  If Dan was modest, he was certainly pleased with Freya’s response. “Well, I think you’re pretty damn clever.”

  Her fond expression warmed him very much.

  “What happens when the slab gets to the top?” Katherine eyed the structure.

  “That’s the beauty of this.” Dan pointed to a gimbal. “Once we’ve got it above the trench, we unlock the arms and swivel them. Then we drop the slab.”

  “Lower it, you mean,” Freya put in. Stop bossing the man around!