The Island House (14 page)

Some of the ceiling timbers of the nuns’ dormitory had survived the raid unburned. Any wood was precious and must be protected from the weather, so Cuillin and the other monks had worked hard to patch the old roof with bundles of heather weighed down with stones. Of course the thatch leaked, but it was better than being outside when it was cold, especially at night. The men also filled holes in the walls with clay, straw, and animal manure. Gathering dung from the byre was Signy’s morning work, and watching her expression as she worked the slop of mud, straw, and clay together with bare hands had been one of the boy’s chief entertainments as he recovered day by day. He’d even chuckled when, trying to scratch her nose, Signy had smeared muck across her face. She’d stuck her tongue out at him, and they’d both laughed.

His face was a little better now. The green slime had bred maggots because Gunnhilde would not allow the old layer to be removed when she added more on top, and that horrified Signy. The boy hated the creatures moving on his skin, but Gunnhilde would not let Signy pick them off. Just today, the nun had finally wiped away the fermented poultice with all its squirming inhabitants.

Signy had been impressed. The maggots had eaten the burned flesh from the damaged side, and though the boy’s face would never be perfect, there was new skin where the worst of the burns
had been and some of the puckering was smoothed. She’d tried to tell the boy with smiles and gestures, and perhaps he under-stood—he’d smiled as if he did.

Signy, her head against the flank of the goat, thought about the boy; she knew his name now, for he’d told her. Pointing to his chest he’d whispered it:
Magni.
He had not told the others, just her. Goonhelda was kind, but he did not like the men, and they did not like him. Everyone knew it was dangerous to tell enemies your real name. Signy understood, and she was flattered he’d trusted her to use his name well. Yes, she should not have liked Magni, but she did. He made her laugh and he was brave; or perhaps she just missed her brothers. Signy stared over at the soot-dark hovel where Magni was lying. He had spent so much time there alone and in pain; Nid would have hated that.

A cold wind ruffled the poppies. Signy shivered. Winter was coming, and soon they would all be forced inside unless she could work out how to mend the coracle and run away back to her home. But the work would have to be done before the gales—if not, she would have to wait until spring. And where would she get the skins?

The goat stamped impatiently and tried to pull against the hobble. Signy said, wrathfully, “If you spill this, I swear I’ll skin you.”

The nanny tried to butt her. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Signy rescued the precious bucket of milk, but only just.

“Oh, all right, you.” Signy stood carefully. She had to juggle the milk and the flowers
and
prevent the nanny from running ahead to a patch of grass. “There, greedy one.” Fixing the hobble, Signy watched the goat tear at the forage. She knew she could not put off going back for much longer but, shading her eyes, she stared toward the God stones. Could she risk stealing just a little of the milk? Only a small offering, in return for safe passage home, and she could take some of the poppies to the altar too. Gods liked
red things, everyone knew that—they were the next best things to blood and fire.

“Signy.” Gunnhilde was waving at her.

Signy waved without enthusiasm.
Too late.
She cradled the flowers as she trudged toward the old woman. The fire pit would have to do for the sacrifice. It was good to have Gods on your side, and they liked it if you were practical—if you tried to help yourself instead of just asking for favors all the time. She liked Brother Veedoor, the kitchen monk, because he was practical too. He had only the fire trench in the shelter to cook with, but he managed to make quite tasty food, and Signy admired that.

Since he was nice to her, Signy showed Veedoor how to make a bird net. Netting was much more efficient than Veedoor’s method of spreading badly made birdlime around the buildings, hoping roosting birds would stick to it.

Flax grew near the rushes at the edge of the marsh; having picked and soaked a quantity for some days, Signy scraped the rotted matter away from the long fibers just as her mother had taught her. Twisted, the strong cords could be knotted into a net with small stones attached around the edge. Signy demonstrated how to make a throw, and Veedoor practiced diligently until he’d mastered the skill. He’d done well, too, smoking the first birds he caught. Plucked and gutted, they’d been hung in the rafters over the fire, and though they were tough, he’d saved a wing or two just for her, which Signy appreciated.

Tomorrow she’d get him some eggs in thanks—he’d worked out how to roast them in the coals without the shells exploding. Signy liked roasted eggs, they were much nicer than raw.

“There you are.” Goonhelda took the milk. “Bear looks happy to see you.” She nodded toward the boy; he was sitting up. “There is food if you will feed him, please.” Veedoor at the fire trench held up flatbread—not all the barley had been burned in the fields.

Bear.
Signy knew why the old woman called Magni by that
name. The skin jerkin he had worn, the only thing that survived from his past, was made from bearskin; he’d had woolen trousers, too, but they’d been charred, and the old woman had cut the rags off before she set the bones of his legs.

Perhaps,
thought Signy,
it is better to be known by the name of a great and fierce animal—the spirit will help Magni. And I can call him that too. It will be safer.

On impulse, before she gave him the bread, Signy put several poppies in Bear’s hands.
For you.
She smiled and nodded, but he stared at her, confused.

You do not know, and I cannot tell you.
Signy backed away. Tonight, when everyone was asleep, she would sacrifice the rest of the red flowers in the fire trench and, as well as praying for a safe return home, she would ask Cruach that Bear’s healing might be complete and that he be given a happy life—perhaps even with his own family.

But they are murderers!
That was another voice in her head, and it was true. Was Bear a killer too?

Bear did not understand Signy’s strange smile when she gave him the flowers or why, suddenly, her eyes darkened when she looked at him, almost as if she was scared. But he hoped she knew the gift made him happy.

Seven times each day all of Findnar’s inhabitants, including Signy, stopped what they were doing when Cuillin struck a metal cauldron. One side was cracked, and it was no substitute for the bell taken by the raiders, but the discordant clank was loud enough to be heard all over the island.

Clongk! Clongk! Clongk!
It was the third summons of the day.
Tierce.
Was that what they called this one?

Signy bent her head and rapidly crossed her chest, mumbling anything she could think of—the names of flowers, of the colors of the sky, the fish in the sea. She knew now that the newcomers were
praying, just as she prayed to her Gods, but they did it so
often,
and that wasted a great deal of time.

Standing together beside the now orderly piles of building stone, Cuillin and Gunnhilde finished reciting their prayers. The monk crossed himself and gestured toward the girl in the distance—the pose, at least, was pious. “So, Sister, do you think she prayed with us? Really prayed to our Lord?”

Gunnhilde smiled affectionately. “Of course not, Brother. She has no real idea what any of this means, yet.”

Cuillin frowned heavily. “You know she’ll run away the first chance she gets.”

“But until we have another boat, there is no way to leave the island, Brother. Plainly it is God’s wish that we live together here, in peace, until that time. All of us.” Gunnhilde smiled at her brother. He was a most worthy man but utterly without humor or, it seemed, an understanding of natural human affection. She asked God to grace his heart with compassion.

At that moment, Signy looked up and smiled like any ordinary child. The nun waved cheerily, and she whispered, for Cuillin’s benefit as much as hers, “You might be surprised, Brother. She will make the Lord proud one day, I’m sure of it. Bear as well.”

The monk snorted but said nothing more. Gunnhilde was too partial. He, however, saw things clearly and had no time for the wavering mist of sentiment—it just confused things.

He stared at the girl as she drew closer. A trick of the light seemed to crown her head with the ring of distant stones, and he stiffened with distaste.

Heathens were like mongrel dogs, almost impossible to tame or train, and they always bit the hand that fed them when they had you fooled. Well, he was no fool, and he would not permit Gunnhilde to be savaged either.

CHAPTER 10

W
ALKING UP
the steep street between white cottages, Freya recognized the small shopping area from the night of her arrival. There was a chemist, a hardware shop, an old-fashioned haberdasher, a butcher—charmingly described as “General Smallgoodsman and Purveyor of Quality Fare”—a fishmonger, and quite a large supermarket. That seemed a pity to Freya—so many old houses must have been cleared to make room.

And there, in front of her, was the library—all colonnaded front and gilded lettering. Once, to judge from the size of this building, books had been taken very seriously in Portsolly.

Briiiiiink!
The bell on the library counter grated like that of an old-fashioned bicycle. A suitable noise, one to match ornate glass cabinets and oak tables laid out in rows. There were old-fashioned linoleum floor tiles, too, polished to a gleam, and signs saying
SILENCE, IF YOU PLEASE
written in the graphic style of another time. It felt eerily like the set of
The 39 Steps.

“Can I help?”

Freya jumped. A woman with crisply bobbed hair had arrived behind the counter. Flat shoes and a tweed skirt, even a hand-knitted cardigan over a blouse with a Peter Pan collar—definitely a blouse, not a shirt—this was the librarian from central casting.

Freya coughed—it was that or giggle. “Yes, thank you.” She smiled sweetly, and in her best I’ve-really-been-very-well-brought-up-please-ignore-the-scruffy-clothes voice, she said, “I’m on the hunt for some information.”

A calm response but not warm. “Yes?”

“Er, yes. Compline House on Findnar Island? I’d like to research its history, and that of the ruins as well.”

“The Abbey.” A definitive statement.

“Possibly.” Freya was becoming annoyed.

The woman’s eyes were pale blue and cooler by the moment. “I think you will find the evidence points to that conclusion.”

Freya’s smile stretched only so far. “I live on Findnar, that’s why I’m interested.”

The librarian blinked. “Then you will be Michael Dane’s daughter.” A statement, not a question. She flicked a glance at the only other person in the room, a large woman trussed in too-tight tweed; she, too, was staring.

Fresh gossip in the town tonight, that’s me.
Freya hunched defensively. She dropped her voice. “Yes. I’m from Sydney. But I . . .” It was hard to put into words when it came to it. “As I said, I really just want to know more about Findnar—it’s so interesting.”
And that, Freya Dane, is a cop-out.

The librarian’s expression warmed by just the smallest amount. “Naturally, we have many books on the history of the whole area, including Findnar.” She pointed at a corner where a glass cabinet was set slightly apart. “Please be careful, however; many of the books in that section are old and valuable—and fragile too. Some may not be borrowed, of course.” It was said without emphasis; there was still that hint of disapproval.

Freya returned service. “And you are?”

The woman lifted her chin. “I am Katherine Wallace Mac-Allister, Portsolly’s chief librarian. And I had the pleasure to count myself a friend of your father’s for many years.”

A friend of your father’s.
Someone who was a part of Michael’s life here, the years in which Freya had had no presence.