The Island House (54 page)
Solwaer knew he was good at trading; men came to him for that—for the chance of prosperity and for protection too. Even some of the original inhabitants—those who’d survived the raids—had crept back once they heard he was in charge. His mother had been a slave here once, and some men remembered that; not many who still lived, however. The ones who’d sneered when he returned were soon disposed of, and the example of a lingering death—he particularly favored flaying—was remarkable for its effect on dissent.
But if Solwaer was prepared to consider this alliance, he certainly disliked the sound of tribute; that part of the deal would need finessing. Still, with the Norse at his back, he could indeed expand his power base up and down the coast. It was better to own half of a very profitable something than all of a smoking ruin.
Solwaer smiled pleasantly at his guests, for that was what Bear had become, another guest. “An interesting proposition, Lord Magni. After we have completed our business on Findnar, we shall speak further.” He picked up his own drinking horn, slopped it full, and handed it to Grimor, poured another for Bear and himself. “Translate this then. There’s business to be done, and I look forward to our joint enterprise.”
Solwaer watched, smiling, as Bear spoke to his brother. Of course, there was also another way of doing things—there was always another way. And, in the end, the choice might be his—if he lived long enough.
F
REYA GASPED
. She sat up in one convulsive movement. The house was silent, and there was no light. Straining, she listened; there was nothing to hear. Of course there was nothing, she was alone in her bed. Shaking, she reached over to the table. She had to have light. She found the flashlight, flicked it on.
She put a hand to her throat. It hurt as if skin had been stripped from the inside, leaving it raw. She knew what had caused the pain.
They trussed her like an animal—bound tight, knees to chin. She did not scream, but she stared at them, one by one, though they did not look at her as they put her in the grave. She was small, but not small enough. The tallest man pressed her down—and still she was silent. As the food bowl was flung in, and the lid dropped on top, one of the men muttered it was a waste—another said the sacrifice must be worthy or it had no point.
They heard her beneath their feet. Trying to move, trying to get out, at last she called them by name, one by one. That frightened the men.
Earth was brought. It was dumped and tramped down above her head, and they found a stone, too, a big flat one. Heavy and thick enough to hold her beneath the ground, for they did not want her to walk, haunting their dreams. It took six men and poles to roll it over to where she was buried, and then they brought more earth. There was no sound now.
Her legs felt heavy as Freya swung out of bed. Cold plank
floor, socks, sweater on, jeans over pajamas—distractions from shivering.
Feet make no sound, but old floorboards flex. The stair treads squeaked like a bunch of crickets. Censorious.
We see you, Freya Dane, you can’t hide.
Dan was virtuously asleep, an angular shape on the couch—sharp elbows, knees, and shoulders under the blanket. Freya so wanted to wake him, so wanted to talk through this gathering storm, but that was dangerous. If she touched him in this state . . .
She hesitated. Torchlight cast his face in silver.
He’s not breathing!
“Dan!”
He jerked. “What? What happened?” He sat up, blinking.
“Nothing. Go to sleep.” Freya made soothing sounds, clucks almost, little hushes.
He fell back on the pillow, sighing. “That’s good. That’s . . .” His eyes drooped closed. Steady and slow, his breathing deepened.
At the door she looked back yearningly.
Get a grip! Leave him be.
The kitchen was quiet and dark, the fire in the range dead except for embers. Shivering, Freya hurried to the sink. Three pumps and she’d filled a glass, and the taste of the water, this late and this thirsty, was actually sweet. She closed her eyes.
Something squeezed her neck. Dust filled her lungs. She could not breathe! Gasping, she dropped the tumbler, and it broke in the sink, exploded like a tiny bomb, stars and shards of glass. The bony fingers disappeared. Nursing her throat, panting, Freya bent to pick up the pieces.
“Hello?” Katherine was on the landing above; the lamp, held high, splashed her shadow down the stairs.
Freya called out, “Just me, Katherine, getting a drink. Sorry.”
“Oh, okay.” The librarian yawned; then she went back to the warm nest of her bed.
Freya picked up the flashlight . . .
There it was. She could see it. The line in the wall where one kind of masonry ended and something different began. And there were the footprints—this was where they stopped.
A steel table beside the Compactus had wheels and a shelf. Freya pushed it to the wall and placed the flashlight carefully—she must have maximum light for her work.
She weighed the pickax in her hand. The plaster covering the wall was old, its thick surface irregular; clear that first and she would find the masonry beneath.
Minutes later, as she stood among dust and white rubble, her pick found a weakness in the wall. The stone began to fret away in chips and bits under her assault. Then Freya struck hard, a glancing sideways blow, and a sizable lump fell out. She jumped clear and knocked the flashlight to the ground; the beam veered and flashed as it rolled away. She saw the hole she’d made.
“Wow.”
“That’s one description.”
Freya had not heard Dan on the stairs. She stared at him, perplexed. “You were asleep.” She swung the tool; it connected, made a good-size gouge.
“What are you doing, Freya?” Katherine appeared behind Dan.
Freya nearly dropped the pick in midswing. She was angry. “That was dangerous.”
Katherine flicked a glance at Dan.
He moved closer. “It’s very late.”
“Chamomile tea? That might help you sleep.” Katherine did not know what else to say.
Freya’s face was closed and distant, her attention on the wall. “I have to get on.”
Dan stared at the carnage. “But what are you trying to do?”
“This, of course. Make it bigger.” Freya frowned at the hole.
He tried again. “Why?”
As if Dan was dull-witted, Freya said, “To get through to the other side, of course.”
“I can help if you like; it’ll be quicker with two.”
“If that’s what you’d like.” She seemed startled—as if an anonymous stranger, in passing, had been unexpectedly kind.
“Okay then.” Dan picked up a crowbar.
A pace or two from Freya, he tried to work the steel bar between two stones—it went in only a little way. He began to lever, back and forth, back and forth. “Do you know what you’re looking for?” he asked her.
Freya’s worried face cleared. “Of course.” She swung the pick, and then again; another piece fell out of the wall, doubling the head-size hole. Beside it, a sheet of plaster slumped off the surface, and dust settled all over Freya. A white form with eerie blue eyes.
Dan worked at another block, a big one. “This is a bearing wall for the house above. We’ll need a supporting beam here—too dangerous without one; you risk cracking the building.”
Freya stood back. “There might be something in the barn.” She didn’t sound optimistic.
Dan took his chance. “But we don’t want to cause structural damage upstairs. That’s dangerous, expensive to fix, too, and this is a very old house. For all we know, it’s a listed building. This”—he waved at the wilderness of plaster and stone—“might actually be against the law.”
Freya stared at him. “Listed?”
Katherine was navigating her way toward them with a tray. “I think Dan’s right.” She put the tray on the steel table. “Tea?” She handed Freya a mug.
Confused, Freya peered at what she’d done.
Dan picked up the flashlight. “Look there.” He pointed at the bottom of the stairs. “And here.” The beam played over the surface near the hole. “Massive, massive work. Maybe not Christian. Could even be
pre
-Christian from the size of the stones, unique.” A wild guess.
Freya’s eyes widened. “Yes, but . . .”
Katherine added her voice. “I agree with Dan. The Abbey ruins will be listed, nothing surer, and the undercroft, too, with this ceiling . . .”
Dan’s knowledge of such things was misty at best, but he chimed in. “You really can’t hack holes in a registered building, Freya, not without permission from the council and, er, Historic Scotland.”
“But I have to do this.” Her tone rose.
Dan limped over to her. “It’s late—really, really late.” He showed her his watch face. “See? After three. Come upstairs. We can talk about this in the morning.”
Katherine said, gently, “What a good idea.”
Bewildered, Freya stared from one to the other.
Dan stepped closer, but he did not touch her. “Katherine, if you’ll help Freya, I’ll bring the tray.”
Docile, Freya stumbled up the stairs with Katherine, leaving the mess behind.
Dan let the flashlight play over the wreckage. This was not the way an archaeologist worked. And then he heard something, a sifting whisper. Staring, he stepped back. From near the ceiling a crack appeared and, as he watched, it widened and grew until, piece by piece, the remaining plaster crumpled off the walls.
The air was white, thick and dense as a blizzard. Dan stumbled backward, coughing, and then he saw . . .
Embedded deep and near the top of the wall was a huge, single piece of stone. Laid horizontally, it was the size of a recumbent dolmen, and there were hints it was held in place by similarly massive uprights—this was what the destruction had begun to reveal.
The half-exposed structure resembled nothing so much as a concealed doorway—but a doorway made for giants.
I
T WAS
low water, and thirteen of Grimor’s ships stood out in the strait beyond the breaker line—they were waiting for the signal.
From over the strait, they’d heard the Abbey bell toll and stop as distant voices began to sing Vespers. The sound drifted out from the island through the calm night, and it was very beautiful, the deep male note balanced and glorified by the higher female voices.
Grimor, a sentimental man, was moved as they rowed toward Findnar. It was a treat to hear such disciplined, sweet singing.
The chant ceased; now there would be prayers, and more singing.
At last, as Bear had predicted, a small number of lights blinked to life within the other Abbey buildings. This was the beginning of the personal hour—the time in which Grimor would muster the men to the beach. The invasion itself, and the sack, was intended for the last service of the day, Compline.
Now, except for the slop of the waves against the hulls and the stretched creak of rigging, all was silent.
“There!” Idorn was proud of his long sight, but a lantern, waved in the night, is easy to see. Bear had made it to the meadow side of the gate.
