The Island House (60 page)

With a roar, Solwaer charged and, shoulder down, he took Cuillin in his bony midriff; knocking the monk to the ground, he kicked him where he lay. The brothers rushed to protect their abbot, and most unchristian punches were thrown as the melee developed.

But the Portsol men had axes, knives, and swords and, most of all, whips. The unequal contest claimed two lives.

At the mouth of the Pagan tomb, Solwaer shouted, “Shut them in. All of them. No food tonight. Let them think about the power of real Gods.”

The Lord of Portsol stalked away. A lake of hellfire? Rubbish. He was always the victor because
he
had luck and the Gods,
all
the Gods, were on his side. Now, too, he had a shaman’s daughter. What more protection did he need?

Something came at him out of the half-light, a white shape. For one paralyzed moment he thought it was Bear’s spirit. Like a stone down a well, Solwaer fell to the turf, hiding his head. Something brushed his skull, and all the hair on his back stood up, stiff as pigs’ bristles. He felt the air move as the thing passed on. And when he dared to look he saw the truth—it was an owl; a bird had unmanned him.

Had they seen? Solwaer stood warily. But the light was mostly gone and his men too busy herding the monks to witness what had happened. His breathing calmed.

This was a good lesson, because an owl symbolized good luck, his unfailing luck. Solwaer thought of the Shaman’s daughter; yes, she was part of his luck. He smiled.

“Brother! Wassail.” A yell.

Solwaer turned. Edor was waving to him from the gathering place, an ale horn in his hand.

“Idorn!”
Where was the man?

“Here, Lord.” The translator had been trailing Solwaer at a discreet distance. He hurried toward his master.

“What did that barbarian say to me?”

“Lord Edor offers ale and food, my lord, and he called you brother.”

Solwaer snorted. “Brother. Ha!” He was annoyed now. He craved oblivion in the arms of the girl—he’d earned that—and another night of drinking held no appeal. He grunted. “Is the tent arranged?”

Idorn nodded. “It is. And I have found clothes for the girl—a very nice dress. It was on one of the Norse ships and—”

“I don’t care where you got it. Was she pleased?”

“Oh, yes. She asked me to thank you, Lord Solwaer.” Idorn lied unflinchingly. “I’ve had her washed, too, by the nuns. I think she looks very pretty.”

Solwaer shot Idorn a hard glance.

Aware he’d strayed into delicate territory, the translator said,
“As I’m sure you will see for yourself very shortly, Lord. She is eager to please you.” He tried to sound sincere, but it had been a difficult afternoon. Signy had not been cooperative.

“She is to be guarded at the tent while I confer with Lord Edor; he can do it.” Solwaer pointed at one of the Portsol men. “You will stay with me.” He raised an arm to Edor, calling out, “I am coming, Lord Edor.”

It had been a long night, too long. Light had only briefly dipped from the sky into milky gloom, and now, all too soon, the sun had returned, and it hurt. It was hard, sometimes, not to take such things personally.

Solwaer rolled over, squinting. Was Cruach angry? Perhaps these spears in his eyes were punishment for linking the name of the mighty Sun with all the other Gods. A moment’s bravado in the full flight of the speech yesterday, and now he had something else to worry about.

Time to face the day. Solwaer managed to sit up gracelessly—more a roll than anything else—and stared around the talking place. It seemed he must have slept beside the fire trench with some of his men, and Edor was snoring among his followers on the other side. They appeared to be breathing, though Solwaer had some dim recollection of a fight between the Portsol men and the Norse some hours back. A fight in which he and Edor had jointly intervened and, of course, peace had demanded more ale be drunk.

Solwaer grimaced. It would be a slow start to the day, but that was not to be the worst of it—he’d still not enjoyed the girl and, in this state, doubted he’d be capable for some hours. A concubine had dared to mock him once after he’d found himself unmanned by ale; once, and no more than that, for life had not been pleasant for the girl afterward. But he had time enough to enjoy this one properly—all the time he might want. An incautious nod
and his skull pulsed, the pain too big to be contained behind his eyes. Solwaer groaned; focus was impossible, and his mouth—he hawked up sour phlegm and spat into the ashes—his mouth tasted of sulfur and bile. He heaved himself to his feet and kicked Idorn where he lay.

“What?” The man woke, wild-eyed. Groaning, he, too, leaned over the fire trench and retched into the ashes. Perhaps that gave Solwaer a little pleasure, but not enough.

“There’s work to be done. Wake the others.”

“Yes, Lord.” Idorn stood too quickly; the horizon tilted, and the sun wove a giddy arc in the sky. Stumbling away with half-closed eyes, he paused here and there to shake ungrateful men to their senses.

Solwaer sighed. This would be an important day and another big night afterward. But then . . .

Though work had progressed well on the clearing and refurbishment of the tomb, not all was as it should be.

Death, as life, throws up politics, and finally, Solwaer faced the truth. He could not have everything he wanted—not if he wished to control the direction of the larger game.

He forced himself to sound reasonable. “We have two things that must be resolved, Edor. First, the work on the tomb must be finished today. Then we will light the pyres and place Grimor and Magni in the chamber tonight. We cannot wait past that.”

Edor, playing at knucklebones, frowned. This, at least, was true; the corpses of all the dead were besieged by flies.

Solwaer continued, “Then there is the matter of the slaves and the overseers. Mine and yours.”

Since he had claimed Grimor’s place, Edor had been presented with nothing but problems. He was tired of sitting around on this island, talking as the good weather wasted away. He threw the
bones on the ground. “You can’t just kill them all, Solwaer. That’s very expensive.”

Solwaer stopped pacing around the dead fire pit. “Do you trust your men?”

“Yes.”
Mostly,
thought Edor.

“Will you trust them when they see the treasures we place around the brothers?”
And Fiachna.
“And Fiachna?”

“Whatever you do,
we
do not plunder the graves of our comrades.” Edor’s face was sullen.

Solwaer tried another tack. “You trust your men, and that is good. I certainly trust my own.” So much for disposing of the Portsol overseers, but there were only a few of those; they could be dealt with later. “I do not, however, trust the monks. Once at the market . . .” He left that thought hanging. “Bear—that is, Magni—and Grimor must have attendants. What I am proposing would serve the purpose, and it would be a most kingly gesture. Men would remember, after you are gone, how you honored these noble brothers.”

Kingly,
an enticing word. Generosity was the mark of greatness—wasn’t that what Grimor always used to say? But Edor shook his head, his face a bland mask. “So, no income from the monks. And the nuns won’t be worth much. A scrawny bunch.”

Solwaer rolled his eyes. Idorn had told him, finally, where the nuns had been hidden, and he’d pretended to be angry—to make sure his translator did not make another important decision without his approval—but he’d been pleased, secretly. At least their value had been protected. “You know they’ll do better when we fatten them up. It’s all in the presentation.”

Edor stared at him. “You kept one for yourself, I hear, the girl Magni wanted.” He paused, conscious of an advantage at last. “Solwaer, this will be a long and prosperous relationship. We raid, you trade, and Findnar becomes the base of our venture. Yes?”

The other man nodded warily.

“If I agree to give the monks to the brothers, I think this girl goes with them. We both make sacrifices. Mine is greater.”

“How is that? We both lose jointly the value of the monks, and I fail to see—”

Edor held up his hand. He said patiently, “My loss is greater than yours because Grimor, who was more than a brother to me, was murdered. By you. I saw it. If I told my fighters, they would not be happy.” The hypocrisy was shameless.

Unguarded words jammed behind Solwaer’s teeth. He contained them, but only just.

Edor allowed himself to sound magnanimous. “Come, why squabble over something so small? Bear’s spirit will be greatly appeased with the girl as a companion.”

Solwaer forced himself to think. Normally he did not permit sentiment to interfere with business, but this was different. Personal considerations aside, the girl had a political value that might repay risk and long-term investment. Bear’s ruined face flashed into his mind.
You’re dead. Go away.
Signy was also beautiful—an impressive addition to his household—and she was the daughter of Portsol’s former shaman. With these advantages, she would give him children who might be worthy to carry his name and his goods into the future. The only son he had now from his chief wife was not at all like him; his mother called him
sensitive.
Yes, he needed more boys, proper boys, and Signy would bear them. That said, she was just a girl, and there were always fertile girls around.

He eyed the grinning Edor, a smile securely in place. “I’ll give you my answer tonight.” He forced respect into his voice and was rewarded by the younger man’s smug expression.

Solwaer’s own smile grew wider.
Let the idiot think he’s won. And we’ll see who comes out ahead in the end.

CHAPTER 44

A
NYONE HOME
? Hello . . .”

All three heard the voice and the footsteps overhead. Dan wiped his eyes; the dust was irritating. “Who’s that?”

Freya dropped the pickax and hurried off. “Simon Fettler.”

“Who?” Dan’s question was redundant.

“Freya, there you are.” Simon sauntered down the stairs. He paused on the last step, amused. “My, my, what have you been doing?” His eyes swept past her to the brightly lit wall and the yawning hole. “Hello there, Miss MacAllister. Working hard, I see.” A cheery wave.

Embarrassed by her appearance, Katherine nodded. She put the crowbar behind her back.

“Hi, Simon.” Freya stopped a pace or two away from the visitor. She didn’t care what she looked like, but the man was a heritage architect and the place looked like a war zone. “Nice to see you.”

Simon switched his attention back to Freya. “I’ve brought something for you.” He held up a tablet computer. “Plans. As I promised.” His eyes widened further as Dan appeared from the tunnel behind the girl.

Freya brushed dust off her clothes. “Great. Let’s go upstairs. I’m sure we could all do with a break.” She sounded jumpy; she
was
jumpy. “After you.”

Her visitor turned on his heel. “Excellent.”

Freya called out to the others, “I’ll stick the kettle on. Come up when you’re ready.”

Dan nudged Katherine. “And Simon is . . . ?”