Wolfskin (62 page)

Margaret had moved away; she had her back to them, her arms tightly folded. There was tension in every corner of her slender frame.

“I hope you weren't too cruel,” Rona muttered. “The girl's a good girl, and she's been kind to me. She's had a hard time of it.”

Images of that bloody morning on the Whaleback flashed through Nessa's mind in stark and uncompromising detail. She said nothing. Time
was passing; how long would it take to ride there in the dark? Margaret was silent. Oh, quickly, answer quickly. She heard that voice again,
I want so much to live.

“Right,” said Margaret curtly, not turning. “Right. I still understand duty, no matter how low your opinion of me. You realize you can't ride with the—with the instrument, and the wolfskin. You've no hope at all of getting past the sentry posts, or of reaching the hall itself without their taking everything away from you. Perhaps you're not so clever after all.”

“Perhaps not,” whispered Nessa, torn between hope and despair. “And nor is Eyvind. Just stubborn, the two of us, and set on truth. It is Ulf who must be clever for us: Ulf, and yourself.”

“Stop it!” snapped Margaret furiously. “Don't make me weep, then I won't be able to do anything!” She walked briskly to the door, flung it open and called out into the night. “Bjorn! Ash! Come here!”

There was a sound of running feet, and a rapid exchange of words outside. Nessa bent to gather up the harp.

Rona's eyes narrowed. “What's this wee pack you bear on your back?” she asked.

Nessa had completely forgotten the sea women's gift. “That? I don't know. I was given it. Perhaps it can be left behind; it will be hard enough to ride and carry the harp safely without this as well.”

“Left behind? I shouldn't think so,” Rona said. “A gift from those who helped you in the making, was it? Best open it up now. Such bounty is rarely bestowed, and never without a purpose.”

“There's no time—”

“Open it up, Nessa.”

She slipped the small packet from her back and unrolled the strange, weedlike wrapping. The contents flowed out, iridescent, pearly, a lovely green-blue length of finely woven fabric. It was whisper-soft to the touch, and smelled faintly of salt.

“Oh!” Margaret's voice came from behind them; she stood on the threshold staring. “Oh, how beautiful!”

“A fine gift,” Rona said, lifting the gossamer stuff with careful fingers. “Beautiful, magical, and, as I said, for a purpose. You don't go out to confront a king dressed in your old working clothes. Nessa, you must wear this tonight.”

“Highly impractical,” Margaret observed, guessing at Rona's meaning. “I'd better find you a warm cloak.”

“Rona, there's no time for this!” Nessa hissed. Why didn't they under
stand it must be now, straightaway, for every moment that passed took Eyvind one step closer to death? She knew him; he would not wait for her. Was it not in the very nature of a Wolfskin to charge forward, heedless of danger, to risk all in each glorious act of challenge? Perhaps Eyvind had changed, but that crazy courage was still in him, and he could not deny it. She had seen it at the Whaleback; she had seen it again on the morning they woke in each other's arms, when he sacrificed his own freedom for hers. Eyvind would want her out of danger, away from Somerled. He would not wait for her. “Let me be, Rona! I must go now!”

“Hush, lass. This will only take a moment. Let me help you.”

The gown was of simple cut, high-waisted, narrow-sleeved, with a skirt that fell straight to the floor in graceful folds. The shimmering, shifting fabric, holding all the hues of the ocean in its fluid surface, made this a garment fit for some mysterious queen of ancient story. There was a circlet for the head, and Rona insisted this, too, be worn. Chafing to be gone, Nessa submitted to the wise woman's attentions, since to argue was to delay her departure still farther. Margaret waited, pale and silent, a warm cloak in her hands, another around her shoulders. At last, Rona turned her student around one, two, three times and announced herself satisfied.

“I can't come with you, lass,” she said, eyes shrewd but gentle as she scrutinized Nessa's face. “I believe in you; I believe you can do it. You wouldn't have come this far if all the powers of the islands hadn't been there behind you. Win the day for us, Nessa; let the truth be heard.”

Nessa bowed her head, saying nothing. If she allowed herself to think too much about what this meant, the magnitude and importance of it, it might become just too difficult to go on. But she must go on; there was nobody else to do it.

“I'll come after you,” Rona was saying. “I'll come when it's light, at a pace befitting an old woman. I hope you'll save the big fellow. There's goodness in him; it took me a while to see it, but he's got a spirit to match his stature, and a great will for survival, our warrior. I just hope the two of you don't break each other's hearts. Don't cry, Nessa. This task will need all your strength. Time enough for weeping later, when it's done.”

“The men are ready,” Margaret said. “I'll bear the wolfskin for you, if you're prepared to let it out of your hands. It's a long way, and we'll need to be quick if what you say is true.”

“Do you mean—?”

Margaret had already gone outside. Through the doorway, Nessa could see several men on horseback, waiting; some of them bore torches.

“You can't possibly go on your own,” Margaret said over her shoulder as she made her way down the steps. “In my company, you can be admitted to the hall without question. After that it will be up to you. These men will guard us on the journey. All are loyal to me.” There was a subtle emphasis on the final word. “Give me the wolfskin, I'll carry it behind me. The old woman must pass the—the other thing up to you; I cannot lay hands on it.” A visible shudder ran through her.

“Thank you,” Nessa breathed, not sure exactly why Margaret had made this decision, but recognizing the courage in it.

“What does she think she's doing?” Rona's voice was sharp; she stood in the doorway behind them, eyes fixed upon Margaret, who had mounted her own horse and was directing a man to tie the wolfskin behind her saddle. Another fellow waited to help Nessa up on a steady-looking gray mare. “She's not planning to go with you? She shouldn't be riding. Tell her, Nessa.”

“What?”

“Tell her what I said.”

The message was passed on. Margaret's lips tightened, her face turning still paler in the torchlight.

“You think I care about that?” she snapped, looking straight at Rona. “It's nothing. It's less than nothing. Now come on, we're wasting time.”

“Foolish girl,” Rona muttered. But she said no more, merely cradled the little harp in her arms while Nessa mounted the horse, then passed the instrument up to her pupil. Shadow danced around the horses' feet, setting them astir with her excited barking. Guard stood on the steps beside the old woman, and her gnarled fingers stroked his head abstractedly as she muttered ancient words of blessing under her breath. The horses moved out of the yard and away across the moonlit fields to the east. Rona watched until they were hidden in darkness, and then she returned slowly to the fire, Guard padding after her. She delved deep in a little crock set on the hearth, and scattered a handful of dried weed into the flames. As the pungent smell of the herbs of divination rose into the warm air within the cottage, Rona closed her eyes and summoned the trance. There would be no sleep tonight.

 

Somerled gazed at Brother Tadhg with chill eyes. “Why should we hear you?” he inquired. “You've been in these people's pockets all along, Engus's right-hand man, with your skewed translations and your pathetic attempts
to conceal your spying under the cloak of spreading your ridiculous faith. The whole case against Eyvind is based on the way the islanders ensnared and corrupted him. Any evidence from you in his support can only strengthen that case, surely.”

Olaf turned his searching gaze on the brother. “How did you come by that injury to your face?” he asked bluntly. “A priest, of whatever persuasion, should never be the target of acts of violence. Are we to take this as evidence that Somerled is right, that you are not in fact a holy brother but some kind of spy?”

Brother Tadhg smiled. “No, my lord. My only allegiance is to God, and to truth, for the ultimate truth rests in God. I see here tonight a man on trial, a man I know lives by truth because he can conceive of no other way to act. I see him trapped by falsehood and deception into a position where he cannot prevail. Perhaps I cannot change that. But my faith compels me to speak on his behalf, since his brother has been prevented from doing so. As for the injury, I came by it on my way here. You all know the dangers that lurk by the wayside for lone travelers in these parts, dangers the islanders knew nothing of until your kind made this place your home. It seems even priests are not immune from such attacks.”

“This is…unfortunate,” Olaf Sveinsson muttered, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized the priest. He turned to Somerled. “What do you think? Shall we hear the fellow?”

“What do you mean, “prevented?'” Suddenly Harald Silvertongue's voice had changed. He sat down heavily. “The word was that Eirik Hallvardsson was asked to come here in support of his brother, and refused to do so. That's what I was told.”

Somerled opened his mouth to reply, but Tadhg was quicker. His voice was quite soft, but resonant with long practice at psalms and prayers.

“Eirik was on his way,” Tadhg said. “Both he and his companion, Thord, were much concerned when I brought them the news that Eyvind was in a position of such danger. They intended to depart that same evening. If they have not yet arrived, it can only be that someone stopped them, perhaps the same someone who attempted to assault me on my way here. Not being a Wolfskin myself, I'm afraid I fled; very fortunately, I was close to the lakeshore, and while I can swim a little, my assailant lacked that skill. So here I am, somewhat damp and bruised, but otherwise none the worse for wear. God watches over his children. I imagine Eirik and Thord put up a great deal more of a fight; it would have taken many men to subdue them.”

“Wait a moment,” Somerled said sharply. “What do you mean,
you
took them the news? News of what, exactly? When was this?”

“I came to the safe harbor in the evening, the day before King Engus and his household were slain. I went straight to find Eirik, and gave him the message before Brother Lorcan and I continued on to our lodgings. Eirik and Thord were readying themselves as we left.”

“Message?” snapped Somerled. “What message?”

Tadhg glanced at Eyvind. “I had encountered your Wolfskin earlier that day, making his way here to the settlement. The poor fellow had completely lost his memory of the winter months. But he was determined to find you and do his best to deter you from any attack on the Folk.”

“I see.” There was a dangerous note in Somerled's voice. “Do you know who sheltered Eyvind during this mysterious absence from our settlement? Was he indeed harbored by these two witches we hear of, the old and the young?”

Eyvind found he was holding his breath; he took care not to look at the priest.

“I know nothing of that,” Tadhg said. “I spent the best part of the winter on Holy Island; I saw no trace of your Wolfskin, nor did I hear mention of him all that time. I was most surprised to encounter him on Engus's land. More than surprised: he nearly broke my arm before he realized I was no warrior.”

“Indeed.” In a single word, Somerled managed to convey both disbelief and scorn. “Did Eyvind speak to you of Ulf's death? What did he say of that?”

“My lord,” Tadhg replied calmly, “it was common knowledge among the Folk that you yourself were responsible for that deed.” A gasp went around the hall; hands moved to sword hilts, as if this small, mild man were more threatening than any monster in their midst. “It made sense. They knew their own kind had no part in it. King Engus conducted a most thorough investigation; even his closest comrades and kin were interrogated at length. Engus knew you to be both ambitious and ruthless. It was clear to him that you had set up the murder to win your brother's position as leader here, and at the same time to incite your people to acts of violence against the Folk. I congratulate you. You succeeded on both counts.”

“Young man,” Olaf Sveinsson's tone was incredulous, “have you no fear at all for your own safety? A fellow can't simply walk into a king's hall and call him some sort of—some sort of—”

“Butcher?” Somerled supplied the word coolly. “Priest, we have heard
your ramblings and, frankly, they make even less sense than Eyvind's. I remind myself that you are not of our people and have little understanding of our ways. Yours is a soft faith, a comfortable faith, based on love and forgiveness, gentleness and inaction. We endured a perilous voyage to make our way to these shores. We are a proud and warlike people, whose deeds of courage in battle, whose raids and conquests are known and feared from Halogaland to Saxony, from Birka to Novgorod. We stride forward boldly, we vanquish the most tenacious of foes, we seize rich plunder, and set our stamp on new lands where we will. Look at our Wolfskins. They are warriors of godlike strength; indeed, they are inspired by Thor himself in their valiant deeds of combat. Odin, the trickster, gives us our cunning, our cleverness, and our determination. If we have triumphed here in the Light Isles, if we have deposed King Engus and his hapless underlings, that is no more than the natural defeat of a weaker breed by a stronger. I will speak no more of my brother's death; I relive the pain of that day every time the tale is told. But I will say one thing. In a place like this, remote, harsh, virtually untenanted, there is only one kind of leader who will succeed. It is not a leader who dreams and philosophizes and keeps company with Christian priests. It is a man who is unafraid to take his people forward into their new world, a chieftain who keeps control, and knows enemy from friend. All that I am doing tonight, little priest, is being that leader. Without firm authority, there can be only chaos. That is why this case must be decided quickly, the penalty determined, the sentence carried out at dawn, in accordance with the new laws I have decreed. Men who oppose my rule have no place on the island. Men who act against me can expect to pay the price of their treachery with their lives. This is a frontier realm, the farthest point of man's voyaging, a place from which there is no going on and no going back. And I am king here. Would any man among you dispute that?”