Wolfskin (63 page)

Nobody said a word. It seemed to Eyvind that Somerled had spoken a terrible kind of sense. After Ulf's death, he himself had believed for a little that his friend was the only possible leader here. There were other chieftains like him back home. Such men ruled by fear. The look in their eyes, the edge in their voices were enough to command instant obedience. Yet, tonight, four other men besides himself had summoned up the courage to speak against the king. It was not enough. He pondered, dimly, what sort of chance the Wolfskins might have against the fifty-odd other men who were gathered in the hall tonight. They could create havoc, certainly, crack more
than a few skulls before they were brought down. He thought about the shackles, and how he would go about felling a man when he could scarcely walk. Foolish, even to consider such a possibility. If this could not be won by truth and courage, it most certainly would not be won by another descent into violence and blood. His fellow Wolfskins had already put themselves at grave risk on his behalf; they had done so even though they thought him a traitor. He must not set them in still greater peril. Perhaps it was just as well Eirik had not come.

“Eyvind?”

Someone was speaking to him. His mind had wandered; while he thought of escape, the arbiters had risen and retired to a smaller chamber, and now only Olaf Sveinsson was left. Around the hall, ale was being poured, and the place buzzed with speculative chatter. Tadhg still stood there, his arm now in the grip of the heavily armed Thorvald; Gudbrand stood ready to convey Eyvind himself back to the cell.

“Eyvind?” Olaf spoke again. “It's time to go now. I don't think you heard the king. The two of you must return to your place of confinement until we reach our decision.” Olaf turned to Gudbrand. “Treat them well. Give them food and drink. No rough stuff, understand? This man is sick, he's close to passing out. Don't forget he took a knock to the head that morning at the Whaleback, and that was after a long winter of imprisonment in Odin only knows what conditions. Go on, take them down now.”

“Wait—you can't lock up the priest—” Eyvind blurted out, alarmed to see the way Thorvald hustled his captive out into the hallway. “I'm the prisoner here, not him—he hasn't done anything—'”

“The king's orders,” Olaf said. “Believe me, I don't like this at all. If there were but one credible voice to speak on your behalf, Eyvind, one unbiased witness whose account could not be challenged, I would demand an extension to the hearing, with time for further evidence to be gathered. As it stands, your case is very weak, son. We can take little account of the testimony of your fellow Wolfskins, bound through old loyalties to speak up in your support. This priest, who was so close to the ear of King Engus, is not an impartial witness. As for your own account, you are a guileless fellow, at times almost too truthful. I think you must prepare yourself for the worst.”

Eyvind bowed his head. “Thank you for your honesty,” he managed through an increasing fog of dizziness. “The priest…can you try to ensure he is released? He is a good man, he has taken a risk to help me, and—”

“Believe me,” Olaf said quietly, “there are times when I would give
much to be back in Rogaland. My influence here is far less than you imagine. Go on, now. Take what rest you can.”

 

Tadhg was saying a prayer. Eyvind heard it in snatches, through the buzzing in his ears and the throbbing in his head. The sound of it was pleasing, something about a shepherd who kept his flock in right ways, leading them to sweet water and green pastures. The words reminded him of Hammarsby, the fair meadows rich with the myriad hues of spring flowers, the sound of Karl whistling as he checked the progress of his thriving new lambs, the clank of a bucket as Thorgerd drew water from the well. He saw his mother sitting on a bench in the sun, her hair pale wheaten-gold under the neat lace-edged cap, and dark Oksana by her side, brow creased as she concentrated on some fine detail of embroidery. Eirik's small sons played about the women's feet. It was another life, another world. Tadhg was talking about death now, how the shepherd would lead his lambs safely through its shadow into a place where God himself dwelt, a place where there was no more darkness. Odin's bones, this headache was fierce indeed. It drove out all hope of reasonable thought.

“Eyvind?” The brother had finished his prayer. His voice came clearly from the cell next-door, which had the same barred door as his own. “Eyvind, is all well with you?”

“Sorry,” Eyvind mumbled, moving closer to the door grille. “My head hurts; my ears are full of noise. Can't seem to…”

“Have they given you water?” Tadhg was keeping his voice low; they had been instructed not to speak to one another, but so far the guards had taken no notice. “Drink that, it may help you. Then lie down; bring your pallet up to the door. I want to talk to you. Have you done that? Good. Lie quietly, breathe slowly. I want you to tell me something, Eyvind. We have a friend in common; you know the one I refer to, I think.”

“Mmm,” grunted Eyvind, who had done as he was told and now lay on his back with his head on the straw pallet, his knees bent up awkwardly, for the cell was far too small to allow such a tall man to stretch out his full length. Tomorrow, perhaps they would lay him in the earth. Then, he would get as much room as he wanted.

“This friend, I sense, still pursues the truth, though you and I appear to have reached the end of our road,” Tadhg said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

“Mm.” Nessa. Where was she now? He prayed that she would not come
here, he implored Thor and Odin and Freyr and any other god there was to take her away safely somewhere, so she might never again come within Somerled's grasp.

“So, all is not lost,” Tadhg breathed. “She is alive?”

“Not here,” Eyvind murmured. “Best…not here.”

“You think our friend would agree with you? We are all fighters for truth, Eyvind, the three of us.”

“Best…finish. In the morning. Not you. Not her. Just me…” Thor's hammer, now he was going to be sick; foul-tasting matter welled in his throat. He crawled to the corner where the bucket still stood and retched as if he would disgorge his very entrails. If he had to face death, if this were indeed his last night on earth, this was surely a most pitiful way to pass the time left to him.

“Eyvind? Are you all right? Eyvind!”

For a long time he could not answer. At length the spasm died down; he crept back to the pallet and curled himself up on it. The headache had retreated; he could hear more clearly now, though he kept his eyes firmly shut, for even the dim light from a lantern down the hallway was like knives in the skull.

“Eyvind?” Tadhg's voice was anxious.

“I'm all right. I just want…sleep…”

“This is a sorry business. Still, you must not lose hope. We are all God's children, and his hand stretches out over every one of us. For myself, I do not fear death. The manner of it, that gives me pause; I may be a priest, but I am still a man, and I had not thought to meet such a violent end. But I will go to it open-eyed, if our Father determines this is my time. I will walk forward unafraid to meet my Maker. For you, this is another matter, I know. You do not share my own faith, and I have no intention of spending my last night on earth persuading you to it, although you are in all my prayers, Eyvind. Our heavenly Father watches over you, as he does over each of us, priest, warrior, fisherman, and king alike. Perhaps both of us will die tomorrow. You spoke to me once of your god, Thor. What does the afterlife hold for you, Wolfskin?”

Eyvind smiled grimly in the half dark. “If we die on the field of battle, we are assured of an eternity spent at the god's right hand. Thor's warrior women descend to bear such loyal fighters home to Valhöll, to feast there among the great ones for all time. It will be another matter for me, I think.” His voice shook. “Thor abandoned me. He ceased to call me. In time, I accepted that; I learned there was another path for me to tread, the one I
followed in returning here to confront Somerled with the truth. Now it seems that path was short indeed, and I have failed utterly in my efforts to stand up for what is right. I find I cannot, after all, face death bravely as a Wolfskin should.” Nessa was in his mind, her wide gray eyes, her sweet lips parting to his own, the soft, tender warmth of her body. “I want so much to live,” he whispered fiercely, sudden tears flooding his eyes. “More than I've ever wanted anything before. I cannot die now, not when this task is yet unachieved, not when there are so many paths still to explore…I'm not ready to die, Tadhg. How can I leave her on her own? And yet…and yet, if it made the difference between keeping her safe or putting her at risk, I would give up my life gladly. That probably seems foolish to you.”

There was a little silence.

“The greatest love is the love of God, Eyvind,” Tadhg said at length. “That underlies all other loves; it is more powerful and binding than any earthly passion. Still, I understand you. If you have given your affection, your devotion, your loyalty to anyone on these islands, it does not surprise me in the least that it is to…this friend of ours. She does inspire strong feelings. You know, I suppose, that she is a priestess of her own faith?”

“Shh,” hissed Eyvind, terrified that the guards would overhear. Whatever he did, he must not put Nessa at any farther risk. “Yes, of course I know that.”

“I say this only to caution you. Should you survive, there might not be quite the future you envisage when you speak so passionately of your will to live.”

“That's not important,” Eyvind muttered. “Let us speak no more of this.”

“I expect they'll call us soon enough,” said Tadhg placidly. “Perhaps there's time for another prayer. Let me see…”

“Say the one about the shepherd again,” Eyvind whispered.

The soft voice began its flow of fair words anew, weaving a picture of a place where love and peace and beauty walked hand in hand, where hurts were forgotten and wounds salved, where everything was as it should be. It seemed to Eyvind like a sweet bell measuring out the time of shadows.

There were whispers in the dark, furtive voices telling of something that must not be known beyond the walls of this shadowy place of captivity. It seemed they believed him asleep, huddled as he was on the straw pallet, his face turned to the wall. But Eyvind was a hunter, and a hunter hears what other men cannot. They were discussing the manner of his death. Something had changed. Something had happened, and now no formal decision would be handed down, no fitting remarks would bring the hearing to its close. There would be no execution at dawn. Instead, there would be a covert snuffing out, in darkness. Eyvind strained to catch every word, his pulse racing, his heart thumping. He could not move, he could not alert his fellow captive, for it was vital they not realize he was awake.

“…completely unexpected, and unbelievably inconvenient. What does he think he's doing here?” That voice was Somerled's, and there was an edge to it that Eyvind knew well, and disliked much.

“How many are with him, my lord?”

“The messenger said thirty at least…straight on from Silver Bay…certainly before dawn.”

“Right, my lord. So what do we do now?”

“We can't wait, this must be cleared up before they get here. And cleared up in a way that leaves no adverse impression. You understand me?”

“Yes, my lord.” That voice was familiar too: one of those thugs from the knarr, quicker with his fists than with his wits. “You want him finished off quiet-like.”

“It's not quite as simple as that,” Somerled said. “I'm not asking you to commit murder; that would leave too many unanswered questions. This
will be a straightforward case of attempted escape, where your efforts to apprehend the prisoner very unfortunately ended in his demise. Keep it behind closed doors, and don't make too much noise. Send a man up to fetch me when it's over.”

“But—my lord, you know the fellow's reputation. He's a Wolfskin, after all. What if he—?” This was a different voice, and tinged with genuine fear.

“If he frightens you so much, bind his hands before you start,” Somerled said coolly. “Just make sure you untie them afterward, or it won't look good for you. I don't want it to be said that we beat prisoners here. Now get on with it, will you? There's no saying when our unexpected visitors may arrive, and I need to be sure we receive them in an appropriate manner. You appear hesitant. Do I detect some reluctance to carry out this order? The man's a coward and a traitor. What are you waiting for?”

“My lord, I'm wondering—”

There was the sound of a door closing, then silence. Eyvind waited a moment, senses alert to any sound. It seemed all had gone out, for now at least.

“Eyvind?” The hiss came from the adjoining cell.

“Yes, I heard them.” Eyvind was getting to his feet, forcing his cramped limbs to move, wondering what might be done against a whole group of assailants while his feet were still hobbled.

“You must fight them,” Brother Tadhg whispered fiercely. “Fight, and survive. There's hope in this somewhere; he senses defeat, or he would not act thus. You can do it, warrior.”

“You, bidding me fight?” Eyvind breathed as he clenched and unclenched his fists, stretched his aching shoulders, stepped back from the grilled doorway so he might have some advantage when they struck. “A Christian priest? I would laugh, if I could spare the breath for it.”

“You are neither Christian nor a priest,” observed Tadhg dryly. “You must fight for me, and for Nessa, and for the truth. You must fight for Somerled. If he kills you, it will lie like a curse on him all his days. Be strong, Wolfskin. I hear them coming.”

Eyvind stood very still. His head was clear now, though the light that flared suddenly down the hallway—a torch? a lantern?—seared his eyes. He waited, poised for the moment of attack. The shackled feet could be used to advantage, if he were quick enough. He judged by the steps that there were five or six men. They did not believe him quite as weakened as rumor had suggested, then. It seemed his reputation was not entirely lost. He paced his breathing in readiness, slow, steady, each inhalation a gather
ing of strength. They would unbar the door, and possibly goad him out with clubs or sticks, and those waiting outside would likely use staves to topple him. Then it would be a beating, savage and quick. They wanted no noise. No evidence. That sounded familiar. Very well, he would make as much noise as he possibly could before they silenced him. If Grim heard him, if Erlend or Holgar recognized his voice, they might come. If Olaf Sveinsson knew bloody murder was taking the place of justice here, surely he would intervene, whatever his fear of Somerled.

The men were coming closer, their attempt at covert approach ludicrously inept. Clearly these were seamen or laborers, not warriors and hunters. Eyvind waited for the hands on the grille, the creak of his cell door opening. But the door that opened was Brother Tadhg's, and the sound that rang out in the silence of the dark prison was that of a blow, and a gasp of pain and shock as the priest was hurled against the stone wall. He heard Tadhg's voice, breathless and uneven, reciting words Eyvind had heard before, though he did not understand them.

“
Pater noster qui es in coelis
—” The prayer broke with another wrenching indrawn breath, then resumed again, threadier now but full of determination. “—
sanctificetur nomen tuum…fiat voluntas tua
…aagh…”

“Stop it!” Eyvind yelled in outrage, fists now gripping the bars of his cell, face pressed to the grille, straining to see. “Stop that at once! Have you lost all shred of decency, that you assault a priest who is guilty of no crime but honesty? Leave that man alone, or in Thor's name I'll have the bars off this cage and make bloody mincemeat of every last one of you!” He rattled the bars, and felt a red heat rising in him, a fierce grimace contorting his features. “It's me you're supposed to kill, you godforsaken apologies for men, not him! Let him go at once!”

He could not see Tadhg, but he heard the blows. The halting prayer went on, in his own tongue now.

“…though death overshadow me…yet you lead me forth in the darkness…you are…you are my strength and comfort…you…”

Odin's bones, they would kill the brother right here before him; he thought he could hear ribs cracking. He could not allow this. Thor must not allow it.

Eyvind threw back his head and roared. He thundered the name of the god in a great outcry of fury and frustration, and under his grip the grilled door began to break from its hinges, half falling outward. He clung to it, struggling to gain steady footing in his shackles. Quick as the slice of a butcher's cleaver, several pairs of hands gripped his arms, closing iron rings
about his wrists, joined by a length of chain which fastened him, firmly and neatly, to the grille itself. The last hinge gave; the door fell to the ground with Eyvind sprawled upon it, neatly bound in place, arms held firm by the manacles, face pressed against cold metal. A trap, it had been, a lure to bring him within reach. Clever. Too clever by far for any of these oafs. He thought he knew who had devised it.

“Are you all right?” Eyvind called out, and heard a gasping “Yes” before the first blow fell across his back. He fought as well as he might, twisting and writhing, wrenching at his bonds, flailing up and back with his bound feet. At least they had left the priest now, in order to concentrate on him. There was a kind of pattern in the way they went about it, as if they were under instructions to minimize visible damage while ensuring the result, eventually, would be as Somerled had requested. Somewhere not too far away the prayer went on.

“Thy house is a place where all paths run straight, Lord. If I walk forward in truth and courage, then in the end, that will be my one sure shelter…”

A stunning impact on the temple brought the headache back to throbbing life. There seemed to be blood in his eye. The opportunity to do as Brother Tadhg recommended and fight back was somewhat limited, with the wrist bonds holding him face down on the collapsed grille, and the shackles restricting the freedom of his legs.
Fight for Nessa.
Think of her. Think of life and a future.
All paths run straight…truth and courage…
Fight for her, and fight for truth. And when he could not fight anymore, make noise, a lot of noise, for they'd said someone was coming, someone whose arrival gave Somerled pause, and if he could just hold on long enough…

“Thor!” Eyvind yelled. “Thor be my strength! Odin be my guard and shield! Freyr give me the power of your manhood! Beat me, would you, you cowards?” A club caught him a glancing blow on the left ear; his head buzzed as if a swarm of angry bees had lodged behind his eyes. “Somerled!” He shouted with all the power left in his lungs. “Somerled, come down and fight your own battles! Kill me in the darkness, would you? Coward! Call yourself a king? Come down and fight!”

“Help!” Another voice was shouting now. “Help! Murder!” His prayer at an end, the little brother was making his own contribution to the general commotion, cracked ribs or no. “Help! They're killing the Wolfskin!”

“Silence that fellow!” hissed someone, and there was a thud, and the priest's shouting halted abruptly.

“Curse you!” Eyvind gasped, kicking up and back with his two feet together, and hearing a pained grunt as the random blow struck vulnerable flesh. “Curse the lot of you, you piss-weak vermin! Fight like men, damn you! Or do you save your blows solely for holy men and captives in chains? Free me of these shackles and I'll gladly take on the lot of you, and by Thor's hammer, when I'm done there'll be just enough left of you to throw a dog a bone or two for his supper! Let me up, curse you! Somerled! Somerled, come down and face me, come down and face the truth of the oath you once swore! Come down,
brother!”

“Quick!” someone said sharply. “Give me that hammer! You, shut your big mouth! Nobody's coming to save you, not Thor, not Somerled, not anyone. You're a dirty traitor, and a liar too.”

A boot connected with Eyvind's jaw; he felt the blow vibrating through his skull, and a splintering of teeth. Blood filled his mouth; it became impossible to form words. Nonetheless, he went on making noises, since that seemed the only form of resistance left to him. Someone was sitting on his legs, holding them down however hard he strained to free himself.

“Sounds like some crazy wild animal,” someone grunted. “Takes them like that, I've heard. Wolfskins, I mean.”

“Shut him up, will you?” This one's voice was shaking. “He's giving me the creeps, howling like some mad dog. Where's the cursed hammer? One good blow to the back of the skull should do the trick—ah, here it is—”

There was an instant of silence, in which Eyvind drew a single long breath, and caught a single image in his pain-wracked head.
My hand in yours
…Now the blow would fall, and this agony would be over.

There was a crash, and a sudden flood of light as the door at the end of the hallway was thrown abruptly open.

“What in Odin's name do you think you're doing?” The voice was Somerled's, needle-sharp and dangerous. “Get that fellow up at once, and bring him out to the hall. We have at least some modicum of fair play here, one hopes.”

“But—” someone spluttered.

“What has happened here?” This was another voice, Olaf Sveinsson's, in which the shock was almost palpable. “Has this man been beaten?”

There was a brief silence, during which Eyvind felt his hands released from the grille. The iron bracelets remained; the heavy chain between them, two handspans long, prevented much in the way of movement.

“He was making trouble,” someone mumbled. “Shouting, rattling the bars, crazy Wolfskin stuff.”

“But he's tied up.” Olaf's tone was cold with disapproval.

“We were told—” the guard began, and Somerled's voice cut in like a lethal blade.

“Had you something to say?”

“Er—no my lord. It's just—what about the priest?”

“You're telling me you've managed to damage him as well? How very careless. Is he dead?”

A groan from somewhere farther down the hallway indicated this was not so. Spitting out blood and shards of broken tooth, Eyvind found his voice. “Let him go. I will face whatever penalty you have decreed. I'm not afraid to die. But let the sentence be carried out in daylight, before the men of the settlement, not furtively here in darkness. And let the priest go free. He means you no harm.”

There was another silence. The men hauled Eyvind to his feet. He could hear Brother Tadhg coughing behind him, a wrenching, rasping sound.

“These men will pay the price for their misguided attempt to take the law into their own hands.” Somerled's voice was calm and precise. “That was very foolish. Very foolish indeed. The tide of opinion is against you, Eyvind; this is simply a sign of that.”

“Why have you come here?” Eyvind asked as the world spun around him, threatening to blur into the blankness of unconsciousness. The faces of his guards had turned pasty white. “Don't tell me you've developed a sudden passion for justice. Or did I finally shout loudly enough to awaken your conscience?”

“Stop trying to be clever,” Somerled snapped. “It's never suited you. We have unexpected visitors, and it's become necessary to show them that you have come to no harm in my custody, thus far.” He glanced at the guards. “Bring them up!”

The hall blazed with light. For all it was so late, perhaps close to the first predawn brightening of the sky, few had gone to their beds. Ale cups clinked, platters were strewn on the tables, and a litter of mutton bones and crusts of bread showed a repast had been taken with enthusiasm. There were forty or fifty men assembled there, most of the complement of Somerled's household, and a few women as well. The arbiters had returned. They were not seated calmly at their table now, but stood behind it, their
expressions ranging from mild surprise to complete disbelief as they stared at the small group of travelers who had entered through the great rear doors and now stood waiting quietly in the middle of the hall. As Eyvind was dragged forward to the place immediately before Somerled's chair, he looked back down the hall and straight into Margaret's furious, dark eyes. Two burly guards flanked her, with hands poised on sword hilts; others stood behind. They were facing outward: her own protective force, then, not some warders set to confine her.