Wolfskin (64 page)

“My lady,” Eyvind managed, not understanding at all what was happening, but seeing in her wan features a shadow of something deeply reassuring. It was, he thought, the quality that Ulf had possessed in abundance, and which Somerled had never been able to grasp: the understanding of what was right. He could hear Tadhg's labored breathing; the little brother stood close by him, a guard at his elbow as if he, too, were on trial here.

“These men have been beaten.” Margaret's tone was crisp and challenging. “I thought you said Eyvind was being held, awaiting a verdict. He's bleeding. The priest is covered in bruises. Has it come to this, that we set thugs on our prisoners now, instead of observing basic rules of fair play? I am ashamed to see this, ashamed for myself, and ashamed for Ulf, who always sought to carry out his responsibilities in a manner befitting a chieftain of Rogaland. What has come over you? Olaf? Harald? How could you condone such a blatant misuse of authority?”

Feet shuffled; throats were cleared. Somerled had moved up close to Eyvind, in front of the table. He, it seemed, was not afraid to respond.

“My dear, as I said, I did not expect you here, and I do not understand why you have come such a long way tonight, in darkness. It is a taxing ride for a woman; you should rest now, and leave this to the men of the household to settle. It is a sorry affair, scarcely fitting for a lady's ears. I'm sure you are quite exhausted. A private corner, a warm fire…In the morning, I'll explain all this. If my men have been a little overzealous, and left the Wolfskin with a bruise or two, it is only their distaste for the treachery he has demonstrated that drove them to it. Please allow me to escort you to your own quarters, my lady, as is appropriate.” He stepped forward, smiling.

“Appropriate?” Margaret's tone was icy calm, the very echo of Somerled's own. “I'm not sure we agree on the definition of that word, brother-in-law. Is it appropriate to attack a priest, even one of the Christian persuasion? Do you hear the rasp of that man's breathing? Can you see how hard it is for him to stand upright? Shame on all of you. You have indeed
become blind to the ways of justice, which my husband demonstrated so ably, the ways that we all observed at home in Rogaland. What is the Wolfskin's offense? Why is he bound and shackled, he who was ever your most loyal companion? Tell us.”

Somerled frowned. “My lady, this is not at all—”

“Appropriate, yes, you told me. I want answers, Somerled. If you will not give them, perhaps Eyvind can tell me himself, if his sojourn in your custody has not taken away his power of speech.”

Somerled responded immediately. “Everyone knows what he did. He's a liar and a traitor. Under my laws, a traitor pays with his life. There is no more to be said.”

“I see,” said Margaret coolly. “And I suppose, in this formal hearing, Eyvind has been allotted his time to speak? What account did he give of himself?”

“He confessed,” snapped Somerled. “He confessed to everything. The case is clear-cut. Alas, our old friend's mind has been completely warped by the winter he spent in the custody of these island folk. He's a danger to himself and to all of us. It saddens me to have to tell you this.”

Margaret took a step forward, and now Eyvind could see that there was somebody else standing behind her, a slight, dark-cloaked figure bearing some sort of burden in her arms. His scalp prickled; his heart leaped.

“What reason did you have for these actions, Eyvind?” Margaret asked quietly. “You were ever the bravest of warriors, and the truest. My husband held you in high esteem. Why did you try to stop the attack on the Whaleback?”

“It's not necessary that we hear all this rubbish again—” put in Harald Silvertongue angrily.

“Be silent!” The whiplash of Olaf Sveinsson's voice startled them all. “Is not this Lord Ulf's widow? The lady Margaret must be given whatever details she wishes to know. The lady is right; we've been forgetting what is correct here. Speak up, Wolfskin. Perhaps this account will distress you, my lady,” he glanced at Margaret, brow furrowed in concern, “but you should hear it.”

“Go on, Eyvind.” Margaret's voice was calm.

“The attack was wrong,” Eyvind said faintly.
Step aside a little. Who is that who stands behind you?
“It was against all the principles of right engagement. The folk of the Whaleback were in mourning. And there was a ring-sworn treaty; Engus intended to keep peace, as Ulf himself did. I only tried to stop an act of barbaric slaughter.”

“And?” Margaret was looking at him with something of Somerled's own ferocity in her gaze. It was as if she knew the truth already.

“And…and I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but it was Somerled who killed your husband. I know this is true, and I have tried to show it, but they say I have no real proof, no true witness. They say I might just as well have done it myself. I'm sorry, my lady, for I have failed here. I have tried to seek justice for Ulf—”

“Nonsense, of course,” said Somerled crisply. “The rambling product of a confused mind. Our friend here was always susceptible to female influence. A sorceress caught him in her net. Very sad. He has no case, no witnesses, nothing at all. Ridiculous, the whole effort, and a sorry thing to see, for you are right on one point: this was once the foremost of our warriors, and the truest of friends. Such is the evil these island folk can set in a man's spirit. Weak as they seem, they are still dangerous. We must not forget that. Now, it grows late. Shall we retire, and consider this in the morning?” For all the confidence of his tone, Somerled seemed edgy; Eyvind had learned to read him long ago, and he saw the little twitch in the cheek, the tapping of fingertips against the thigh, the signs of unease. Somerled was nervous. What had they said before in the darkness? Thirty men coming? Somerled had been warned of surprise visitors; it was clearly someone other than Margaret he expected.

“It would be cruel indeed for a brother to kill his brother, so that he could take those things his brother possessed,” Margaret said. Her voice was less steady than before, and her face was sickly pale, but she held her head high. “Cruel and unnatural. Should such a crime be committed, it is hard for me to imagine what a just penalty might be for the perpetrator. Such an act is a horror far greater, I believe, than an attempt to stop a misguided attack on a settlement of sleeping folk, who have nothing in their hearts but grief for lost kin, and a will for peace. Do you not think so, you who sit in judgment here?” She turned, looking each of them in the eye: Olaf Sveinsson, Harald Silvertongue, the sea captain, the Wolfskin guards, the men of the court standing motionless around the hall, riveted by the unfolding drama. It was very quiet, so quiet that the rustle of small creatures could be heard in the roof thatch. Last of all, she looked at Somerled. “Do you not think so?” she asked, and her voice was as steady as a rock now, and as hard.

“What I think is immaterial,” said Somerled smoothly, “since no such crime is under consideration here, and for all Eyvind's wild accusations, there is not a single unbiased voice that can speak out in support of him.”

Margaret smiled. It was a smile to chill the very marrow: the smile on the face of a player as she moves the last piece into place, in anticipation of certain victory. “I see,” she said sweetly. “I feel a little faint, brother-in-law. I haven't been well lately. I think I might sit down. A cup of water, maybe. Thank you, Ash,” she added as one of her men hurried up with a high-backed chair. She moved aside and seated herself gracefully; it was only those very close, such as Eyvind, who could observe how her hands were shaking. “As you see,” Margaret went on, “I have not come alone. This is the lady Nessa, heir to King Engus of the Light Isles. She has traveled here in my safe keeping. Here is your witness, Wolfskin. Here is your voice of truth.” Margaret closed her eyes a moment, swaying where she sat. Olaf Sveinsson moved swiftly to fill a cup and set it in her hand.

The cloaked figure moved forward until she stood alone in the center of the hall, facing Somerled. She slipped the dark, hooded cape from her shoulders. A gasp went up from the crowd, for it seemed an unearthly light clothed her slender person, a light made up of all the subtle colors of the islands: pearl gray, summer sky blue, deep wave green, the pale gold of sand under spring sun, the dark hue of a seal's shining skin. Clad in a shimmering silken gown, her long, brown hair smooth as an otter's pelt, Nessa stood straight and slight before them, her wide, clear gaze meeting Somerled's with no sign of fear. The garland on her head was of finely woven weed, studded with little shells, wound with fern and bracken and the first blush-pink flowers of the season. Eyvind could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart, the joyous, terrified surge of his blood.

“I am Nessa, priestess of the mysteries.” The voice was as clear as some sweet chime; the thrill of its power made every nerve quiver, every tongue fall silent. “I am the last of the royal line in the Light Isles. I speak for King Engus and for his kinsmen, cruelly slain as they mourned their dead. I speak for the women and children of our people, held captive in this settlement. I speak for the ancestors, for the ancient powers that dwell in the cairns and the standing stones, for the beings of deep earth and ocean surge; I speak for every creature that inhabits this fair place, and for those who lie slain upon its green fields, their heads sundered from their bodies, their spirits roaming unquiet. I speak for all. What I bear with me is the last, undeniable witness: the voice that must tell deepest truth.”

Her slender fingers moved to pluck the dark cloth from the thing she bore in her arms. Before it was yet uncovered, it sounded, shivering.
I am…Ulf
…

There was another gasp of shock, palpable as a gust of chill wind
around the hall. Faces paled; hands moved to make signs of protection. And under cover of the general consternation, Somerled moved. Knife in hand, he lunged toward Nessa with a suddenness that spoke of a Wolfskin's tuition.

The voice came, true, strong, a war trumpet sounding in the heart.
Burn bright! Strike true!
Eyvind scarcely remembered, afterward, how he had done what he did. The leap came almost before the thought, quick as the final spring of the wolf to seize and snap the quarry's neck. He jumped two-footed, bridging the gap before Somerled could lay a hand on her, and with a jerk and a twist brought the king to his knees. A flick of the hands, a sudden sharp tug, and Somerled was drawn back hard against Eyvind's chest with the short chain that joined the Wolfskin's wrists pulled taut around his neck. Eyvind's hands were crossed, his arms holding the iron links tight enough to threaten choking, but not to stop the breath entirely.

“Any of you lays a hand on her, and Somerled dies!” His voice rang out across the hall. “Any of you moves, and I show you how much damage a Wolfskin can do when he sets his mind to it. Now hold your tongues and listen, you blind fools!” He dared to look at Nessa then, where she stood grave and calm not three paces away from him. So close, so close, and it was he who had taught Somerled the trick with the knife and the sudden dash.

“Take what time you need,” Eyvind told her quietly, and now he could not stop his voice from shaking. “I won't let them hurt you. I promise.”

Nessa nodded, and a tiny, tentative smile curved her mouth, accompanied by the faintest rose-pink blush in the cheeks. It was a smile completely at odds with the solemnity of the strange gathering, where men now stood staring in mingled awe and terror as she drew back the covering fully to reveal the delicate, pale form of the small harp. It was a smile that belonged to someone quite different from the ethereal figure who stood in their midst like a goddess of ancient story. Eyvind's heart stood still. He could not speak, could not summon the slightest response, for love and fear, delight and terror held him frozen in place. Nessa did not seem dissatisfied. Perhaps his eyes spoke for him, for she nodded gravely, the smile gone now, but her gaze warm and true as he had seen it before, when she reached out to him by lamplight. It was only a day ago, a single day, yet it seemed like something from a distant past, as if a whole lifetime had gone by in the span of sunrise to sunrise. Now, locked in this strange embrace, feeling in his own chest each labored breath that Somerled drew, Eyvind could scarcely encompass in his mind the changes that had occurred.

One of Margaret's men stepped forward and unrolled the shining
breadth of the wolfskin on the bare earthen floor. Nessa knelt, setting the small harp before her on the skin, and with delicate fingers she touched the little pegs of bone, one, two, three…five…and the last, which might not be tuned to its true note save in the place where it was called to bear witness. Somerled's body jerked violently as he struggled for freedom. With two hands needed to hold the chain tight, it was not possible for Eyvind to restrain his captive's limbs, and Somerled was a wiry, cunning fighter, well able to extricate himself from awkward situations. Desperation gives a man unnatural strength. Somerled's fingers clawed at the chain. Eyvind pulled his own hands farther across one another; Somerled spluttered, his face turning purple. He writhed anew, straining his body, bracing his legs against the ground in one final effort to topple Eyvind before the harp could be made to speak. Just how long he could maintain this, using the chain alone, Eyvind was unsure. His head was throbbing, his arms ached, and Somerled was struggling in a way that should, he supposed, make him proud of his own teaching all those years ago. He could kill him, of course; that would be easy. It would be too easy.

There was the smallest of sounds across the hall, a low whistle, brief, unobtrusive, a sign well known to any Wolfskin skilled in forest ambush. Eyvind gave a tiny nod, and an instant later a knife flew through the air to land neatly in the hand he had opened in readiness. In the moment of shocked realization, as Somerled took in Grim's self-satisfied grin and the shift in Eyvind's grip, the chain was unhooked, and Somerled was shoved forward until he knelt with his left arm twisted painfully up behind him, and Eyvind's right hand holding the knife at his throat. It had been done in an instant. Nessa looked up, eyes wide in shock.