Foxmask (15 page)

“Come, you must eat a little. Leave that for now.”

Ash's voice was quiet and even, as always. She did not turn her head, but knew just how he stood in the doorway behind her, knew every crease and line of his grave features, the concern in his eyes, the plain, serviceable clothes he wore, garb that reflected his role as something between guard and companion, household steward and familiar friend. Over the years she had
watched as his hair turned from russet brown to gray. It was no life for a man, a half life at best.

“Come now,” he said again, gently insistent. “You can't see in this light; you'll strain your eyes.”

She got up reluctantly, turned to face him knowing he would read the pallor of her cheeks, the unshed tears.

“He will come back, you know,” Ash said. “Sons have a habit of sailing away; they learn about the world, and about themselves into the bargain. Thorvald loves you. He will remember that in time.”

Margaret shivered, walking past him into the long room. Bread and ale were set on the table, with a round of sheep's cheese and a platter of little onions. Ash was so good to her; she did not deserve such kindness. “He hates me,” she said flatly. “He told me so. I looked into my son's eyes as he said those words, and I saw Somerled staring back at me. I can't escape what I did; it is a curse that lies not just over me but over Thorvald as well.”

“Come, sit down,” Ash said. “This bread is good, let me cut you a piece.” His hands were long-fingered and capable, wielding the knife, slicing cheese, setting a platter before her.

“I can't eat,” Margaret said, feeling the churning tension in her stomach. Since Thorvald had gone away, a cloud of uncertainty had shadowed her thoughts by day and haunted her dreams at night; there was no escaping it. “It's my fault this has happened, Ash. If I had chosen to tell him earlier, when he was little, he might have come to terms with it. Then he would not have done this.” She put her head in her hands, hating her own frailty.

“You are concerned for him; I, too,” Ash said. “But Thorvald is no weakling. You have taught him to be resourceful, to accept challenges.”

She managed a wan smile. “And, thanks to you, my son is able with sword and bow, though he was ever less than gracious to you for the years of tutelage you gave him.”

“Thorvald resents my presence here,” Ash remarked calmly, taking a mouthful of bread and cheese. “I have long known that. He does not understand how it is with you and me. He wishes to be the center and sole focus of your world; he is unaware that he is indeed precisely that.”

Margaret sipped her ale; why was it everything tasted like ashes? It was as if a pall had descended since the day she told Thorvald the truth. She had not known then what she would bring down on herself, on her old friends, on everyone. On that day she had brought Somerled back to life.

“It seems different here without Creidhe's visits,” Ash observed quietly, crumbling his bread with his fingers.

Suddenly Margaret was unable to stop a tear from spilling down her cheek. She wiped it away with furious fingers; even here, even with nobody but Ash to see her, she would not be weak. She must not be weak. Her strength was all she had left.

“You miss her,” he said, eyes intent on her face. “You miss her most of all: your bright light, your almost-daughter.”

“You've been here too long, Ash,” Margaret said bitterly. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

He said nothing. Now neither of them were pretending to eat, and the silence drew out.

“You should leave,” Margaret said eventually. “You know that. There is nothing for you here, no life, no future. You should move away, get yourself a farm, take a young wife, have a family of your own. You are not yet so old that you cannot find that kind of contentment.”

Ash smiled; there was such sadness in it, such resignation that guilt and sorrow settled on Margaret once more like a heavy cloak.

“You know I will not,” he said simply. “You know how it is with me. Besides, why should I heed your good advice if you yourself will not? We spoke of Creidhe, who is like a daughter to you. All the same, she is not yours, although you love her. Why do you not move on, make a new life free from the shackles of the past? It was a long time ago. And you are still young enough to bear another child, if you choose: your own daughter.”

She laughed, a harsh, bitter sound quickly suppressed. “Bring another child into the world to share the curse I carry with me? I think not.”

He regarded her gravely. “What will it take,” he asked her, “to lift this burden from your shoulders? A lifetime of loneliness? When is it enough?”

“I don't know,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I fear to see my son grow into his father. That I fear above anything. I fear for Creidhe now; she has been drawn into something that can swallow and destroy her. Her love for Thorvald lays her open to great harm. If only she had not gone with him—”

“A traveler needs a light to show him the way,” Ash said, wrapping the bread in its cloth and covering the cheese. “While she is with him, our home hearth is a little darker. Perhaps she has a part to play. You look weary; you should rest.”

“I have dreams. I am not overeager for sleep when such shadows attend it.”

“Margaret?”

She looked at him, seeing the steadfast goodness in the gray eyes, noting new lines on his weathered features, knowing what he was about to say.

“Each of us sleeps in a cold bed.” Ash's voice was very soft. “There is no need to be alone with your dreams.”

She shook her head helplessly. “I can't. You know that. I have nothing for you; nothing to give. I cannot shake off the darkness of the past; Somerled would always lie between us.”

“All the same,” Ash said, rising to his feet, “I will be close by, should you need me. You know that.”

“You are too good, Ash. I am not worth such care.”

He said nothing. There was a code between them, a pattern of restraint that did not allow the touching of lips to palm, a kiss to the cheek, nor even the clasping of hands in the manner of serving man and lady of the house. She got up: another day over, another night to be endured. Where were they, her son with his intense, pale face and his driven eyes; her dear Creidhe of the golden hair and clever hands? Had the ocean even now devoured them, or did they stand on some far shore, confronting the pitiless gaze of the man she had once believed she loved? Gods treat them kindly; gods be more merciful than they had been to her, trapped as she was in a web of her own making.

“Good night, Ash,” said Margaret.

They call us; it is time.
Have they learned nothing?
Not holy cross nor cold iron can prevail against these shadows.
God grant me the gift of detachment
.

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

S
he managed to pretend. She didn't cry; she didn't beg them to stay, or at least not to leave her behind in the settlement with these strangers who, despite their efforts to make her welcome, continued to behave very oddly indeed. There were men standing guard all around Brightwater, and nobody would say why. There was a war; that was as much as she could get out of the women. Those men who did not guard the settlement had to go away. It was terrible to have to smile and clasp hands with Sam and Thorvald as they stood there with packs on their backs and staves in their hands, clad in thick outdoor gear that spoke of a long journey to come. It hurt to pretend she didn't mind, to hold her tongue when everything in her was screaming,
Take me with you, oh please!

There was a moment when Sam asked her gently if she was sure she'd be all right, and she came close to telling them how uneasy she was and pleading with them not to go. But she smiled again and said everything was fine. She knew they had to work for the wood they needed. The Ruler had explained to her that in a place like this there were always huts and boats that needed repair after storms, tracks to be strengthened, stock to be tended. Asgrim had seemed a courteous man, both authoritative and kindly. He had
asked after her health and assured her she would be safe at Brightwater. It had been hard not to scrutinize him too closely, seeking signs of likeness to Thorvald. She had tried not to stare. As for conclusions, she had reached none. This might be Somerled and it might not. All in all, it seemed unlikely such a pleasant sort of man would have a catalog of evil deeds in his past. Since they were going away, it would be up to Thorvald now to find out one way or the other.

She managed her farewells and watched the long line of men snake its way up the track to the west, watched the bright auburn of Thorvald's hair, a solitary note of color against the green-gray of the hillside, moving farther and farther away until he rounded a corner and was lost from view. There had been a light of challenge in his eyes; that was good. The bitterness of those last days in Hrossey was gone from his face and he was looking ahead. Surely it would not take them long to do their work and come back with the wood. To speak of her worries would only have delayed them, and she was here to help, not hinder. Besides, her concerns were probably baseless, just homesickness and the aftermath of what had happened that first morning on the cliff path. Often she tried to recapture the dream, closing her eyes, willing it back, but it was fading now to no more than a lovely half-memory. It had been like a voice, like singing, but only in her head; wordless, magical music that tugged at her, calling, crying,
Here, I'm here!
Sometimes she thought it had been more like hands reaching toward her, hands stretching out in love, or friendship, or need.
Come
, the hands were saying. Yet, as well, the hands were clasping that mist-shrouded island closely, surrounding it with a barrier of protection. She would have gone if she could, winging her way there on invisible pinions, bridging the gap with only a dream to hold her.

She had not spoken of what she felt, not even to Thorvald. She doubted she would have shared something so strange and powerful even with her own mother, her own sister. Now Thorvald and Sam were gone, and so was Asgrim the Ruler along with most of the men. The small force armed with throwing spears could be seen patrolling the pathways of Brightwater by day and standing guard at night, but all remained quiet.

Creidhe applied herself to embroidery. There was no exploring; the women had made that clear. A walk down to the lake was allowed, and up as far as the corner overlooking the walled vegetable patch, but no farther; she had tried one day and had found herself escorted back by two of those fellows with the spears. It was for her own safety, the women said. None of them went wandering.

The vision that haunted her, coming with clarity only in her dreams,
found its place in the Journey. At first the women had been curious, crowding around to see. It was clear no seamstress here had the gift for such fine and detailed work. Creidhe was obliged to show them a little, unrolling the fabric a hand's breadth to reveal the vibrant colors and meticulous detail, a pattern not at all in the mode of traditional craft with its mirror images, its formal motifs and regular borders, but an organic, evolving, ever-changing flow. They exclaimed, amazed, impressed, perhaps a little fearful: it was like nothing they had ever seen. One admired the tiny trees, one the creatures hiding in the foliage, one the figure of what seemed a girl flying, and the moon within her grasp. One reached to touch; Creidhe rolled her work up again, leaving only the empty part exposed. The dream, the vision, crept onto the cloth in wools of violet and dusk blue, soft green, moss and lichen shades, the gray of rocks under a wash of tide, the subtle hue of a seal's pelt. The Journey moved on; it was as well she had packed her bag with ample supplies of needles and wool, for many days passed and she had need of occupation.

One could not sit at such demanding work all day. Early on, she had seen the others spinning and offered to help; this seemed to surprise them, but when it became evident she was more than capable at it, they found her a distaff and spindle and let her ply them in the communal work hut of a morning. She offered to cook; indeed, she ached to take charge in the kitchen and produce something more palatable than the endless diet of boiled fish and overcooked mutton. But Gudrun, in whose house Creidhe was staying, made it quite plain her guest should not dream of exerting herself in such a way. Creidhe must rest, eat well and recover from her illness. Protests that she was fine now fell on deaf ears. Creidhe grew restless. At home her days were filled with activity; she was always busy. The idleness made her uneasy, and she took to walking the allowable section of track four times over every morning, thinking miserably of her daily trips to Aunt Margaret's and back, and how much she missed them. Poor Aunt Margaret; she would be so worried about Thorvald. As for Creidhe's own family, she shuddered to imagine their distress, made worse by every one of these endless days that prolonged her absence. For the weather had turned foul, with sheeting rain and dense, lowering mists, and nobody seemed to be expecting the men back. Sometimes the women talked of this in undertones, nervously. Creidhe questioned them, but they were good at answers that told her nothing. She spun and sewed and waited.

There weren't many children in the settlement. A couple of boys seemed to go to and fro a lot, bringing fish and eggs, and there was a lass of twelve or so with a terrible squint and a furtive, sidling manner, but not a babe or infant
to be seen. Creidhe missed her small sister Ingigerd, and she missed Brona with her quick wit and ready smile. She could imagine how Brona would be feeling, knowing Sam had made this journey with Creidhe and waiting out day after day of no news.

One of the women was heavy with child; when her time came, and it could be no more than two full moons away, that would at least swell the numbers a little. Creidhe remarked on the matter to Gudrun and, as usual, got a response that told her nothing. She commented on it to the others and received blank stares. It was a challenge even to make conversation about the weather here, let alone broach more serious topics. She told the pregnant woman, Jofrid, of her own experience in midwifery, and offered her services should they be needed. Truth to tell, she hoped fervently that before this babe was ready to make its way into the world she would be heading for home again; who would have thought another voyage on the
Sea Dove
could seem so attractive? Jofrid nodded nervously as Creidhe told her of the twins she had delivered back in Hrossey, the breech births safely accomplished, the many straightforward cases, as Jofrid's own would likely be, for she seemed young and sturdy, if disproportionately afraid.