Foxmask (27 page)

Gudrun wrung her hands. Creidhe had never seen her like this, not even on the night of the voices. The large, capable woman seemed at her wits' end.

“You're very welcome to join us at prayer,” put in Brother Breccan from the far end of the chamber where he stood at a table that held scrolls of parchment, soapstone pots of ink, quills in a jar. “God may have answers for you. A little quiet reflection can provide great comfort to the troubled spirit.”

By all the ancestors, he was as bad as Niall: bare-faced dissemblers, the two of them. Creidhe watched in silence as Gudrun scowled at the hermits and peered into the corners of the hut as if to seek proof that they were tricking her.

“As you see,” offered Brother Niall in mild, kindly tones, “there are just the two of us here, and Colm out in the fields somewhere. If you like I'll call him in so you can ask him yourself. Unless you wish to inspect the sleeping quarters of a household of three men, all of them sworn to celibacy in God's service?” He lifted his brows.
Don't say yes
, Creidhe willed Gudrun. If the woman took one step through this inner door, Creidhe would be in plain view. This white-haired hermit certainly seemed to enjoy taking risks.

Gudrun growled a response in which Creidhe could discern the name Asgrim, then turned on her heel and headed off down the hillside. It was a long walk back to Brightwater, and by no means an easy one. They waited in silence. After a carefully judged interval Brother Breccan moved to close the front door, a massive, heavy thing that had perhaps once been part of an ocean-going vessel, for it was studded with rivets in unlikely places.

“Oh dear,” observed Brother Niall as Creidhe came forth from her hiding place and resumed her seat by the table. He fetched a jug from the stone shelves at the far end of the room, filled a cup, set it before her. “Trouble does seem to follow you, doesn't it?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. She had explained herself already, the reasons for her sudden, unannounced arrival, the way her disquiet in the settlement had grown to a real fear. Remembering Brother Niall's veiled warnings and his offers of help, she had hoped they might take her in. Here, surely she would be safe. Folk did not harm men of faith, nor those whom they sheltered. The brothers had received her calmly, heard what she had to say, fed her vegetable broth and warm flat bread. While she was eating—the hard walk had brought back the appetite that had deserted her in recent times—Breccan had made a few adjustments to the sleeping arrangements in the cottage.
Colm would share the outhouse with the cow and calf, he'd announced blithely; it was the warmest place anyway, and a good lesson in humility besides. He and Niall would spread their blankets here in the outer chamber, leaving the sleeping quarters to their guest. Creidhe had begun a protest, but after the walk she'd been weary enough to drop, though it was not yet midday, and she had fallen asleep on one of the hard shelf-beds the instant she lay down. She'd been not long awake when Gudrun had come rapping at the door. Now Gudrun was gone, but others might come; and she realized, sitting here beside these quiet men, with the late afternoon sun streaming in warm and golden between open shutters, that on no account was she going to return to Brightwater, not for Gudrun, not for Asgrim, not for anyone.

“Don't be sorry,” Breccan said. “Our home is open to you; you are safe here.”

Niall made no comment.

“It's only until the others get back,” Creidhe put in quickly. “Not long; Asgrim said—” She fell silent.

“Asgrim said two days, I seem to remember.” Niall's tone was thoughtful. “That was some time ago. I'm afraid, my dear, that the Ruler may have plans for your friends, plans that will keep them by his side until midsummer at least.”

Creidhe was horrified. “What plans? He said they'd already earned what they need. He said they were coming back.”

“Yes,” agreed Niall. “The Ruler says many things, and every one of them with a purpose.”

“A pox on him!” Creidhe rose to her feet, fists clenched. “I'll just walk on over there and find them, that's what I'll do. I'm sick of these rules: cover your hair, stay in the settlement, don't ask awkward questions. Thorvald and Sam should come back; folk need us at home.”

“Did you ask anyone why?” Niall's voice was soft. “Why cover your hair? Why not walk about freely?”

Creidhe gave him a cross glance. “Of course I asked. But nobody would tell me anything. I suppose it's to do with the—the spirits, the voices, whatever it is the other tribe sends that does such evil work. I'm not afraid of them.” Now she was the one who was lying; she was deeply afraid, but for the moment her anger was stronger. “I'm going to go and find Thorvald and Sam, and nobody's going to stop me.”

“Mmm.” Niall regarded her levelly, his dark eyes assessing. “Not today, though. You wouldn't get there before dark, and if you want to avoid Bright-water, you need to take the steep track. That can be treacherous, even when
your shoes fit properly.” He glanced at Brother Breccan, and Breccan moved to busy himself over at the hearth. “I can provide answers to some of your questions, Creidhe. Guesswork, maybe, but informed by my years of living on the islands, close to both Asgrim's tribe and the other. I think, really, it would be wise to learn what you can, before—”

Creidhe grimaced. “Before I go rushing off trying to change the world?” She sat down, folding her hands on the table before her. Its stone surface was scrubbed shining clean; the pens and inks, the sheets of parchment lay in orderly fashion at its far end, ready for a scholar's touch. “You're right, of course; I'm behaving like Thorvald, dashing into the fray without studying the lay of the land.” That was exactly what Thorvald had done, she thought, when he had followed Asgrim away from Brightwater. Though he had said nothing to her, he had already decided the Ruler was his father; she had seen it in his eyes. Perhaps he was right. By now he would know one way or the other. There was a simple means of ruling people out, one that required no questions at all. “My father would be ashamed of me,” she added.

“Would he? Well, then, let us do this as he would wish it done, calmly and carefully. Myself, I have learned the great value of foreknowledge; one cannot defeat an enemy one does not understand. Unfortunately, Asgrim has never grasped that. So the situation grows ever more tenuous for the Long Knife people, season by season. These folk deserve better.”

Breccan had taken a bucket and gone out, closing the door firmly behind him. Of the boy, Colm, there had been no sign save a head ducked in the window earlier, and a bit of bread and cheese passed out with a few explanatory words. Breccan had gone to warn him, perhaps, in case anyone else came searching.

“We have a few days at least,” Niall said, perhaps seeing something of her anxiety in her face. “He will know where you are; he and I have a long history. He will anticipate my keeping you here, out of his way; he won't rush back. Asgrim's busy. He's getting his forces ready for the hunt. At this precise moment, I'm informed he's preparing to sail your boat around from Blood Bay to his encampment for a bit of refurbishment. I would suspect he has a particular job in mind for this vessel. Asgrim has plenty to occupy him for now. Nonetheless, we must be ready for him. That means, I'm afraid, that you are still within prison walls of a kind. You'll have to stay indoors until we decide what to do.”

“Oh.” Perhaps, after all, she had made a terrible mistake. Perhaps they were not Christian monks in the mold of peace-loving Brother Tadhg at all. This one still wore a dagger; she had seen his hand move to its hilt when
Gudrun hammered on the door. She had seen him adjust his robe later, to conceal the bright metal.

“Not good, I know. You are an active girl, I suspect. You made the walk here in remarkably good time.”

“At home I'm used to walking to my Aunt Margaret's house every day so we can work together. Sometimes I ride; it's a fair way. I hate being cooped up.” She flushed. “I'm sorry, that sounds terribly ungrateful. Please, do tell me what you can about all this. I'm so worried about Thorvald, he gets caught up in an idea sometimes and forgets everything else. He can't really look after himself very well. And Sam's just a fisherman, and expects everyone else to be as honest as he is. That's why—”

Niall gave a half-smile. “That's why you came with them?”

“Well, yes. I suppose it sounds rather silly, but it seemed to me they needed someone—” She faltered again.

“Someone who could see the situation from outside and come up with answers? Not this time, I fear. The three of you have walked into a web that is dark, complex and very old, a struggle that has come close to annihilating all who live here, both Long Knife people and Unspoken. And, sad to say, because of what you are, it will be no simple matter to extricate you.”

“What we are?” Creidhe echoed, not understanding.

Niall reached across and took a strand of her hair between his fingers, twisting the bright gold gently. “Not the others, just you. They bade you cover your hair with good reason. Asgrim's daughter had such a head of hair, fair and shining as ripe wheat. Asgrim's daughter was stolen for her golden hair, stolen and borne away by the tribesmen of the Unspoken. She was used by each of them in turn, over the nights from one full moon to the next. Thus does the tribe make a child, a very special child, whose conception and birth are integral to their lore. They call this one Foxmask, a powerful visionary, their priest and wise man. Such a child can be born only of a maiden who is sun and moon in one being: hair like rays of morning light, skin white as moonbeams on snow.”

Creidhe stared at him aghast. “His daughter? How terrible! What happened to her?” But she seemed to know the answer already; it was in the gravity of his austere features, the careful neutrality of the eyes.

“She died; she was a young thing, perhaps thirteen when they took her. Younger than you, Creidhe. The Unspoken had been without a seer for some years, since the old one died. They were in turmoil; they require this kind of guidance to maintain their order, their whole pattern of being. Without it, they are like a sharp axe in the hands of a crazy man, striking at random, as
ready to destroy a friend as an enemy. You've heard their wild music; you've seen what damage it can inflict. They did not use their powers thus when Foxmask dwelt among them. The girl served her purpose: her death would have meant little. She was merely a vessel for them.”

Beneath her outrage, Creidhe was thinking hard. “Golden hair, all right, I suppose I have to cover up because they might see me, because I might be at risk of—abduction.” She shivered, recoiling from the image of it: that little girl all alone among those monsters, her whole world destroyed. Herself, perhaps taken and used the same way . . . It was disgusting, impossible. Such things just didn't happen. “Why only me?” she challenged, hearing the shrill note of fear in her own voice. “Why don't all the women have to cover up? And how do you know all this anyway? I thought the three of you were banned from the settlement.”

“As to that,” Niall said, “we are unwelcome in Asgrim's domain, that much is true. But I've been here many years, Creidhe, since well before these troubles began. There was a time in these isles when men plied their trades without fear; when folk traveled freely from settlement to settlement and spoke openly of their business. In those days, Long Knife people and Unspoken met yearly for a council. Hard to believe now, but true. Latterly, the information has come through Asgrim himself, for only he can speak with the enemy now, and that with some difficulty, I gather. My young messengers, bringers of fish and news, keep me up to date, and they don't tell tales at the other end. You ask,
Why only me?
Fair-haired women are rare in these isles. In all the time I have been here, Sula and yourself have been the only two young girls with such a head of hair. Your mother, I expect, had her origins in some land far to the east: Norway, perhaps.”

Creidhe managed a smile. “My mother is one of the old race in the Light Isles: a dark-haired woman, and slightly built. You know that already. It is my father who has the butter-yellow locks and the eyes like pieces of sky.”

He did not reply. There was a quill in the jar by his side, and he took it out and rolled it between his fingers absently.

“You are a scribe? A draftsman?” Creidhe asked, trying to fix her mind on something normal, to reassure herself this was not some living nightmare. She had wondered at the tools of scholarship set out here; they seemed incongruous in the brutal, ungiving landscape of these far isles.

For a moment she thought he was not going to answer. Then he put the pen down and said, “All three of us practice this craft, in one way or another. It passes the time. You read?”

“Oh no. I would like to, of course; Thorvald can read, his mother taught
him, and I wanted to learn, but I don't seem to have the knack for it. Aunt Margaret said it didn't matter, that I put my talent into the other things I do. But it would be very fine to be able to make my name; to cipher, and to scribe.”

“Other things? What are these other things Aunt Margaret values, Creidhe?”

She was blushing again: stupid. “Girls' pursuits. Spinning, weaving, embroidery. Cooking and midwifery. Looking after children, and teaching them. Thorvald thinks those things aren't important, but they are. They have to be. They are the heart of a community, they hold it all together . . .” She was babbling; what interest could he possibly have in this?

“You have some handiwork with you?”

“Yes. But I don't show it. Not usually.”

His smile was guarded; something had set a constraint between them. “Nor I mine, Creidhe. We are both slow to trust, and rightly so. Perhaps, when we know each other better, we may work side by side. Now it grows late and I think the others are returning; perhaps there will be eggs.”