Foxmask (29 page)

Sam was squatting down on the rocks now, big and awkward, and fiddling with the cloth that bound his damaged foot.

“What are you doing?” asked Thorvald. “Don't take it off. You're supposed to keep the salve on and keep it covered—”

“I've had enough of it,” Sam said heavily, unrolling the stained length of bandage. “I've had enough of the whole thing. Let's try a dunking in plain seawater and some fresh air. Never did me any harm before.” He sat on a flat rock and lowered the swollen, reddened foot into a small pool that lay like a round basin there, reflecting today's sunny sky. They had had few days of real summer; one would not be drawn to these isles by their climate, though the fishing was unsurpassed. “I'm doing things for myself from now on,” Sam said. “If that fellow Asgrim gives me orders I don't like, I'll tell him no. Ruler he may be, but he's no chieftain of mine. I want out, Thorvald.”

“Yes, you've made that extremely clear.” Thorvald's voice was tight. “Sam?”

“What?”

“You should do as you're asked. You should be part of this. We need every able-bodied man.”

“Able-bodied?” Sam queried, studying his foot which lay among the clinging shellfish and fronds of fine-leafed weed like a bloated sea creature.

“That will mend before midsummer. Don't desert me, Sam, I need you. Think how it will look to the others if you walk off. And don't defy Asgrim. That really wouldn't be sensible at all.”

“That a threat, is it?”

“You can take it however you like. Folk don't disobey him and get away with it, that's all. You know that, you told me yourself.”

“I know he's cruel,” Sam said. “The man's got no heart.”

“That's not fair. These are extreme circumstances, and he acts as he thinks he must to maintain discipline among his men. These fellows are not warriors. There's something about the enemy that scares them witless. Asgrim believes his strict approach is holding them together, I think. He doesn't realize the key to a good performance is respect and trust, combined with solid preparation.”

“Performance.” Sam spoke flatly. “Like a horse or a hunting dog, you mean? You may have your own methods, Thorvald, but it's Asgrim who's in charge here. If a man doesn't perform, the Ruler simply gets rid of him. If you still want evidence that he's your father, that might just be it. Didn't Somerled kill his brother in cold blood and run roughshod over anyone else that got in his way? Seems like he hasn't improved much since then.” He paused. “I should be sorry I said that, but I'm not. I know you think he could be your father, but there's something not right about him, Thorvald. I don't trust him.”

“You're wrong. Stay here and help me and I'll prove it. Asgrim's been struggling under impossible odds. Imagine how it must feel to lose your one battle, year after year; to see more and more of your men cut down for no gain at all. Imagine an enemy who kills your children on the day they take their first breath. He's doing his best, but it's desperate, and desperate men get cruel sometimes. He probably thinks it's the only way.”

“Then why's he letting you do his work for him?” Sam asked bluntly. “Seems to me he's just making use of you.”

Thorvald did not reply. There was one obvious answer to this, but he would not say it.

“Proud to be his son, are you?” Sam's eyes were bleak in his honest face.

“If he is my father,” Thorvald said in a whisper, “it seems to me I must be the best son I can to him. That's all. Will you stand by me?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. One of the men had shouted something, and now the combatants had laid down shield and spear and were running to the shore, pointing out to sea. Sam stood up carefully, using Thorvald's shoulder for balance as he gazed across the water. A boat was coming in, rowed by two men standing, a boat of greater size than any of those assembled here on the tidal flat. She was listing heavily, her course somewhat erratic. The rowers were Egil and Helgi, who had gone with the Ruler on his last trip away. Holding the steering oar was Asgrim himself. The rowers hauled, muscles bulging with effort, and the
Sea Dove
crunched over shells and small rocks to beach herself at a drunken angle on the dark sand. Where the hole had been in her side there now sprouted a hodgepodge of planking and patching, crudely pinned and nailed together, as if a finely wrought sword had been mended with a lump of scrap iron, or a delicate embroidery with hanks of uncombed wool. Sam stared in horror.

First over the side and up the shore toward them was Asgrim.

“Thorvald, Sam. She's still watertight, as you can see. How are the men progressing?”

“To schedule,” Thorvald said absently. His eyes were on his friend. Sam had taken one faltering step forward, and another. The expression on his face was comical in its stunned disbelief.

“Who mangled my boat?” he breathed. “What sort of repair do you call that? Odin's bones, a child in swaddling could do a better job. Where did you fellows learn your boat-building skills, from a cook or a shepherd?” He stumbled down to stand by the
Sea Dove
, one large hand reaching to stroke the undamaged timber, to touch with disgust the ragged line where the ugly overlay began.

“Temporary, of course,” Asgrim said smoothly. He was watching Sam closely, Thorvald noticed, perhaps waiting for some particular response. “We do need her here; she's capable of carrying more men than any of the others, and her sturdier construction will give her an added advantage in the strong currents off the Isle of Clouds.”

“Nobody's sailing her anywhere with that lump of ordure on her hull,” Sam said baldly. “She's not going out on the ocean until I have that off her and a decent repair done. And nobody touches her without my say-so. That goes for all of you.” He glared defiantly, turning his head to take in not only Asgrim and Thorvald, but the semicircle of others, warriors, fishermen, guards, who had gathered on the shore to watch the
Sea Dove
come in.

“Fine boat,” grunted one of the fishermen. “Never seen a better.”

“I hope you heard me,” said Sam, blue eyes turned straight on Asgrim's.

“Indeed.” The Ruler appeared quite unperturbed. “Certainly you must do this your own way and choose your own helpers, remembering, of course, that all men must continue to complete their daily quota of combat and weapons training. I'm sure Thorvald will see that's not neglected. My apologies for the repair. Foremost in my mind was the need to get her fixed—you did speak of it rather often—and your own inability to make your way back over to the place where she was beached. So, an emergency solution, I'm afraid. And there's still the mast to replace; we do have a length of spruce for that, not perfect, but serviceable. It's a big job, Sam, and you don't have a lot of time. Sure you can do it?”

The expression in Sam's eyes was answer enough. “I'll get started now,” he said. “Who's got my bag of tools? Knut? Get down here, and step lively.”

“Thorvald?” Einar spoke with some diffidence as the two of them stood next morning watching the men at target practice. Farther along the beach, the
Sea Dove
was swarming with Sam's chosen helpers; already, most of the patchy repair job had been undone.

“Yes?”

“Need to tell you something in confidence. Hope you won't take it amiss.”

Thorvald turned to look at the older man. Einar's expression was unusually grim, even for a man who seldom smiled. “Of course not,” he said calmly, even as unease clutched at him. “What is it?”

“You'd want to be careful,” said Einar, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“Very careful. He asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you weren't overstepping the mark.”

“What do you mean?” Thorvald felt suddenly cold. Hadn't Asgrim trusted him? Hadn't the Ruler more or less asked him to take charge?

“Can't say much more. The problem is, you're useful to him, very useful, and if you can win this for him, he's not going to stand in your way, not till it's over. But he sees how the fellows look up to you, and he doesn't like it. He's weighing you up: advantage or threat, help or, in the long run, hindrance. I've seen that look in his eyes before, Thorvald. He's not a man to get on the wrong side of.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Thorvald hissed. He was torn between anger and hurt. “Doesn't that put you in danger too?”

“Why do you think, you fool?” Einar responded, laying a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “Just be careful, that's all I'm saying.” His tone changed abruptly. “That's the round finished, and every man with at least one shot in the mark. They're getting better.”

“Yes,” Thorvald said, recognizing in that moment that whatever else had possessed his thoughts, his father, his identity, his own future, nothing was more important than the flowering of these men's skills and courage, the reawakening of their hope. “And will get better still before the end. Come, let's tell them so.”

Creidhe felt uncomfortable if her hands were idle for long. After a good night's sleep, she sat at the table, bag by her side, the Journey on her knee. The fabric was unrolled just far enough to show where she had last formed stitches some time ago at Jofrid's house. She threaded a fine needle with moss-green wool—she had cluttered the hearth of Aunt Margaret's workroom with dyes and mordants before she was satisfied with this color—and began to sew. This part of the pattern was gentler, a lull in the swift flow of the Journey. What she made signified trust and openness. There had been precious little of either in recent times. She stitched a hill, and a small building with a cross on top. The next part was still in her mind: clasped hands; a dagger, veiled; an egg, its shape simple and perfect.

On the other side of the table sat Brother Niall, watching her in silence. The others had gone outside; after their morning prayers there was work to be done tending to stock and walled gardens, for they must support themselves in everything, Breccan had told her over supper. They even had their own small boat, which had brought himself and Colm to this shore from
their native land, praise God, and was now kept safe in a place not far from Blood Bay. If Colm had not decided to take the cloth, Breccan smiled, he could certainly have earned his living netting cod.

After a while, Niall unrolled one of the pieces of parchment and set small white stones on its corners. He fetched water in a little jug, scraped powder into an ink pot, poured, mixed, waited. He took up a quill and began to write. Glancing up, Creidhe saw the words flowing across the parchment, neat and regular, cryptic and lovely as the tracks of otter, hare, gull or swallow. At the top of the page there was a bigger letter, with patterns set around it in colors as deep, as subtle as those she made for the fashioning of her own work. There were leaves, spirals, twisting snakes and small, strange-eyed creatures with wings and scales. The quill moved on, today Niall was merely adding text in perfect rows. And yet, within this order she could see disorder: around the neat framework, signs of escape. She turned her attention to her own work. Her hands moved industriously, making a flower, a cloud, a little sheep. For a while they sat in silence, each intent on the task.

“I've noticed,” Niall's voice broke the stillness, “the small irregularity in your work—deliberate, I suspect—where there's a gap in the border pattern, a pathway out, one might say, amidst the trail of vines there. That interests me.”

Her first reaction was to roll the fabric quickly over, to cover what she had made; it was secret, not to be shared, most certainly not to be discussed. But then, had she not put into today's labor what she felt most strongly in this small house of men: trust? She unfolded her work again, touching the part he had mentioned with her finger.

“You have good eyesight,” she said.

“For an old man? Yes, I still seem to manage. Will you explain the pattern to me? A thing of wonder, it seems to be. Some might even call it a talisman of power. Not your Thorvald, evidently. His eyes are less acute, for all his youth.”

“I will tell you what this means, this gap in the border, if you will tell me what those little writings are, the ones that flow into the margins of your manuscript. It looks as if the letters are trying to get out.”

The quill stopped moving. Niall smiled; Creidhe caught her breath, for his expression was a wondrous blend of sadness, regret, acceptance, touched with a slightly guilty look, like that of a boy caught out in a small misdemeanor.

“Oh, Creidhe,” he said quietly. “Your eyesight surpasses mine, I think; it goes straight to the heart of things. Very well, I will tell if you will. Ladies first.”

“All right.” She laid the Journey on the table, unrolled just a little, so he could see the parts she had made today, and the last time she had worked on it. The images from before were dark and strange; her fear and disquiet showed in the shadows, the half-glimpsed clutching hands, the faces that both smiled in welcome and screamed in furious repudiation. She did not show him the place where she had made the Isle of Clouds.

“It is difficult to explain,” she said. “Because of what this is, the power it holds within it, there's a need for a safeguard. I make a new part every day if I can. I call it the Journey. There is so much in these stitches, these images, far more than wool and linen, that it is necessary to provide a—an escape route. If I did not do so, the love, the hate, the fear and joy would simply build and build, until it could not be held in so small an object. It would become too dangerous, too powerful. So I make this little path, here in the border: a way out. It is not regular; it must not be a pattern, or it risks becoming lost in the whole. This is the way with everything we make. Each blanket, each hanging, each garment possesses such an irregularity. It is a form of protection for those who use these items later. Even Aunt Margaret does it now, though this is a tradition of my mother's people, not of hers.”