Foxmask (35 page)

Thorvald did not answer for a while; to do so seemed to be to put his own failure into words. Eventually he said, “I'll give you an answer tonight. Will that do?”

“Of course,” Sam said gravely. “Tell you what. Why don't you work with me today, finishing off the
Sea Dove
? You've a good eye for detail; I could use that. Knut's keen, but he's better on the rough jobs. Give you some time to think. I promise not to talk too much.”

The simple kindness of this offer left Thorvald without words for a reply.

“No privileges for friends, mind,” Sam said with a grin. “I plan to work you hard so we can get the job finished. Best go up and have some breakfast, it'll be a long day.”

Thorvald recognized later that Sam's suggestion had been not only kind but also remarkably wise. The hard physical labor stopped his mind from going around in circles; he was just too busy to think beyond the next rivet, the next plank, the brush and tar. No sooner had he finished one job than Sam gave him another, or sought his help with heavy lifting or his advice on whether the joint between the timbers was perfectly aligned and properly watertight. Knut worked in cheerful silence, content to do as he was told. It was with genuine surprise that Thorvald noticed, as he smoothed off the inner surface of the last of the replacement timbers, that the sun hung low over the Isle of Clouds once more, and that it would soon be too dark to continue. He realized in the same moment that, without being aware of any process taking place, he had made up his mind. He was going home.

Knut had run out of tasks and was heading back for supper. Sam was packing away his tools; being far from home had made him, if anything, still tidier and more methodical. Thorvald climbed down from the
Sea Dove
onto the coarse sand of the beach.

“Sam?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I wanted to tell you—” Thorvald broke off at the sound of angry voices from the encampment; there were running footsteps now and the flare of torches. He thought he could hear Skapti's rumbling tones, but the man who had shouted was Asgrim.

“What's going on there, I wonder?” muttered Sam.

“Better find out,” said Thorvald. A strange sensation gripped him, a chilling premonition of change. “Come on.”

They began to walk back.

“What was it you were going to tell me?” Sam asked.

“Never mind. It can wait.” That sense touched him again, excitement, dread, anticipation. Perhaps this was not over yet. Perhaps the plans for a truce had fallen through; what else could make Asgrim lose his temper in front of all the men?
Give me this chance
, Thorvald found himself praying to whatever god might be prepared to listen.
Give it back; let me lead them. It is only right
.

When they reached the shelter the Ruler was nowhere to be seen. The men were very quiet. The usual routine of cooking, eating, preparing for rest was unfolding, but Hogni and Einar were absent, and did not appear as the fish stew was served and consumed. Thorvald asked Orm what had happened, but Orm, like the rest of them, knew little. Skapti had come in not long ago and given the Ruler some news, news that had evidently not pleased him at all. Skapti had been looking grim and tired, not himself. Asgrim had taken him up to his private quarters right away, and Einar and Hogni too. They were not to be disturbed. That was all anyone knew.

“You think this means no truce?” Thorvald ventured, keeping his voice down.

Several men turned to look at him: Orm, Wieland, Skolli. Where his own heart was filled with dawning hope, with purpose rekindled, their eyes held only a terrible, sorrowful resignation.

“What else would it be?” said Wieland flatly. “The Unspoken have rejected the offer; the hunt's on after all.”

“You can't know that yet.” Thorvald felt obliged to say this, though he was certain the other man was right. It would be hard work to persuade them that this was, in fact, good news.

“I suppose he'll tell us in the morning,” grunted Orm. “And we'll go on, like always. I'm for bed. Put out that lantern, will you?”

Thorvald had been a long time without sleep. Tonight, however, it did not seem appropriate to give way to it. He sat on the earthen shelf by the others, a solitary seal-oil lamp that burned by the doorway the only light save the glowing embers of the cooking fire. He saw that Sam, too, was awake, lying blanket-swathed among the men, eyes fixed squarely on Thorvald himself. They did not speak. Perhaps each knew the other's thoughts. The
Sea Dove
was finished and ready to go; all hung in the balance.

The summons, when it came, was a subdued one. Hogni stood in the
doorway, gave a little whistle, jerked his head. Thorvald rose and went out, careful to avoid stepping on the close-packed ranks of slumbering men; he was aware that Sam had followed him, and waited for Hogni to send the fisherman back, but the bodyguard shepherded the two of them up the track in the moonlight and into Asgrim's hut. The Ruler stood there waiting, with Skapti and Einar by him. The lines bracketing Asgrim's mouth and furrowing his brow were starkly visible tonight; he looked old. Einar was withdrawn and pale, the big warrior Skapti nervous as a boy, restlessly moving his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands. Hogni had remained outside by the door.

“Thorvald, Sam.” The Ruler regarded them levelly, his eyes giving nothing away; his voice, however, was less than steady. “You'd better sit down. Einar, give them some ale.”

They sat; one did not disobey Asgrim. Thorvald was confused. He had expected to be called, if the truce were not to go ahead; he had hoped to be given instructions:
Get the men back into training, continue what you began, for I need you now
. But why had Sam, too, been summoned here? Why were they all behaving so strangely, as if this news was almost too hard to tell?

When they were seated on the bench with ale cups before them, Asgrim cleared his throat and spoke again.

“There's no good way to put this. I have some bad news for you. Shocking and distressing news. Skapti has borne it back from Brightwater.” He fell silent, clasping his hands together in front of him; the other men were as still as stones. It was Sam who broke that dreadful hush, Sam's voice bursting out harsh and uncontrolled as Thorvald had never heard it before, a sound that clutched at the gut, though Thorvald did not know why.

“What?” Sam cried, springing to his feet. “Tell us now! What?”

“Hush, hush, please, sit down,” Asgrim said, moving forward with hands outstretched to ease the distressed Sam back to the bench. Sam shook him off, raising a fist, and in a flash Einar was in front of the Ruler, a shield against attack. Sam's face flushed scarlet.

“Sit down, Sam,” Thorvald muttered. “Do as he says. And let us hear this news, I beg you,” he addressed Asgrim with exaggerated politeness. “If you think us unable to bear it, whatever it is, rest assured that postponing the moment of truth will do nothing to allay our misgivings.”

“It's Creidhe, isn't it?” Sam blurted out. “Something's happened to Creidhe.”

And as the silence descended once more, and Asgrim bowed his head to
stare at his linked hands, Thorvald felt a terrible cold spreading through him, starting in the vicinity of the heart and seeping gradually outward.

“What?” he croaked. “What's happened?”

“Your little friend was taken.” Asgrim's voice shook. “Taken by our enemies. And—”

There was no stopping Sam this time. He lunged forward, seizing the Ruler by the shoulders and shaking him hard. “What!” he roared. “You told us she would be safe! When was this? Why aren't you going after her? You know what they'll do to her—”

The words were stifled as Einar clapped a hand over Sam's mouth and, with Skapti's help, dragged him away from Asgrim.

“Hush, Sam.” Something had gone wrong with Thorvald's voice; the most he could summon was a whisper. “We need to hear this. Let Asgrim finish.” For this wasn't all. He could see that in his father's eyes.

“She wandered away from the settlement early one morning, while all were abed. The women said she had probably gone to visit the hermits, those crazy Christians who live up in the hills. Skapti was in the area and saw her taken. The Unspoken came from the sea; it was very quick. Their boat was in and out almost before you could blink.”

Thorvald looked at Skapti, who still held Sam in an iron-hard grip, though Sam, in fact, had stopped struggling altogether. “What were you doing?” he heard himself say. “Why didn't you help her? She's only a girl.” Curiously, he felt that perhaps it was to himself he was speaking.

Skapti's blunt features went red. He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“He did try, Thorvald,” Asgrim said gently. “But he could not reach her in time. And then . . .” He paused.

“She drowned,” Skapti said, releasing Sam suddenly so that the fisherman slumped back onto the bench beside his friend. “I saw it. They were well out, and she stood up, and the boat tipped over, right into the Fool's Tide. They were all swept away and drowned. I saw her go under. This is a cursed place. I wish I had never come here—”

“Yes, all right, Skapti,” Asgrim said a little curtly, and the bodyguard fell silent, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “It's true, I'm afraid,” the Ruler went on, seating himself opposite Thorvald. “It is dreadful tidings; I hardly know what to say to you. Such a sweet girl, and so beautiful. She had become well liked in the settlement. This is typical of our enemy, I'm afraid; I suffered a similar loss myself, and understand how you must feel.”

“You?” snarled Sam. “How could you hope to understand, you selfish—”

“Sam.” Thorvald laid an arm around his friend's shoulders, and Sam, with a strange, sobbing groan, put his head in his hands. Thorvald would have welcomed the chance to weep himself, or shout his grief and fury aloud. But this was a moment that called for something else and, digging deep within him, he found it. “I want to know exactly how this has been allowed to happen.” His tone was chill, precise. “We were assured of Creidhe's safety. We were discouraged from returning to Brightwater to visit her. You say she wandered away. Creidhe is a grown woman and far from stupid. She doesn't wander.”

“Perhaps not,” Asgrim said quietly. “But her behavior is—was—unpredictable, you cannot deny that. Didn't she almost step off the cliff path on the way over from Blood Bay? Maybe she had another of her visions, one that led her into the hands of the Unspoken.”

“What about these hermits?” Thorvald queried. “I've heard no talk of any Christians. I want a proper answer here; I sense we've been denied the full truth. If such a death occurred in my homeland there would be a thorough investigation and compensation to be made. I am extremely displeased.” The words came out smoothly; a calm cold seemed to have descended on him, allowing him to continue this dark game, though within him a terrible, wild thing was building, like a trapped animal struggling for release. He must not allow it to break free. He must maintain control here.

“The hermits? No more than a nuisance, generally,” Asgrim said. “They've been here a long time. There are more of them in other parts of the isles, mostly from Ulster. They seem content to keep themselves to themselves, except for one meddler who doesn't know when to hold his tongue. He has persuaded your little friend to stray, perhaps. I'll arrange for him to be questioned, if that is your wish.”

Thorvald lifted his brows, compressed his lips. Beside him Sam now wept in open misery; Einar had come forward to crouch beside the fisherman. Thorvald's arm still lay across Sam's shoulders; the sobs seemed to go through his own body, jolting the heart, unmanning the will, but he kept his arm where it was. He could do this. He was a leader.

“I take it there is no chance,” he said, “not even the smallest chance—?”

Asgrim shook his head. “In the Fool's Tide? None at all. I'm afraid she's gone, Thorvald. I'm sorry, so very sorry. What more can I say?”

This was getting harder; Thorvald forced his breathing to slow. He looked the Ruler directly in the eye, and Asgrim stared back at him unblinking.

“The repairs are finished on the boat,” Thorvald said. “We've decided to
go home. We must bear this news to Creidhe's family. The weather seems fine just now. We thought we'd leave the day after tomorrow.”

“But—” Einar and Skapti both spoke at once, and both bit back their words.

“I see,” said Asgrim. “And I understand why you would wish to do so, though I recall some words of yours, spoken not so very long ago. You said,
Had I suffered such losses, my mind would be set on vengeance, not truce
. Do you change your mind so quickly?”

Sam had fallen silent, though his shoulders still heaved. Einar fished in his pocket, drew out a square of cloth, crumpled and gray, and handed it to the fisherman. Thorvald did not speak.

“You realize, of course, that after such a terrible event, I can no longer think of a truce with this enemy,” Asgrim said. “Who could consider peace with the Unspoken now? To snatch one of our girls in broad daylight, at a time when we had treated for peace and were merely awaiting their response—that was barbaric, outrageous. After this, it can only be war between us.”

Another silence. Skapti sighed; Sam used the handkerchief to wipe his eyes and then, noisily, to blow his nose.

“I had hoped,” Asgrim spread his hands in appeal, “to have you by my side in this venture, Thorvald, to lead my men. I had hoped Sam would lend us his fine boat, to spearhead our advance across those treacherous waters where Creidhe died so cruelly. His skills in seamanship, too—we have no such experts among our own men. You could aid us immensely, the two of you. It could make all the difference in the hunt. Still, I do understand if you wish to leave now. No attempt at revenge is going to bring Creidhe back, nor my Sula either. You must do as you think best.”