Foxmask (48 page)

“I see.” Niall folded his arms. “This interests me, Asgrim. It's plain at a glance the young fellow's very able; your men follow him with a sort of dedication in their eyes, and I think I detect a new spring in their step and a definite improvement in their aim. There's something odd about this. Creidhe told me her friends were only here at the camp to earn the price of a length of wood. I understand, of course, that you retained them here until your unfortunate bargain with the Unspoken ran its course. Creidhe is dead now, but here's Thorvald in charge of your army, no less, and all set to risk his life in another man's war. Now why would a clever young fellow do such a thing?”

Asgrim gave a slow smile. “Because he thinks I'm his father,” he said softly. “Ah, now I've achieved what I never managed before: I've reduced you to silence. Does it hurt? This skill, this dedication, this youthful energy all turned to my own cause; I've gained all that through the lad's fervent belief that he's at last tracked down the man who abandoned him before ever he was born. That's what he came here for; that was what he got in return for his friend's extremely poorly timed demise. He can think of nothing else now
but proving himself worthy. He believes that if he does well enough, there will be some formal recognition at the end of it. An open-armed embrace, perhaps, along with a promise of future power.”

“You have not told him the truth?” Niall could hear his own voice shaking. All of a sudden he felt deathly cold.

“Of course not. He's invaluable. I told you. A fine war leader, a genuine rallying point for the men. Of course I haven't told him.”

“And after the hunt?”

Asgrim did not reply. He toyed with an empty ale cup on the table, his eyes avoiding the other man's.

“Answer me, Asgrim. After the hunt?”

“Well, well, my old adversary, I have touched a nerve, haven't I? And it doesn't take a lot of wit to deduce why. Indeed, all is explained: your harboring of the girl, the risky dispatch of the youth to bear a warning to Thorvald, your foolish trip here today . . . Who would have thought that a man of such studied detachment as yourself might actually have some sort of heart underneath? I can hardly believe it. After the hunt he'll go home, of course. Or not, as the case may be.”

Niall clasped his hands together to keep them still. Once, long ago, he would have had no need of such primitive aids. He had been expert in this type of game. Surely he had not changed so much. “Or not?” he queried, brows raised. “You can hardly afford to let him stay, I imagine.”

“Well, no,” Asgrim said. “His value lasts precisely until the moment the hunt is over. After that he goes, one way or another.”

Niall drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Let me talk to him,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Asgrim chuckled. “By all the gods! The aloof, the impenetrable Brother Niall begging? I never thought I'd see the day. Of course you can't talk to him. I think we've just enumerated at least three reasons why. A man shouldn't go about fathering children if he's going to turn his back on them, now should he?”

Niall regarded him levelly. “You'd know all about that, of course,” he said.

“Hold your tongue! You're in no position to judge me. Besides, may I remind you that we are in my own quarters, with armed guards just beyond that door? I'll tell you what's going to happen here. You and your companion are going to make a rapid and unobtrusive exit while my forces are over on the cliffs in the south practicing their skills with ropes and weights. You're going to walk straight home, and you're going to stay away from here, and from Brightwater, until the hunt's well and truly over.”

“I am not subject to your rule, Asgrim,” Niall said quietly. “I made that clear from the first day I set foot on this island. I didn't think much of you then, and the years have done nothing to improve my opinion.”

“Nonetheless, you will do as I say. If you do not, you will soon find yourself burying yet another companion. Then it will be as it was for you in the early years: a very lonely life indeed. If that is not sufficient warning for you, be in no doubt that your disobedience will do nothing to improve Thorvald's future prospects. Accidents occur quite frequently among fighting men. You'll go now, and you'll keep your mouth shut. Is that understood?” Asgrim's eyes were hard, his mouth tight. Niall had learned long ago how to read a man's face, his stance, his gestures. Beneath that well-kept mask of authority, he recognized fear.

“Your words are plain enough. I'll do as I'm bid, for now. It's just possible you may find others less obedient, Asgrim. I sense a change here; I think you feel the same. Is it hope your men have suddenly discovered? They will not relinquish that so easily, merely at your whim.”

“You talk nonsense. You always did. I have no more patience with this. My guards will escort you up the hill. Go quickly, and count yourself fortunate that I let you go at all.”

“Your hospitality, as always, is like none other,” said Niall smoothly as Asgrim opened the door and they walked into the anteroom. Breccan still sat there, calm and quiet, his wooden cross between his hands. He had been murmuring prayers, perhaps, and the guards listening. The weapons had been set by; both men seized them as Asgrim came out.

“Take them to the top of the hill,” the Ruler commanded, “and make sure they don't come back.”

The men had moved away from the practice ground; now they were scaling the cliffs at the far end of the bay. They could be seen clearly from the hill path, organized in teams of four, one at either end of the line for safety, others creeping up or making their way down, a spider's dance of strength and grace. From the shore the red-haired man watched them, a straight, square-shouldered figure in his plain warrior's clothes, his back to the shelter and the track where Niall and Breccan climbed up and away. Nobody noticed the hermits' departure. The men were intent on their drill, focused on getting it right, and Thorvald had all his attention on his forces, no doubt praising their successes and correcting their weaknesses. It was plain to see he was a born leader.

They reached the brow of the hill.

“It's all right,” Breccan told the guards. “You can leave us here; we'll head straight for home.”

“No sneaking back,” Hogni warned. “He means what he says.”

“We know when we're not wanted.” Breccan's voice was calm. “I'll pray for you.”

“No need for that,” mumbled Hogni.

“No harm in it either,” said Breccan. “Well, we'd best be off. I hope you enjoy the mutton.”

Niall had been silent all the way. To risk his own safety was nothing; he held his life of little value, and in fact only went on with it because of a promise. Others' well-being was quite a different matter. These hulking warriors might themselves be the instruments of whatever penalty Asgrim meant to inflict for disobedience. All the same, he had seen the way they spoke to their young leader, the look on their faces as they watched him.

“Tell Thorvald to be careful,” he said softly. “He must be very careful. Tell him I regret greatly that we could not speak together.”

“Not here to pass on messages,” Skapti growled, and with that the two guards turned on their heels and headed back toward the encampment.

“Home,” said Breccan firmly. “The cow needs milking, the chickens need feeding, and I need some quiet contemplation, a good supper and an early night. Come on. It's a long way for a couple of fellows past their prime.”

Niall made no reply. He was gazing back down the hill.

“That's a fine young man,” Breccan commented. “A son any father would be proud of. There seems a great strength in him, despite all that has befallen him.”

“Yes,” Niall said. “It is his father who lacks strength. It's as if my heart has been skewered and put to roast over a fire. How can a man stand back at such times and not attempt to intervene? And yet, to take action is to wreak yet more havoc. My mind can scarcely encompass it: Creidhe dead, that brave girl, and the boy at Asgrim's mercy . . . I should go back. I should confront him. But I cannot. What ails me, that I bind myself thus with my own promises?”

“Time,” Breccan said, laying a hand on the other man's shoulder. “Give yourself some time. Do not speak of skewers and fires. You've only just discovered you have a heart. Let it beat a little.”

They began to walk across the lower slopes of the fells, where rank grasses and pale, straggling flowers were cropped by rangy, long-locked sheep. For a considerable time they moved on in silence. Eventually Niall said, “There's an answer to this, I know it. An answer quite outside Asgrim's comprehension. And I have a feeling it doesn't lie in prayer.”

In times of darkness, the faithful man prays for light
In times of confusion, he prays for clarity
I pray simply that someone may be listening

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

W
e're as ready as we'll ever be,” said Thorvald, watching the little wavelets as they washed onto the shingle close to his boots. “And just as well. They tell me it'll be only days now.”

Sam nodded assent. “Knut reckons you can see it on the water. A calming. Not safe to go across yet, but soon. Not that it's ever plain sailing in the Fool's Tide. Still, there'll be a chance of getting back in one piece, if we time it right. Wouldn't want to linger.”

“Tomorrow we'll take the boats along to Little Bay,” Thorvald said. “There are still a couple of old huts there, I'm told. We can camp on shore until the sea's right for the crossing to the Isle of Clouds. We need to be ready for it; ready to sail at dawn, when the critical day comes.”

Sam looked at him. “Excited, are you?” he inquired dourly.

“No, Sam. I'm not excited. I'm merely doing what a leader does: anticipating what may happen, and making sure we're all ready for it.”

“A leader. Yes, you've become one of those, haven't you? Just like your father. Not so surprising, that. I worry about you, Thorvald. What happens when all this is over?”

Thorvald folded his arms, glancing sideways at his friend. Sam was looking like his old self, earnest, honest, perplexed. It was a relief after the mask of dedicated aggression he had worn since they heard the news of Creidhe.

“I thought you wanted this battle,” Thorvald said. “A few days ago there was no stopping you. What happened to all that talk of blood and vengeance?”

Sam did not reply. He began to walk along the beach, scuffing his boots in the dark sand. Thorvald walked beside him. The light was dimming and birds cried overhead, winging to shelter under a violet sky.

“As for afterward,” Thorvald kept his tone light, “why don't you tell me?”

“All right then.” Sam's voice was gruff. “We come back victorious, so Asgrim's problems are all solved. He says thank you and offers to load the
Sea Dove
with provisions. We wave good-bye and sail off home. We break the bad news to Creidhe's family and make an enemy of Eyvind for the rest of our lives. Then we pick up where we left off, as best we can. How does that sound?”

“In keeping with your own common sense, Sam. That's how it sounds.”

“The question is, would you be happy with that? Now, after all this?”

Thorvald could not suppress an outburst of bitter laughter. “Happy? When was I ever happy?”

They walked on in silence awhile, passing the shadowy forms of the small boats drawn up on shore and the larger bulk of the
Sea Dove
. The hull looked perfect; you could hardly see where the patching began and ended.

“How can you say that?” Sam asked suddenly. “As if losing Creidhe didn't change a thing for you, as if that's nothing in your long personal tale of unfairness and misery? That's rubbish, Thorvald. You should forget all that and just do what you have to. That's my opinion.”

Thorvald was momentarily shocked into silence. Then he said, “I thought that was just what I was doing. You can't deny I've kept myself busy here.”

“That wasn't fair of me,” Sam muttered. “It's just, you're not the only one feeling bad. When she died it was like a light going out. I don't expect you to understand; your head's full of schemes and strategies, stuff that's beyond ordinary fellows like me.”

There was a pause; they stood on the rocks at the far end of the bay, under the lowering cliffs where they had tested their skills in perilous ascent and descent.

“Are you saying,” Thorvald asked, “that you think I care for nothing but this chance to prove myself, to lead and win for Asgrim? I would have gone home; I told him so. I told them all. You heard me.”

Sam did not reply.

“I can't afford to be weak, Sam. They rely on me; the whole thing relies on me. I didn't seek that out, it just happened. Now there's no choice but to go through with it. But . . .”

“But what?” Sam growled, clearly unconvinced.

Thorvald's voice was no more than a thread. “You think it was nothing to me, to lose Creidhe. That's what you seem to be telling me. Sam, I did not imagine such a hurt could be possible. It was like—it was like the cutting off of a limb, the gouging out of an eye. After that, I can never be complete. Do you hear me? Is that enough for you? Now leave me alone, there's a battle to be won here, and I have no room in me for anything but that.”

Sam made no move. He stood on the rocks, solid, steady. Thorvald stared out to sea; in the dim light, the waves could be seen breaking white over the offshore skerries.

“I'm sorry,” Sam said quietly.

Thorvald drew a deep breath. “No,” he said. “It is I who should be sorry, and I should thank you as well. You've given your time and your energy and your fine boat, and I've doubtless been so wrapped up in myself that I've hardly spared you a word. You're a true friend, Sam. I don't know why you put up with me. I do have to go on with this. I hope you understand that.”