Foxmask (6 page)

Three tides on western shores
Whale harvest, blood tide
Night of voices, death tide
Isle of Clouds, fool's tide

M
ONK'S MARGIN NOTE

C
reidhe's weaving was almost finished, a soft blanket of finest wool, vivid red on deepest blue. The decorative borders with their pattern of foxes, owls and little trees had already been done on the strip-loom; Creidhe would sew the pieces together to produce a seamless effect. Margaret asked her what project she would start on next, but Creidhe could not answer. For some reason there didn't seem to be a next, not right now. Perhaps she would go to the Northern Isles as her parents wanted, she told her aunt. It might not be a good time to embark on a new piece of work. And there was always the Journey, that very private embroidery which seemed to grow and grow and never quite be finished to her satisfaction.

“Don't worry about Thorvald,” Aunt Margaret told her bluntly one afternoon when the two of them were beginning to fasten off the warp threads, working side by side as late afternoon sun slanted in through the open doorway, touching the colored wool to fiery brightness. “He'll come home when he's ready. He told you what this is about, I suppose.”

“Some of it,” Creidhe said awkwardly. It was difficult to approach such a subject, even though Aunt Margaret was a trusted friend. This was not just about secrets, it concerned murder and betrayal, and it was beyond imagining
that neat, self-sufficient Margaret, a woman who displayed none of the signs of a passionate nature, had ever been embroiled in such high drama. “I know he's unhappy,” Creidhe went on. “I'd like to help him, but . . .”

“A man can't be helped if he doesn't want it,” Margaret said. “You'd be best to leave him alone, Creidhe. Thorvald has to work this out for himself. Your father's right, a trip away would be good for you.”

Creidhe said nothing. Margaret might think Thorvald was off brooding somewhere and would come home when he'd forgiven her. Creidhe knew better. Thorvald was away visiting Sam again. Sometimes it seemed to Creidhe that Thorvald thought she was stupid, just as he thought the pastimes she loved so much—weaving, sewing, cooking—were women's pursuits requiring little in the way of cleverness. She knew she was not stupid. She could tell Thorvald was planning an expedition. He was going to find his father, and Sam would be traveling with him; it took two men to sail the
Sea Dove
. If Margaret had not worked that out, she knew her son less well than she imagined.

This was going to be a challenge. It might be quite a long way, and Creidhe had never enjoyed the motion of a boat, not even the small faering they used to take out when they were children. But one thing was certain. For all his eighteen years, Thorvald was not very grown up at all, and had no idea how to look after himself. And whatever anyone might say about him, he was deserving of her help, of her love. People looked at Thorvald and saw only the bad side, the gloomy moods, the sudden anger, the silences. Creidhe knew him better. He had been her friend as long as she could remember. He had been there the day Kinart died, a terrible, long-ago day when her parents were too shattered by shock and grief to take heed of their little daughter. Creidhe had stood quietly in the shadows, watching as the cold, pale form of her brother was laid out on the table to be washed and dried, and prayed over and cried over. Margaret had come, and Thorvald with her, himself still a small child. It was Thorvald who had settled by Creidhe's side, wiped away her tears, warmed her hands in his. It was he who had kept away the terror of the unknown that day when her whole world went awry.

And later there were many more times, times when she had been sad or upset and he had heard her catalog of woes in accepting silence, and told her it would be all right. Times when he had got her out of trouble. She could remember a trip out on the lake in a forbidden boat, a capsize, and an embarrassing rescue. If not for Thorvald that day, she might herself have drowned. If not for his help, she'd most certainly have had to go home in wet clothes and confess her stupidity to her parents.

Then there was the reading and writing, something Creidhe had always found immensely difficult. She'd struggled with Margaret's lessons, for her attention kept straying to the things she'd rather be doing: baking, embroidery or just being out of doors in the fresh air. Thorvald had helped her then, adding his own unofficial tuition to Margaret's formal sessions. He'd sit with Creidhe down by the western dike and watch gravely as she made the letters in the earth with a pointed stick. He never got cross when he was teaching her. It was her own fault that she hadn't been able to learn.

There was no doubt in Creidhe's mind that that patient teacher, that kindly child represented the real Thorvald, the essence of the man he would become. Other folk might see him as arrogant, unfeeling, even cruel. There was no doubt he could be all of these. His true face, Creidhe thought, he showed only to those he trusted, and there were precious few of them.

All the same, right now he was still unpredictable and moody, and still prone to sudden, illogical decisions. He must not undertake such a grand adventure without her by his side.

Once she had decided this, there were plans to be made. There was no way Thorvald and Sam would agree to take her with them, so she'd have to stow away. That meant finding out when they were leaving and getting to Stensakir the night before. How long would they be gone? Which way were they going? And how could she do it without worrying Eyvind and Nessa half to death?

The very thought of it made her belly churn with unease. There was such danger in it, peril and uncertainty. Thorvald must have asked around, of course, though she knew he had not spoken to Eyvind. He must have found out the likeliest route, the probable landfall for Somerled's lonely voyage. Surely Sam, the most practical man in Hrossey, would not have agreed to take him if there had not been suitable safeguards. All the same, there were questions hanging over the very idea. What had it come from, after all, but a chance remark of her own about finding out the truth? Perhaps their destination was far away. Perhaps they would be gone a long time, a whole cycle of the moon or even two. Her mother would be anxious, her father shocked. Eyvind would be furious with Thorvald, even though her presence on the boat would be all her own doing. He might even take it into his head to come after them, though there was no other vessel in the Light Isles that could match Sam's for speed and maneuverability. Her father could hardly commandeer a longship. And what about Margaret? Who would help her with the weaving? Who would comfort her when she discovered her son had abandoned home and hearth in a wild search for a father he had never
known? All the same, Creidhe knew that she must go. It was a knowledge that owed little to logic, but was nonetheless deep and strong, a conviction that beat in the heart and flowed in the blood. She must be there. Without her, Thorvald could not do this. Without her, this quest would fail.

She was careful to follow her usual routine, making herself useful at home, walking or riding down to Aunt Margaret's most days. Her parents talked about her trip to the Northern Isles again and she pretended to be thinking about it. It was not a good feeling to deceive them. The household was built on trust and truth; she longed to seek their wise advice but could not, knowing they would never agree to let her go on such a voyage.

Her sister Brona was the only one who sensed there was something wrong, and it was Brona who helped Creidhe find a way. A wedding was to be held near Stensakir: Grim's eldest daughter Sigrid was marrying a farmer from West Island, and the whole family was invited. The day before they were to head eastward for the festivities, a messenger came with news that the chieftains of the Caitt had sent a delegation to Hafnarvagr, wanting to speak with Eyvind about some kind of arrangement to protect the straits between the Light Isles and their own northern coastline. The traffic of Norse and Danish vessels in those parts had picked up considerably, and one could never be sure whether an attacker might decide to help himself to a cargo of livestock or fine timber, furs or thralls. It was necessary for Eyvind to travel south immediately, and Nessa, who was looking tired and pale these days, made a sudden decision to stay at home with Ingigerd rather than go to the wedding without her husband.

Nessa did not want to disappoint her daughters. Creidhe and Brona could still go, she decreed, as long as they traveled there and back with the three men Eyvind had chosen to accompany and guard them, and stayed with Grim and his wife Eira until the celebrations were over. Margaret was not going, and nor was Thorvald.

At around the same time, Creidhe had an amazing piece of luck. One of Eyvind's housecarls, a girl called Solveig, was walking out with the fellow who worked on the
Sea Dove
as deckhand. When Solveig happened to mention that Sam was giving her sweetheart an unexpected holiday soon after the coming wedding, it all fell into place. There could be only one reason, Creidhe thought, for a decision that would cost Sam dearly in lost fish. The
Sea Dove
must be almost ready to leave. And she herself would be close to Stensakir at just the right time: perfect. It almost seemed meant to be.

The hurt she was about to inflict on her family weighed heavily on Creidhe, but her mind was made up. The two girls packed their bags: a good
gown each for the wedding, Creidhe's prized string of amber beads, Brona's favorite yellow ribbon, two pairs of fine stockings of white wool. Gifts for the happy couple had already been stowed away. There was a box carved with images of whales and seals in pale soapstone, holding a good weight of silver pieces, and a woolen wall-hanging of Creidhe's own making which showed a magical tree whose limbs held fruit and foliage of many shapes and hues, apple, pear and berry all springing from the same branch. Creidhe was glad the blue and red blanket had not been given away as yet. She was pleased her handiwork was so prized, but it was always sad to see it go, for there was a part of herself in every piece she crafted. Thorvald would think that silly; it was the sort of thing she could not tell him. Her mind wandered ahead to the time when the two of them would be man and wife. Perhaps the blue and red blanket might cover the bed they would share. She imagined waking as the dawn light streamed in across the rich colors of the wool; she felt the warmth of Thorvald's body against hers, the strength of his arm around her . . .

“Creidhe?”

She started; Brona must have said something, and she hadn't even heard her.

“Why are you packing that?” Brona asked, staring at the rolled-up linen of the Journey, which Creidhe was tucking into the outer pocket of her bag. “We'll only be there a few days, and there'll be feasting and dancing every night. You won't get any time for sewing. I'm not taking mine.”

“It can't hurt,” Creidhe said, glad her sister had not noticed some of the other items she had packed: a sharp knife, a length of strong cord, a bar of soap, a roll of soft cloths in case she had her monthly bleeding before they sailed back home, a pair of shears, a piece of flint, bone needles, colored wool, herbs to counter seasickness. At the bottom of the bag was an old shirt and trousers of Thorvald's, removed surreptitiously from one of Aunt Margaret's storage chests, and a warm felt hat with ear flaps. Thorvald's clothes did not fit her very well; her figure was not of the kind one could call boyish. Still, she suspected this would be a voyage ill-suited to her fine linen gowns and soft woolen tunics. It would be wet and cold until they got there, wherever
there
was. She must be practical.

“Creidhe?” queried Brona, staring as her sister fastened the strap around her bundle of belongings.

“What?”

“That's a big bag.”

“So's yours.”

“Not as big as yours.”

“What is this, a competition?”

Brona frowned. She was a slight, wide-eyed girl with soft brown hair like Nessa's, and a sweet look about her that did not quite conceal her sharp mind. “Creidhe, you wouldn't be planning something, would you? You've been acting very strangely this last little while.”

“Planning? What could I possibly be planning?” Creidhe raised her brows in what she hoped was an expression of innocent surprise.

Brona put her hands on her hips. “Planning to run off with Sam, that's what,” she snapped. “You'd better not be doing that, because if you marry Sam I'll never speak to you again, not even when I'm a wrinkled old crone with no teeth.”

“There wouldn't be much point in speaking to me if you had no teeth,” Creidhe retorted as relief swept through her, closely followed by the spark of a very useful idea. Brona had come alarmingly near to the truth, and yet had missed it entirely. “I wouldn't be able to understand a word. Mind you, I'd probably be deaf as a post myself by then.”

“Well?” glowered Brona. “Are you?”

“Of course not!” Creidhe said, seeing that her sister was almost in tears, and marveling that she had not noticed how much of a woman Brona had become, so wrapped up had she been in her own concerns. “Sam's not exactly the running away kind, Brona. If he wanted something, he'd just ask for it.”

“So has he?”

“Has he what?”

“Asked. Asked you to marry him. Asked Father for your hand. I know he made you a comb. I've seen him looking at you.”

“No, Brona,” Creidhe said, sitting down on the bed and putting an arm around her sister's slender shoulders. “Sam hasn't asked, and I don't expect him to.” This was not the time to tell Brona that it was possible their father might consider kindly, hard-working Sam no more suitable as a prospective son-in-law than he did Thorvald. “But I do have a secret; you've guessed that right.”

“What?” Brona's attention was instantly seized by this; the calculating look on her face showed she was sifting the possibilities, all of which probably had a young man in them. Brona had always been fond of tales of romance.