The Island House (40 page)

Bear expanded his chest and raised his battered head. He loomed taller than Fiachna, even though the man stood on the dais. “I am a freeman, not a slave. I have a lineage, and you are not my lord.”

A collective gasp, like a wave up the beach that would not be stopped.

The Chieftain gestured at the ropes binding Bear’s hands. Fiachna shot his lord a glance, would have spoken, but a hand was raised. “Do it. He will not be a trouble to us much longer, this Demon.”

Reluctantly, one of the guards stepped forward with a dagger in his fist; another stood close with a raised sword.

“You may recite your lineage, poor though it will undoubtedly be, and then you will die as you have lived. Like a dog.” Solwaer’s tone was soft, but the sneer was audible.

The rope fell from Bear’s hands. He flexed his fingers and then his arms. The guards gripped their weapons; they would not have unbound the Demon, but then, none of them was Solwaer.

Bear’s breath was deep, as if to plunge into the winter sea. He said, loudly, “My father’s name was Ragnar, son of Iarl, son of Othere, son of Britwulf Ironhand. I am full brother to Grimor.”

Solwaer leaned forward, but only a little. Perhaps he was interested, perhaps he was uncomfortable on the stool.

“At my birth I was named Magni for the son of Thor, though now I am called Bear. When I was young, I was among Reimer’s band, which burned this coast and the island.”

The watchers exchanged astonished glances, and a gathering roar ripped the gloom like wind.

Bear was unmoved as shouting men drew swords and waved them, feinting toward where he stood.

The Chieftain ignored the howling mob. He raised a hand to Fiachna. Stepping forward to the front of the dais, the chief carl roared, “Silence! Silence for Lord Solwaer.”

Like a brook in high summer, sound settled to a mutter.

Bear stared around the hall. Unblinking, he searched the faces of each man, each woman, and even the children. He would remember them should they meet again.

Solwaer waved an impatient hand. “Continue.”

Bear nodded. “When Findnar was burned, forty seasons ago, I was left behind.” He touched the raised scars on his bloodied face. “This was my legacy. Perhaps it was my punishment; that is what the people of Christ said, though they healed me, mended my legs. They even tried to save my pretty face.” He laughed.

None in the hall responded. It was sobering to see a man who had been part of such destruction, even if it had been so many years ago.

“Believe me, the face you see here is an improvement, though some have called me Demon.” He smiled, blank-eyed. “Then there came a time when I tried to leave the island. I was still a child. We
stole a ship, and the woman you saw in the Abbey church was a child then, too, Lord Solwaer, but she was brave, and this place, Portsol, was the home of her clan. We sailed the ship here, Signy and I.”

The hall was silent as Bear stared at Solwaer. “Nine summers ago the houses here were deserted. Some were burned. Perhaps Reimer had sacked this place, perhaps another band had been here. There was no one left to tell us what had happened and, because we had stolen a vessel and her clan home lay ruined, Signy said we must return the craft to the people of Christ or we would be cursed. As this place had been cursed and devastated.”

Solwaer stared hard at Bear. “There is no curse, animal herder. Portsol prospers because I am its lord.”

Bear bowed his head, a small acknowledgment. His teeth glinted, caught in the glow of the fire pit. “And so we went back to the island. In time Signy promised to marry the Christian God, for that is one of the things they do, and she felt compelled to atone.” Perhaps, in the end, he was economical with the truth.

There were jeers from some of the men in the hall.

Bear glanced at the most insulting, and they fell silent. “Yes, I was an animal herder. I plowed their land and sowed their crops, and I became a smith for them, and a carver.” They had not found the knife in his leggings. Bear bent, and held his arm high. The blade flashed.

Fiachna would have jumped from the dais, but men close to Bear drew back. An armed demon was a different matter.

Bear saw them shuffle away. He laughed.

Solwaer’s eyes narrowed; now he did lean forward. “You made this?”

“I did, great Lord. Forged this blade, carved the hilt.” Bear stepped a pace closer and, for a moment, the men locked glances. Never taking his eyes from Solwaer’s, Bear placed the knife at the other man’s feet and stepped away. “My gift to you.”

A sigh swept the crowd. Carvers were sorcerers, that was well
known: they took the soul of what they copied and put that into the work so the object became magical, imbued with the power of the original. Smiths, too, could not be trusted—they dealt with earth magic, iron made from fire.

Solwaer nodded, slowly and deliberately. “I accept this gift, but it will not save you, Demon. Perhaps it will take your liver.” The Chieftain gestured to Fiachna. The chief carl picked up the dagger and handed it to his lord; perhaps the otter pleased him, for Solwaer waved to Bear almost cordially. “And?”

Bear turned to the crowd. “This was the price I paid. I, son of Ragnar, son of Iarl, son of Othere, son of Britwulf Ironhand, became a herder. I learned much, and I have not come here to die.” He whirled around and pointed at the man on the dais. “Solwaer, I will serve you usefully, for a time, but as a free man.”

The Chieftain stood. He flicked a plaid shawl around his shoulders and faced the hall, firelight gilding the bleak planes of his face. “Yet, Demon, there is blood debt for the man you killed.” His eyes flared as coals crumbled into the fire pit—the tone was a taunt.

Bear raised his hand. Swords around him flinched forward, but he smiled. “I will pay it. I shall carve for you and smith for you, as I did for the monks. What great chief ever has enough war weapons or things of value for his hall, or for himself?”

Solwaer did not respond.

Bear half-smiled and said, politely, “And perhaps in time I shall take up the trade I was trained for. A seaborne fighter. Then I may be more useful still.”

Solwaer grunted. The people began to mutter and shift as he settled himself in the honor seat once more. “What do you want?”

“Only that which is mine and your help to take it back.”

The girl.
Solwaer blinked. He waved a hand dismissively. “Put him back where you got him. I shall think on this.”

He could have fought them, but Bear, after bowing to the Chieftain, allowed himself to be prodded from the hall at spearpoint.

“One last thing . . .”

At the open door of the hall, Bear turned.

Solwaer stared at him, eyes bright as those of a black crow. He spoke slowly and clearly. “If you harm any of my people, I will have you flayed and cast, living, into the fire pit. Do not forget.”

Bear met his glance. “Fire is not my friend, Lord Solwaer. I will not forget.”

CHAPTER 27

A
S SHE
walked up the high street, Freya turned her phone on. No messages. Not one. What’d happened to her mates, all those friends who said how much they’d miss her? She might have dropped off the edge of the earth.

She stopped. Adrenaline and paranoia, had they always been her drugs of choice? She so wanted comfort—a familiar voice, someone from home, someone normal. Elizabeth. She needed to be lectured, needed to be told not to be so silly.

Freya found the number and tapped it in.
Pick up, Mum. Please . . .
But the phone at the other end kept ringing. She let it go all the way, just in case.

And then she heard Elizabeth’s voice cut in.
I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message I’ll return your
—

“Call. Yes, I know, Mum, but I was hoping for a chat. If you get this”—Freya looked at her watch; it was early evening in Sydney—“can you call me back? It’s Monday morning my time here, and I’ll keep my phone on. There’s lots to talk about, believe me. Love you.”

Elizabeth would sense it, though she’d tried to be breezy; her mother could always tell when Freya was upset.

But could she tell her why?

Freya, an unhappy huddle on a seat in the cemetery, was staring at her father’s grave. Something was missing—the bunch of flowers she’d left only a couple of days ago was gone.

“You wouldn’t think they’d do it, would you?” said Simon. He was leaning over the gate, smiling at her pleasantly.

“What?”

“Take flowers from a grave.”

There was nothing to say to that. So much about life made Freya feel helpless now, and this was just one more small blow. “I hope they bring someone pleasure. Maybe they’re better with the living.” Embarrassed by sudden tears, she looked away.

The gate opened, and she heard Simon crunching up the gravel path. Uninvited, he sat beside her. “Anything I can do?”

Feeling stupid, she shook her head. She hated this fragility; she’d never been like this before, if you didn’t count childhood misery.

“He can’t help you now”—Simon nodded at the grave—“but I can.”

Freya attempted a watery smile. “Oh?”

“Yes. Think about the good things.”

She couldn’t avoid a caustic edge. “It’s that simple.”

“Certainly.” Simon’s tone was bracing.
Next best thing to Mum,
thought Freya, quite surprised.

“For starters, how many girls own an island?”

“Islands are trouble. Capital T.” A gloomy mutter.

“What, Findnar? Surely not.” He was droll and warm, and charming.

“Easy for you to say.” Just a brief glance in his direction, an acknowledgment he was being kind, but Freya sighed. “Oh, it’s the different way of life, I suppose. And there’s no power at the house either.”

“Really? Your dad didn’t fix that?”

She stared at Simon. “You know about the power.”

He shrugged. “My family were friends with the Buchans—the people who owned the island then. The house was empty and locked up, hadn’t been lived in for a long time, but we’d go over for a few days each summer and sleep in tents. All good, clean, primitive
fun, parents and kids mucking in together.” His face softened. “The long midsummer days of childhood. In a way, I think that’s why I came back to Portsolly.”

Freya nodded. She, too, understood the allure of holiday memories from long ago—the happy ones.

Simon continued, “Findnar was used for grazing sheep back then, but there were no other human inhabitants—not even a shepherd.”

Freya sat up. “I knew it! Just seems so sensible not to waste all the grass. And I pump water in the house—there’s primitive for you, but good exercise. That, and the cliff path.”

Simon said thoughtfully, “Well, we can’t do anything about that path, but power and water are an easy fix, with a bit of cash, that is. And if it’s all too hard, you’ll get a nice price if you decide to sell for the legends alone.”

“Legends?”

“The last, lost hoard of pirate gold, me hearties.”

Freya’s mood finally lifted; she even giggled at the pirate impersonation. “Dire, Simon Fettler, just dire. Can I counsel against giving up the day job?”

He grinned. “That’s better, but it might be true. There’s a rumor, more than a rumor actually, that treasure is buried on the island. Lots of people have searched for it over the years, including us kids, of course, back then. Never found anything.”

Freya shifted uneasily. “Everywhere has myths.”

“Of course, and children love legends. It’s a classic thing, a quest. Hours of fun ferreting in the ruins and telling ghost stories around the campfire at night.” He fell silent, staring at Michael Dane’s grave.

“Not just kids.” Freya stole a glance at his profile. “Simon, you’re an architect.”

He nodded solemnly. “Last time I looked.” He smiled at her warmly.

“I need a big piece of stone moved—a really big bit.”

“On the island?”

She nodded.

“Well, you could do worse than what they did here, building this church. When they had to raise blocks of stone—big ones—they’d have built a crane on the spot.” He waved toward the steeple. “Very efficient when you look at something like that.”