The Island House (44 page)

And yet he could not suppress just a little earthly pride, for it was with the satisfaction of a job well done that the Abbot of Find-nar surveyed the island’s cove today. Wherever he looked, men knelt, staring at the great cross in his hands. He nodded to a novice and said, loudly, “With God’s Grace, let us begin.”

As instructed, the boy hurried to hold back the fluttering silk of Cuillin’s cope. The Abbot tried not to shiver as he signed a cross over the multitude and raised his voice against the sound of the waves, powerful competition on this chill, windy day. “As Christ suffered and died for our sins, so you, Lord Solwaer, and all your followers here today, will shortly die and be reborn into His blessed Grace. Beloved of God, children of Faith . . .”

The men of Portsol did not understand the Latin, but they watched Solwaer shuffle from foot to foot. Their leader was definitely nervous. The men muttered; something was not right.

Sensing unrest, Abbot Cuillin spoke faster and cast drops of holy water toward the chief convert.

Solwaer stepped back a pace. It had been explained to him that “dying” was purely metaphorical, but he still glanced toward the ships drawn up in the cove. If he had to run, how long would it take?

Cuillin gathered himself. With all the force in his lungs, he bellowed, “In the name of Christ our Lord, accept baptism in the Holy Spirit and the living word of God!”

Two of the larger monks appeared beside Solwaer. They hurried him to the stream that flowed from the cliff and cast aside his cloak. A sound like a disturbed hive came from the crowd. Solwaer was naked. He made a powerful sight, muscled and scarred.

A nod from Cuillin, and the brothers seized the visitor, pushing him under the water. Shocked by the cold, Solwaer struggled to raise his head, but they shoved him down again.

The men of Portsol stampeded. Sprouting knives and swords, roaring vengeance, they bludgeoned a path to their leader. Among the mayhem, Cuillin knelt on the stream bank. “God! Protect your servants.”

“Stop!
Stop!
” Solwaer’s bellow prevented a massacre. Just. “I am unharmed.”

Burning with cold, the Chieftain of Portsol clambered to the bank. He shouted at his men, “You’ve shamed me!” Shivering, he
turned to the Abbot. “Brother Cuillin, it seems my followers will need instruction before they, too, receive the Holy Spirit.”

Cuillin nodded vigorously. Under these trying circumstances, he would not attempt mass baptism. Besides, since their leader was now fully Christian, the men of Portsol were, notionally, consecrated to Christ already. Immersion could wait.

Solwaer had never been so cold in his life. He muttered to Fiachna, “I’m freezing my bollocks off.”

A panicked glance, and the chief carl saw the truth. His lord’s testicles were certainly shriveled and white, his prick retracted to the length of a baby’s finger. Sorcery!

Fiachna glared at the whey-faced Abbot. Protectively, he pulled a long linen shirt over his master’s trembling body, followed by a red silk tunic. This was a precious object, befitting such a man, and it covered Solwaer to the knees. Silently watched by all on the beach, Solwaer pulled up russet wool trews, and Fiachna bound his legs with leather leggings.

“Belt!” Solwaer was starting to feel better, or at least warmer.

Fiachna bowed and held the object to his master. Broad and polished as a new chestnut, the leather was closed with a silver buckle.

“Cloak!”

With an evil look, Fiachna snatched it from one of the attendant monks, unnerving the man greatly. The cloak clasp was worked gold and very valuable also, as was the plaid cloak itself, lined with winter marten. Finally there were the shoes, bright yellow-green and very soft.

“Much better. Give me the torque.”

The chief carl had kept this last object hidden in a rabbit-skin pouch. Bear had made it—a reason, perhaps, why the man remained alive. Reverently, he placed the worked gold around Solwaer’s throat; fully arrayed, his master was kingly.

Solwaer nodded to the Abbot. “I am ready.”

But Cuillin was not—shock still gripped his body from the near
disaster, and he sent up a fervent prayer.
Help me, Lord. Lend me your strength.
Turning toward the men massed on the beach, he intoned, “Dear friends in Christ, this is a joyous day.” His voice shook, and he cleared his throat. “Please join our community in a Mass of thanksgiving.” The words were steadier, and he took that as the signal for the procession to begin.

A shivering novice led the gathering toward the path. He swung a silver censer—a baptismal gift to Findnar from Solwaer—as the monks formed up in pairs to conduct the converts to the Abbey.

Solwaer had not told Cuillin the censer’s provenance. This holy item had been looted from another monastery and had found its way to him, along with a gold platter embossed with equal-armed crosses. He had purchased both objects with a well-grown girl he’d fathered on one of his slaves plus an excellent bull of good size. He’d been sad to see the animal, renowned for its potency, go. The censer he’d brought to the Abbey this morning; the gold platter had been melted down weeks ago by Bear and reworked into the torque. Solwaer liked to think of all the gold crosses melting into this other form—it seemed appropriate, somehow.

At the Abbey, it took some time to gather the press of men into Findnar’s church, since the building had not accommodated so great a gathering before.

Anxious to make a good impression, Solwaer glared at any of his followers who spat on the floor—the monks frowned on such behavior. If he was honest, though, the gloom depressed him. The church stank of old, cold sweat and tallow. It was dank, too, as well as dark. Still, it was necessary that he do this, necessary to gain the trust of Cuillin and his monks—and nuns. Solwaer looked around. Where were the nuns?

As Cuillin had earlier explained, after the regrettable occasion of the previous year, separation of the sexes was now strictly enforced, with the exception of confession. A long screen had been installed along one side of the nave, and Solwaer could hear a certain amount of coughing and whispering behind it.

The regrettable occasion.
Solwaer’s attention drifted as the Mass began. Was the cause of that scandal behind the screen with her sisters? He remembered the girl kneeling in this very place only so few months ago. Solwaer fingered the torque. He owed the girl thanks, for unwittingly, by her actions, she had provided him with a useful follower. Perhaps he should tell her so, personally.

Bored by the endless prayers, the nasal chanting of the brothers, Solwaer stared toward the meadow through a part-open door. There were sheep and cows in the distance, and something human moved among them.

It was her, the pretty novice. She’d been hard to see at first, dressed in a dirt-colored kirtle. He narrowed his eyes.
They’ve shaved her head!
The barbarity shocked him.

He returned his attention to the Mass with an effort. Bear would not be pleased when he heard—
if
he heard.

The Abbey had lost one slave, it seemed, and gained another.

CHAPTER 31

S
OLWAER SAT
alone on the honor seat, brooding. Perhaps it was a mistake being baptized. He’d entered a pact with a God more powerful than he’d thought, for after the Mass, Fiachna told him of Cuillin’s miracle with the sea. Such a deity would have expectations . . .

The door to the hall hurled back, almost broken from its post. Bear, wetter than a seal, came in from the howling black, and he brought the storm behind him. So violent was the gale, rain was blown as far as the fire pit, and the coals threw a geyser of steam and smoke into the roof void.

“Close it!” Fiachna stood behind his master, pointing. He didn’t name Bear, he would not acknowledge the man, but others rushed to wrestle the door back against the night. No one told the Demon what to do.

Bear, oblivious to the fuss, advanced through the hall, a sword in one hand, an ax in the other. He walked easily, as untroubled as any animal when it’s the largest in the pack.

“You cannot come armed into the hall. Put your weapons away.” Solwaer was irritated by Bear’s lack of manners.

Imperturbable, the Demon dropped the sword into the leather scabbard on his back and leaned on the ax shaft. “Let’s talk about the island,” he said.

Solwaer rolled his eyes. “Is this about the girl?”

“You didn’t tell me what they did. Time to teach them a lesson.”

Solwaer shifted irritably in his seat. Lately he’d been troubled by piles, which itched and stung—it was like sitting on hornets
sometimes. “The Lord Abbot administers his own domain, as do I. Besides, I am a Christian now, and I must listen for Jesus to speak in my heart so that I know what is right.”

Bear’s guffaw bent the candle flames. Fiachna started forward, a sword in one hand. Bear turned. An efficient twist and the weapon was twitched from the chief carl’s fingers. The crowd in the hall surged forward, anxious to see the fight.

Solwaer bellowed, “Enough!” He peeled Bear with a glance that might have stripped skin from an apple. Fiachna stepped back first; he was breathing hard. Bear was not.

“You”—Solwaer pointed at Bear—“in there.” He waved his hand toward the hangings. “Fiachna!”

Fiachna swept the curtain aside to allow Solwaer to pass. As Bear prowled after him, the carl muttered, “One day. One day soon . . .”

“It will be my day and your head.” Bear did not have to sneer. This was simple fact.

“What is this nonsense?”

The two men were in the Chieftain’s quarters. A substantial chamber behind the hall, it was constructed from logs and hung with cattle hides.

“You know, don’t lie. The island, that’s what you want, and we can take it.”

Solwaer shrugged. “Why should I do such a thing?”

“It commands the strait from the other side. To control this coast properly, you need Findnar and Portsol. You’ve built this place from ruins; if we burn the Christians out, you can do the same over there.”

“Are you deaf? I am baptized in Christ and I am a man of peace.” Solwaer deliberately crossed himself.

Bear snorted.

Solwaer kicked a log into the fire pit. Sparks flew up in a billow
of smoke. He coughed, spat, and sat heavily on a stool; even here, in his private quarters, it stood on a low dais. He said, pleasantly, “With the palisade, even monks can hold Findnar now, and there’s nowhere to land except that cove. The monastery is safe from raiders, safe from you too. Deo gratias.”

Bear swayed forward, one foot planted on the riser. “What if I said there was another way to get onto Findnar?”

Solwaer frowned. “If so, that is a serious matter, and Abbot Cuillin must be informed. You will tell me, I shall tell him, and our Lord in Heaven will bless you.”

“You lie. There is no
Lord.
” Bear bellowed like a bull.

Solwaer was annoyed by the histrionics. “I have promised to build a church in Portsol in His name; that is not a lie.” He held up a hand for a horn of ale, and a girl—quite pretty and young, though bruised—scuttled from the shadows. Solwaer was hard on slaves.

Raising the horn, he pointed at Bear. The girl hesitated. “He won’t bite unless you annoy him. Careful now, demons like girl flesh.” Trembling, the child offered the monster a horn.

Solwaer waved toward the door. “Outside. Do not listen.” He settled himself on the stool as the girl ran. “Why do you hate them so much?” He leaned back, his face in shadow.

“You know why.”

“My feared demon, and here you are months later still hankering after a scrawny nun.” Solwaer’s laugh was hard. “This does no good for your reputation, sword maker. Plenty more girls to be had by my smith, even with that face. I’ll tell them to close their eyes.” This time the guffaw came from his belly.

Bear glowered. “She’s not a nun. They just think she is.”

Solwaer sputtered. Ale shot into the fire, which spat back. “They just
think
she is. Oh, that’s good.” He happily wiped tears from his eyes. “But, my demon, she is scrawny. I saw. Small breasts. Not even a handful.”