The Island House (53 page)

“I wonder if we could have a chat.” Katherine could hear Dan making up the fire in the big room; he was whistling happily to himself.

“Is something wrong?”

Katherine tried to smile. “Not wrong. But there’s something I should have said before. I wasn’t sure, though, and now you said you’ve seen, well . . .” She did not have the words.

“Come and sit by the stove.”

Katherine nodded gratefully. “I’m sorry. It’s not like me to be so silly, but I’ve been troubled and not sure how to, that is, when to . . .”

Freya unwound the towel and shook her hair free. “Not silly at all. Findnar does this—messes with your head.”

“That’s why I was trying to tell you what happened,” Katherine said. Then she shut her mouth abruptly, as if frightened.

“We have all night.” Freya spoke gently.

In the background, behind Katherine, Dan stood silently in the doorway.

“I have never talked of this. Not to anyone.” Katherine stared at her hands as they twisted in her lap. She sighed. “The last time your father and I spoke to one another was . . . unhappy—and then he died.”

Freya reached forward and clasped Katherine’s hands in her own. “Please, if this distresses you . . .”

“It does, but it is a relief to speak of it.” Katherine sniffed.

Freya rummaged in a pocket. “Here.” She produced a tissue. “It’s clean, I promise.” She smiled encouragingly.

“You are very kind, Freya. He was kind too.” Katherine blew her nose loudly. “But you spoke of seeing ‘her.’ Was this a pretty girl with dark hair—curly dark hair?”

“Yes.” Freya’s eyes met Dan’s over the top of Katherine’s head.

“Your father saw her too. Here on the island. And he said it was the dead come back to life, seeking to tell him something. He seemed completely certain. I have never believed in ghosts, and I told him I thought he might be ill, or suffering delusions from living alone in this place. He would not listen to me, and we quarreled after I asked him to see a doctor. He said I was the deluded one, and that if I would just open my mind to other possibilities . . .
What
possibilities—those that dwell at the bottom of the whisky? That is what I said.” A sad little laugh. “We so rarely quarreled, and this was worse for being Christmas—the very day he gave me the crucifix. Christmas affected him, I knew that, though I did my best to help him be cheerful. He missed you, Freya. I would say, each Christmas Eve, Pick up the phone, call her—but he never did. He thought he had no right to disturb your life after all these years. Perhaps I was glad—because I was jealous. I thought he loved you more than me.” Katherine tried to smile at Freya, a brave failure. “He was the only family I had and I never saw him again and then, today, you said . . .”

“That I had seen her.” Freya expelled a painful breath. Dan limped forward and sat beside Katherine at the table. “I see her, too, and the others, one man in particular.”

Katherine’s voice cracked. “Others? But I do not see her, or them, whoever they are. Am I the only one without eyes.
Why?
” She was crying, her chest heaving with the effort to contain the sound. “If we had not quarreled, Michael might have stayed with me; he might not have come here that night. He might still be alive, sitting in this kitchen. Why did I not believe him?”

Dan met Freya’s glance.
And I might have died, not Michael Dane.

CHAPTER 38

T
HE BELL
was calling. Prime, the second service of the day, if day this blank dark could be called.

Signy rolled over and slipped from the skins. Fogged with sleep and habit, she knelt beside the palliasse. The air shocked her, and she remembered there was no need to pray. Shivering, she pulled a skin from the bed.

“Signy?” Gunnhilde was in the byre below.

The girl peered down. “What do you want?” She was wary.

“There is danger.” An imploring whisper.

“Why?”
Something. Coming closer.

Gunnhilde twisted her hands together. “I had to confess. I tried to avoid it.” She swallowed. “I said I had seen you near the stones and that I was worried for you—which the Lord knows is true. Brother Anselm said he must tell the Abbot and”—she took a quivering breath—“even though I know it is wrong, I have come to warn you.” She crossed herself.

Signy climbed down from the loft. “Do you still think I am possessed, Mother?”

Gunnhilde touched Signy’s cheek. Tears dripped down the old woman’s face. “Promise you will not go to the stones today. They . . .” She stopped, a hand to her mouth.

“They?”

“Our brothers will cast them down.”

Signy said, cynically, “They tried once before.”

Gunnhilde drew closer. “But an exorcism will be held this
morning.” She faltered. “Then they will come for you.” She hit her chest with a clenched fist. “This is my fault, my grievous fault.”

Signy’s glance strayed to a corner of the byre. Leaning against a wall was a large bowl made from hide stretched over a wicker frame; Gunnhilde had not seen it.

The bell stopped. Signy kissed the old woman. “You will be late. Remember me, Mother, in your prayers.” She hurried Gunnhilde through the byre.

“Go with God, dearest child.” The old nun so yearned to say more; she always did, she always had. She kissed Signy’s forehead and hobbled away.

Signy ran to the coracle. It was not especially heavy, but it was cumbersome. Still, she would manage. No choice now.

Cuillin dropped to his knees, cross held high. He stared fearfully at the Pagan temple as, behind him, Findnar’s monks also knelt in orderly rows. With eyes as wide as his, they moved their lips without sound as they told the rosary to ward off evil emanations from the stones.

Was it strange to be locked in battle with the Fallen One on such a lovely day? The air was warm, and there was no sound but the twitch of insects. Even the sun, God’s comfort to the world, seemed to conspire with Satan, for it picked jewels in the surface of the granite monoliths, lending them beauty.

The Abbot signed a sweeping cross in the air. He would drive away this unnatural, glittering enchantment, and Satan would not beguile him, for he was about God’s business.

“Together, Brothers, we shall fight the Prince of Darkness. Rise. Join me!” The monk swept his arms into the air. “That stone”—he pointed, his forefinger a weapon—“their so-called altar; it shall be dragged down and consecrated to Christ in the name of St. Peter, the rock of our Church.” He thrust his cross
toward the monoliths. “And with God’s help and strength, we shall roll the rest into the sea.”

Perhaps some of the brothers stared toward the distant cliffs. It was a long way, a very long way.

Cuillin’s voice rose sharply. “Evil has returned to the world, Brothers. Last night after Compline, I saw the Wanderer in the sky—a sign of the end-times—and we must act. Salvation, or damnation, is at stake.”

Among the monks, Anselm blanched. The wandering star was a most terrible portent, for in the Scriptorium they had only just finished illuminating the great Book of Revelation, the chronicle of what would happen at the end of days. The timing was fearful.

Solwaer woke with a start as something nudged his ribs. Head reeling, he saw what he was intended to see, someone, not something, and felt the boot again in his side.

He sat up quickly. Too fast, the room swayed and tipped. “Stop that.”

Portsol’s Demon grinned. “Time you were up, old man. Time to plan.” Bear reached down.

Hand clasped hand, and Solwaer lunged to his feet as Bear yelled for the chamber slave. Pained, the Lord of Portsol closed his eyes; none of this was good.

A girl hurried in. She huddled at Solwaer’s feet. The previous slave was barely alive from the beating he’d given her last night when he woke and wanted water; she’d not brought it quickly enough; her fate was the talk of the village.

“Food.” The girl ran.

Solwaer narrowed watering eyes. He coughed; the air was thick with unpleasant smoke, for Bear had kicked the fire into life, feeding the embers dried dung. Standing helped the ale sickness though, and Solwaer croaked, “Be careful, Bear. Very careful.” He might have meant the fire.

“It is not my nature to be careful.” Bear deliberately used Norse.

“No, it is not.” Grimor was at the door. “But you are my brother, you take what you want.”

Bear grinned. “Shall I tell him that, Brother?”

“I think you should.” Grimor was cheered. Bear’s homeland tongue was improving, and that was good; if he was to command a hull in the fleet, he must be able to talk to his men.

“What is this?” Solwaer had slumped to his stool. He did not like conversations he could not understand.

Bear shrugged. “Grimor says strong men do not wait on permission, they take what they want.”

The Lord of Portsol looked from one to the other and smiled mirthlessly. “Then it is time to talk. Of Findnar, tell him that.”

Bear spoke to his brother. “There is a way onto Findnar out of sight of the cove. It’s difficult, but at the right tide with a few men, I can open the cliff gate from the other side.”

Grimor nodded slowly. He stared at Solwaer, a long, unsettling look.

Solwaer held Grimor’s gaze. Anger helped, though he did not show it. He clapped his hands. “Girl!” The slave scuttled back with a bowl of fresh cheese and barley bread, and an ale jug. Solwaer pointed. The girl unhooked ale horns from her belt and placed the food on a wooden block.

“Go!”

The chamber slave ran.

“Eat, Lord Grimor, and we shall talk.” Solwaer deliberately added the honorific.

Bear filled a horn with ale and handed it to Solwaer; then he filled another horn for Grimor, and one for himself. “But first, a toast. To advantage. And to glory.”

“To advantage and glory.” But new ale did not clear the queasiness of the old. Solwaer belched sour beer and made a business of smoothing his tunic, winning a little time to think. “We have an
agreement about Findnar, Bear. I found the men you need, and now you must play your part.” A flat statement, quickly translated.

Grimor and Bear both smiled politely.

Bear replied, “And, afterward?”

“Afterward? When I am lord of Findnar, you take what you’ve been promised and sail away.” Solwaer dug a piece of bread into the curds and stuffed it in his mouth, but the smell of the cheese made him retch. He spat the food into the fire.

“Something wrong, Lord Solwaer?” Grimor laughed, a loud snort.

Solwaer curled a lip. It might have been a smile.

Bear swallowed a handful of curds. “But there might be another way, in the future, another path to follow.”

Solwaer echoed politely, “Another path?”

“My brother and I can be your allies, Solwaer.” Bear’s tone was equally courteous. “You do not have enough followers to hold this coast, but we do. And you are a merchant, we are fighters. Each does what he knows best; one protects, one makes money for all. Everyone wins.” Bear shot a glance at his brother. Grimor beamed as if he understood each word.

Solwaer stopped himself from nodding too. It was true—an alliance with other powers had been one way he’d seen the future, even so far back as when he’d first taken these once burned and empty buildings with fewer than ten men and renamed the place for himself.