The Island House (58 page)

Solwaer waved toward Signy. “Tell this girl I will protect her, that she is not to fear. Say I can give her a good life if she obeys me.”

Idorn nodded, though the request made him anxious—he had only a few words of the southern tongue the girl most probably spoke, and none at all of Latin.

With many smiles, bowing low to Solwaer, Idorn tried to mime a strong man protecting the weak; he patted the muscles of Solwaer’s arms and pretended to rock a baby. That confused the nuns, and Signy too. Then Idorn danced around Solwaer, clapping his hands and simpering—a pantomime of delight. He encouraged Signy to dance, but she folded her arms as he capered.

Sweating slightly, Idorn stopped, his brows raised inquiringly. Did the girl understand? No. She seemed puzzled. He sighed; not intelligent, then. That surprised him—she had a clever face.

Solwaer was impatient. “Take her to my vessel, discreetly. Hide her there—she is not to be harmed. And . . .” He stared at Idorn thoughtfully, for a long, unnerving moment. “Accomplish this and the future will be interesting.” He punched the younger man in the shoulder. “The raiders are not to have her. See that she is well guarded, then return to me at the Abbey. There is much to discuss with Edor.”

Relieved and intrigued, Idorn gestured courteously for Signy to precede him toward the cove. She did not move, and the nuns watched the interchange openmouthed.

Solwaer turned back and spoke sharply. “She’s frightened. You’ll have to do better than that. Win her trust. Do it quickly, I need you.” He strode away.

I need you.
Idorn closed his eyes. He could almost taste the future. Fiachna was dead, and Solwaer had no chief carl . . .

Idorn made his face merry, in the way all women seemed to like. He beckoned invitingly. “You are safe, lady, truly. Just . . . come with me now.” He mimed rocking the baby again, pointing toward the cove and nodding with great energy. Eventually, the girl moved toward him.

“Signy! Do not leave us.” The youngest of the group, Witlaef the novice, called out. She was only a child and crying piteously, as were the others.

Signy closed her eyes, tried not to hear, but that was impossible.

“Idorn.” She addressed the man by name. “I will go with you, but only if they come as well.”

Idorn should have been angry, but curiosity won out. “You knew all along.” His first instinct had been right—this girl
was
clever—and desperate. That was good. If she became Solwaer’s
favorite—perhaps even more than a concubine—an alliance could advantage them both. “But I have no instructions from Solwaer.” He nodded toward the frightened huddle of women.

Signy sighed impatiently. “If you want me to help you”—Idorn looked at her sharply, perhaps this girl was too intelligent—“you must help me first.”

Solwaer had said, “Win her trust.” The charming smile dropped from Idorn’s face. “Quickly then, all of you.”

Signy helped Witlaef stand, and the others followed, though it was awkward. Their neck ropes made it hard to move as a group.

Idorn was starting to sweat. He knew he was resourceful, but how was he going to hide so many sobbing women?

Two equally large blocks of stone had been placed on either side of a fire pit dug in the meadow near the stones. One had a cross carved in it—the Norse gave that to Solwaer—and now he and Edor sat staring at each other, waiting for the interpreter.

During the morning some order had been brought to the island. The bodies of the slain fighters had been laid out in the grass—the raiders in one tidy row, the men of Portsol in another. Together in death, as was fitting, they were decently supplied with weapons, their own or others lent by comrades.

Close to thirty monks remained alive from the sack, chief among them Cuillin. The monks had been made to kneel—roped and bound—before the Abbey’s ruined west door. They were all exhausted, filthy, and frightened, and Solwaer thought them incapable of resistance, especially since, when Cuillin had tried to lead them in prayer, he’d been smashed in the mouth with an ax shaft. The monks went quiet after that.

Idorn felt some pity for the brutalized Abbot. Yes, life had made him a pragmatist, but as he hurried past the kneeling men toward the talking place—worried he’d taken too long with the
women—he understood how shocking it must feel to be deserted by your God.

“Idorn!” Solwaer bellowed his name.

“Here I am, Lord.” The translator increased his pace, but he did not run—that would have been undignified; he might be a man of substance soon. “I tried to hurry, Lord, but the girl . . .”

Solwaer waved an impatient hand. “Stand behind me. Tell them I am ready to talk.”

Idorn bowed to Edor, and the business of ordering the island and dividing the spoils between Solwaer and Edor began.

First it was agreed that a pyre would be built and the dead raiders burned with the sacrifice of several animals from the Abbey flocks. The Portsol dead would return in the town ships this very day, and the corpses of the murdered monks and nuns would be thrown into the sea from the cliffs.

Grimor and Bear, however, had been laid out apart from the others, and each was covered by a mound of shields. The brothers would be silent witnesses of the negotiations between the victors, their successors.

Edor gestured toward the shields. “Grimor and Magni died fighting for this place. They must be honorably buried and a stone raised up recording their names and deeds, for these will be sung by our people forever. Tell him that.” The fighter spoke without irony.

Spear shafts began to beat against the shields of the Norse, softly at first, then louder and faster. The raiders approved of their new leaders’ decision.

Solwaer raised a hand. “Lord Grimor was my friend and Lord Magni the Bear was my honored carl. These noble men will indeed be honored by us all. Their valiant deaths deserve all that we can give so that they will be remembered. I salute the courage of our heroes!” He stood and bowed to the dead men beneath the shields.

“I honor all who fought here!” Another bow to the corpses of the fighters in the grass.

“We will avenge you all.” Solwaer glared at the monks, who shifted apprehensively. The spears thumped harder, for the Norse appreciated oratory and ceremonial revenge. Both were pleasing to the Gods.

Over the din—as an afterthought—Solwaer shouted out, “And my former chief carl, Fiachna, will be buried with Grimor and Magni. He, too, died nobly. We also honor his courage.” Solwaer bowed his head sorrowfully. A pleased cheer from his own men rewarded him. The Portsol fighters, too, liked homegrown heroes to talk about in their cups.

Solwaer held up his arms for silence. “And I ask the blessing of the Gods. Hear now what I say.” He gathered himself and turned to face the sun. “In the name of the great Lord Jesus, and of the mighty All Father Odin, and of Cruach. Fathers all, you have guided me, your son, to a great victory, and I rejoice, as do my allies also.”

Apparently only mildly interested in Solwaer’s words, Edor lounged on his stone seat. The presumption of this man was boundless, but he was certainly cunning. Let Solwaer have this moment; he, Edor, would be content to wait on a better time to act. Words meant little when swords were sharp.

But Solwaer was not finished. “And I call on our Gods to witness these, my acts and intentions today, and those of Lord Edor also. All that I do, I do in your names.” Some of his men might think of themselves as Christians now, and the Norse had their own barbarian Gods and rites. Worshiping Cruach was a hangover from the old days, when he’d grown up the despised son of a slave in the old clan settlement, but by claiming the support of these Gods, he seized fate in his hands and took the initiative from Edor. In the end, he did not care what any of them believed so long as he was obeyed. “Midsummer Day approaches quickly, and by that time, we will have built a
great burial chamber in which our heroes shall lie. Fortunately, we have enough slaves.” Solwaer stared at the monks.

The Abbot bowed his head; he would not allow Solwaer to enjoy his despair.

The Chieftain lifted his arm, a sword in his hand. He waved it above his head. With a roar, the fighters raised their weapons.

Edor, cheering with the rest, knew he’d lost round one, though the tomb would bolster his prestige as well as Solwaer’s. He glanced at the brothers; perhaps he owed them that at least. Blood price.

CHAPTER 42

D
AN LAY
beside Freya on the single bed. She was deeply asleep, and his arm, under her head, was numb. Gently, he eased it out and flexed his fingers to get the blood moving. Freya shifted, and her eyelids flickered.

Dan stroked her cheek. She muttered and half-smiled.

What was it about this girl? Like a gale she’d swept through his life and taken all certainty away. A few days, that was all it had been—less than two weeks. Could life really change so fast?

Freya fidgeted. She was frowning. “No. I said no!” She half sat up.

Clearly, she was still asleep, but he engaged her. “No?”

“No,” she echoed, sighing. “Not now.” She snuggled into the pillow again.

Dan smiled. She always knew her own mind, Freya Dane, even in sleep. Had she been sleepwalking last night, or was that something else? His money was on something else, but eventually Katherine and he had persuaded Freya to go back to bed. He’d tried to stay awake beside her—chastely lying on top of the covers—just to make sure she didn’t take off again. But of course he’d gone to sleep, waking cramped and crammed against the wall. Freya might have thrashed around, but she hadn’t left the bed.

Dan propped himself on one elbow. There was a mystery to Freya’s face. Asleep, without those vivid blue eyes challenging life, challenging him, she seemed much younger—and so vulnerable.

The desire to protect—even to protect someone as spiky and well defended as Freya Dane—was a deep surprise to Daniel
Boyne. He’d like to get used to it—the certainty that she’d run to him when she needed shelter, between the rounds of sparring. Sparring was quite good fun with this girl. Dan smiled.

“Why do you look so cheerful?” She was staring at him.

“Free country, isn’t it?” He pushed her hair back.

“Sometimes.” She sighed happily and cozied up against him.

“You’re not under the covers.”

“I am not.”

“Why?” She struggled to sit up.

Dan tried to create more room, fluffed a pillow for her back. He said, solemnly, “I am a Scot, and we have hardly been introduced.”

“Have you been here all night?” Her eyes were serious, but there was devilry in the depths.

As gravely, he replied, “I have. Well, if you call four hours a night. But what a pleasure it was.”

Freya giggled. “A pleasure, you say. What sort of pleasure?”

“Contemplative.” He smiled broadly.

She yawned. “Sounds way too monastic to me. Must be this place.”

Dan put an arm around Freya’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Do you remember much of last night?”

“Of course. Katherine talked about Dad seeing the people here, then we had dinner. After dinner she showed us the last diary entry. The Pagan prayer. Very odd. Do you think, could it be possible . . .” Her eyes were suddenly huge.

Dan nodded. “It would be remarkable if it could be proved. That the girl in the grave wrote—”

“The diary! Yes, but it seems just too much of a coincidence—doesn’t it?”

“You’d know that better than me, Freya.”

She pushed back the covers and swung out of bed, in knickers and T-shirt and nothing else. “We’d have to get dating evidence. We’ve got the bowl from the grave, and her bones and the diary
itself. It’s possible, I suppose; there is that cross on the stone—she might have been the nun.”

“That wasn’t a nun’s grave, however.” Dan, before he looked away, saw that Freya’s legs were as he’d thought they might be—long and strong and lean. Warmth flooded his belly. He leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “You’re a handsome woman, Freya Dane.”

She paused in the act of pulling on her jeans. “Have to get dressed. No time for flirting.”