The Island House (66 page)

With the tarpaulin peeled back, the grave seemed very small. Dan eased his way into the trench, followed by the women. The three stood around the stone box in silence; it was the evening of a perfect day.

After a moment Freya held out her hands. “I’d like to say something.” Dan and Katherine linked their fingers through hers. “We do not know your name, but we know who you are. You were treated with great cruelty and profound injustice, but you have returned, and we have found at least some part of your story. Now we know where your man is buried, and though we do not understand what has happened, we know your love for him was and is very real.” Freya stared at Dan as she talked to the girl in the grave. “And I am grateful. I know so much more about love now because of you—love of family, the passion lovers share and how that endures. These things are real, and faith must be kept; that is why we have brought your possessions back to you.” Freya held the crucifix in her hand, and the two little boxes. “You found us, and now we hope you can rest.”

The three bent down; between them, the lid began to shift.

On the far side of the stone circle, out of the east, the chop of rotor blades cut the air as the rushing
pffwopp, pffwopp, pffwopp
grew louder.

Freya glanced up as they wrestled to move the lid. She saw the insignia on the side. “That’s a news chopper! They’re filming us.” A cameraman was shooting from the opened doorway.

“Freya.” Dan’s voice cut through, she heard Katherine gasp.

“What?” Freya had to shout—the chopper was directly above—and her hair flew around her head in a furious cloud.

And then she looked down.

The grave was empty.

CHAPTER 51

I
T WAS
a warm day, the autumn air flushed and ripe, when the gathering assembled on the island.

Walter had taken charge. The Boynes had brought a small diesel generator over, and it would supply the power they needed.

“Mum, like to do the honors?”

Elizabeth Dane smiled at her daughter. “I would.” She flicked a switch, and strings of lights blinked on in the undercroft.

“Face masks, everyone.” Walter was handing them around.

Katherine stood beside Elizabeth. The older women smiled tentatively at each other; they’d had their fair share of being organized by Walter today—maybe that was some kind of bond.

Dan limped to Freya’s side. “So, does someone cut a ribbon?”

“Damn. Forgot. Not a ribbon kind of a girl.” Freya smiled at him warmly. “And I’d just like to say, that is, Dan and I would like to say, how much we appreciate everyone being here today.”

She put an arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Mum’s come a very long way. And thanks, Walter, to you. Katherine, of course—that goes without saying.”

Katherine flushed happily.

“And you, Dan. We wouldn’t be standing here without you—your loyalty and your kindness, especially over the last few weeks . . .”

Dan’s face darkened. “As if I was going to tell those idiots anything.”

Walter grumbled, “All that nonsense on TV. You’d think they’d have better things to do.”

Katherine nodded. “Not to mention the tabloids.”

Freya winced. All that crap about “The Lost Hoard,” and “Freya Dane, Treasure Hunter.” They’d even chased Elizabeth through a shopping mall in Sydney and pestered three former boyfriends for details of their love life. Freya still didn’t know who’d tipped them off. Dan, of course, fingered Simon. Who else could have taken the photos that had created all the frenzy? Shots of the ship and the treasures it contained had splashed on the news and gone viral on the Web, and for the last few weeks journalists had made Freya’s life a misery. And then there was Historic Scotland; that had yet to be sorted out, and things were delicate.

Freya was still deeply confused. She hardly knew Simon. What motive could he have for making her life so difficult? It just didn’t make sense. “Well, after all that fuss and silliness, I want you, the people I love, to know and see the truth.” One by one, her warm smile embraced them all and lingered on Dan.

“Walter and Mum, you are about to see what’s been glimpsed only once before in our time, just a few short weeks ago.” Freya led them toward the entrance passage. She and Dan had cleared the rubble and dust from the undercroft, a huge job, but the tunnel remained sealed, just as they had left it on that Midsummer Day.

Dan climbed a stepladder with some effort. “Ready?”

Freya nodded.

He began to peel the well-taped plastic sheets away from the wall.

“So, where are you up to?” Walter gestured toward the tomb.

Freya shrugged. “Still negotiating, but I’m insisting on a number of things.”

Katherine eyed Freya. “Can you do that? I thought a treasure trove . . .”

“Is the property of the state. Yes, it is, but this is a bit complicated. In the end it would be a PR disaster for them if they tried to force their way onto private property, so we need each other.
Besides, soon the weather will keep interlopers away until spring. Some of those journalists don’t like cold water.” Freya’s laugh was grim. “Here we go. Watch your step inside the passage, though, there’s rubble everywhere.”

Holding lights, the visitors squeezed through into the passage and walked to the tomb chamber. Elizabeth stopped. Awestruck, she clutched Walter’s arm. “Freya, I don’t know what to say.”

“I know, Mum, I know.”

“It’s better than the pictures, Dan.” Walter had found his tongue. He patted Elizabeth’s hand absently; they smiled at each other, both of them dazed.

The ship lay just as Freya, Dan, and Katherine remembered, but brighter illumination showed them so much more. The mass of objects was overwhelming, and it would be a life’s work to assess and understand what lay before them.

Elizabeth walked to the stern of the vessel, and Freya joined her, tucking a hand through the crook of her arm as her mother wiped her eyes. “I am so very sorry Michael did not live to see this.” Freya cuddled her. “That’s very generous, Mum.” She hesitated. “We’ve never really talked about why he left, not really, but I think I know.”

Elizabeth Dane stared at her daughter. “Tell me, because I’ve never understood.”

“He didn’t know it, but he had to come here. He had to come to Findnar. He belonged here, truly, because there was unfinished business. That’s what I think.”

“Unfinished? But what do you mean?”

“Dan?” Walter called out to his son; he was staring down at the bier. “I thought you said there were three skeletons—one in the stern and two under the pall.”

Such a casual little sentence. Freya stiffened.

Dan limped forward. “Yes, Dad.”

Freya joined them. “Three men, from their size.”

Walter said happily, “But there’s another skeleton under there. I can see why you missed it; you have to look really carefully.” He stood back.

Walter was right. The dome of a fourth cranium, a small one, was visible beneath the pall. It lay between the skulls of two of the larger skeletons.

Dan touched Freya’s arm. “That’s his skeleton, isn’t it? The one on the left.”

Dry-mouthed, Freya nodded. “Yes.” There was the otter-handled knife.

Fascinated, Walter peered at the delicate bones that lay between the larger skeletons. “The phalanges of the middle one”—he pointed—“they’ve mingled with the ones on the left. The big chap with the knife. Katherine, what do you think? Maybe it’s a kid.”

The librarian caught Freya’s glance. “No, not a child. These will be the bones of a woman. Quite a small woman.”

EPILOGUE

T
HE GREAT
equinoctial gale battered the front windows of Compline, wind and rain assaulting the old house with useless fury. Nights were drawing in, this was fire and red wine weather, but at Michael’s desk Freya was absorbed in working on her thesis.

“Time to eat.” Dan caressed her shoulder.

She leaned back trustingly, put her hand on his.

“So, how did you know it was me?” He bent. “Might have been anyone.” He kissed the hollow of her throat.

“Because I have faith.” She turned in his embrace. “Mmmm, something smells nice.”

“That will be the cassoulet. Table’s set, wine’s open and breathing, just steaming the greens. Come to the kitchen, Freya Dane.”

“Cassoulet? I thought it was you, Dan Boyne.”

“You can’t have one without the other.” He grinned. “And if you don’t eat soon, you’ll fall over. Bread and jam staggers, that’s what you’ll get, and then where will you be?”

She giggled. “Bread and jam what?”

Dan said solemnly, “What Walter used to tell me. Very serious condition indeed when you work too hard; come on, it’ll keep till morning.” He held out a hand.

Freya took it and got up.

“I know it will, it’s just that I’ve done so much reworking of the
thesis since we found the longship, and that means there’s so much more to do.” She followed him to the kitchen.

“But all of it good, you said.” Dan flourished a tea towel at the kitchen table. “Sit.” He pulled out Michael’s chair.

Freya meekly sat. “Yes, it does feel better now. The crucifix has given me a whole new way to approach the topic. So much more real this time, not just theory, and I’m really enjoying the writing.” She looked surprised. “Who’d have thought that?”

Dan brought a Le Creuset pot to the table and removed the lid. “Duck and pork, best mashed potatoes, and green beans
plus
a pretty nice bottle of Tasmanian pinot noir; should be good.”

“But where did you find the wine?”

He splashed some into her glass. “Not Portsolly, that’s for sure. To us.” He lifted his glass to Freya.

She lifted hers. “To us.” They drank happily. “Whatever happened to the man who couldn’t cook?”

“He learned.” Dan busied himself serving the food.

Freya glanced around the candlelit kitchen. On the dresser were a number of cookbooks, and a couple of favorites were starting to look well used. “I love this house and the fact that we live here together. Thank you.”

“No need for thanks.” His glance was shy.

Freya put down her knife and fork. “Yes, there is. You saved me, Dan.”

“We were both lost.” He reached a hand across the table, and she took it. “Getting cold, though.”

“What?”

“The food.”

Freya laughed out loud. She ate with relish. “This is very good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

The silence between them was easy and companionable until Dan said, “By the way, I heard something interesting today in Port—about the fuss.”

Fuss
was their word for the media frenzy that had visited Find-nar like a sudden storm.

Freya said accusingly, “You’ve been to the newsagent.”

He laughed. “You’re right, and I cannot tell a lie.”

“And so?”

“So.” Dan sat back. “It wasn’t Simon.”

“Then who?”

“Robert Buchan.”

“Him!”

“Yep. Seems he left the cover sheet behind. He uses the news-agency fax from time to time because he doesn’t own a computer. It was a contract with a picture agency for images of ‘The Findnar Treasureship.’ ”

Freya’s eyes darkened. “He got the pictures from somewhere, though.”

Dan nodded as he filled her glass again. “And that will be an interesting conversation when we have it with the man.”

“I don’t think I care. I hope it made him happy.” She held the wine up against a candle flame, admiring the color. “We.” She glanced at Dan. “And will we have longer together than they did—or my parents?” Freya was without defenses.

“Yes.” He leaned across the tabletop and cupped her face in his hands.

“Yes. Just that?”

“We’ve been given this chance, of that I am verra sure.”

“I’m never sure of anything.” The half-laugh broke.

“Yes, you are. You trust me as I trust you.
Creideas
in Gaelic, and this I swear—I will never desert you, Freya Dane. If I go, I will always return. Look at me.”

Freya was brave. She lifted her eyes to his, and Dan was smiling.