Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  Control, she told herself, and moved to take the lamp again and walk to her bedchamber. She made her breathing slower; forced back the tears that pricked her eyelids. Self-pity was not productive; it solved nothing. If logic, reasoning and force of will could not show her a pathway forward, then she must simply accept that her doom was to become a lonely dried-up spinster beset by shades of the past. It was a punishment: the gods’ burden, set on her for what she had done. And yet, tonight, something stirred within her, like a tiny voice, a whispering song, terrifying yet wondrous, telling her it was not so . . . she was still alive, deep inside . . . she must simply breathe, and open her eyes, and change . . . it would be easy . . .

  And so, as her feet passed by a certain doorway that was covered only by a coarse woolen hanging, Margaret paused without a sound. And within the chamber, the man who had lain awake, sharing her every step, her every moment of self-doubt, saw the light of her small lamp through the woven fabric and spoke softly from his narrow bed.

  “Are you all right?” Ash asked.

  Margaret swallowed, her heart suddenly racing. She did not know what words would come to her lips; perhaps a simple positive, then a flight to the sanctuary of her own quiet chamber. Yet his voice seemed to open something inside her, to touch a corner where sensation had long been absent.

  “I can’t get warm,” she whispered, her teeth chattering as if the words themselves had made this true. The lamp shook in her hand; oil spilled onto the flagstones. A moment later he was in the doorway beside her, one hand reaching to take the lamp, the other clutching a garment, a rumpled shirt perhaps, in front of him to hide his nakedness. He had been careful, always, to observe the rules of conduct between steward and mistress; she had never seen him thus unclothed, not in all the years the two of them had shared this house. Those same rules should have constrained her to turn her gaze away rather than look on him. But Margaret found she could not. His body was pleasing to her: lean, compact, wiry, the frame of a man who has worked hard and seen little of indulgence. His chest was thatched with iron-gray hair; his shoulders were strong, his arms corded with muscle, for all his neatness of build. In the small light of the lamp his eyes met hers, steady and true, though she did not miss the wariness there. Words fled again; she did not know what she could say to him, for if she asked, and he said no, as well he might, she did not think they could ever be friends again. And he was her one true friend, her best companion; through all these lonely years he had proved it over and over, though she had given him scant recompense for his loyalty.

  “I have said it before,” Ash’s tone was gentle, “but I must summon my courage, I think, and tell you again. I would serve you until my last breath leaves me: with my labors, with my hands, with every scrap of life I have in me.” His voice shrank to a whisper, matching hers. “And with my body, if you wish. To warm you only, if you prefer. If there is one thing I have learned in this household, it is to exercise restraint.”

  He was a brave man, Margaret thought, feeling the tears she had held back beginning to spill, despite her.

  “I would prefer—I—” Her voice was shaking; by all the gods, was this to be the way of it, that as soon as she lowered one part of her guard, all her defenses tumbled down? It was indeed as if she were seventeen again, and trembling before her first sweetheart.

  Ash set down the lamp and reached to cup her face with his hand; her tears flowed unchecked between his fingers. “Tell me,” he said.

  Margaret drew a deep breath. She reached for the garment Ash still held before him and drew it away so it fell, discarded, on the cold stone floor. Her hands moved again, and he in turn drew breath, this time sharply.

  “I might show you, perhaps,” she said softly, moving closer so her body touched his own, feeling his warmth, his strength. Suddenly she was no longer afraid, no longer unsure. “Still, a lady does not act thus; so I was taught as a girl. Unless the man is her husband.”

  Ash said nothing; his lips were against her hair, his hands moved down her back, pressing her closer.

  “I thought . . .” Margaret said, closing her eyes. Sensation, already, grew strong enough to crowd out discipline, control, cold logic. There was only his heart, thumping like a hammer against her, and the wondrous touch of his hands, and the hard vigor of his body, awakening her own as if she were indeed no more than a young girl, and he her first and only love. “I thought . . . you might agree to that . . . then this would be . . . it would be . . .”

  “Later,” Ash whispered. “We will talk later.”

  “Come, then,” said Margaret, stepping back, taking his hand in hers, leading him along the dark hallway to her own chamber. “Come, and be welcome, dear friend.”

  “I am, I confess, somewhat out of practice.” She heard his voice in the dimness of the quiet room; recognized from the tone of it that he was not altogether joking. She reached to unfasten the ribbon at the neck of her nightrobe, but Ash was there before her, fingers deft and sure. His body was close again: hot, hard, certain in a way that needed no words.

  “I, too,” she told him, slipping the gown over her head. “It’s been a long time. Why have we waited so long?” Suddenly she knew how foolish that had been: so many years wasted, years that could have been full of love, of laughter, of joyful sharing. There could have been children.

  “Hush,” said Ash, drawing her down to lie by him, flesh on naked flesh, a sweet congruence of skin. Age, shyness, lack of practice became of no consequence whatever; the language of the body is immediate and powerful, and makes its own rules. “We waited for tonight, that’s all. And for what’s to come.”

  Much later, as the cold half-light began to change to the pale gold that presages the sun’s creeping up from his shallow summer hiding place, Margaret heard Ash say against her temple, “I love you.”

  And she would have told him the same, but her self-imposed rules would not allow her to lie.

  “I don’t know if I can love anymore,” she said, her fingers moving softly against the hollow of his back, where strong spine curved to well-muscled buttocks: his body was a delight, a whole world for discovery. “You know already that I have lain with my husband, and with another man. My dear, I never felt such delight as you have given me tonight. I had not dreamed such pleasure was possible.”

  “You honor me,” Ash said, holding his voice quiet, for there were others in the house, and morning was coming. “You said . . . before . . . you spoke of marriage, I think. Did I hear you correctly? Would the lady Margaret, daughter of Thorvald Strong-Arm, stoop to ally herself to a housecarl? How can that be?”

  “You heard correctly,” Margaret said, catching the note of constraint in his words; somehow, she had upset him. “Though you are no housecarl, my dear, and you know it.”

  There was a silence. Ash had moved away from her in the bed; she was cold again. At last he said, very quietly, “Would you wed a man you do not love?”

  She felt her heart turn over. He was her dear friend, so wise, so good and generous, and she had hurt him.

  “I only said I do not know if I can,” she told him. “All I can tell you is that I will never learn if I do not have you beside me. Indeed, I do not think I can go on at all without that. Something has changed tonight; the shadows have receded, as if a door were opened and sunlight let in. As if a barrier were broken and prisoners set free. I do not know what it is. I only know I do not want to spend another night in this bed alone, without your body to warm me, your arms to enfold me, your heart against mine. I only know I do not want to go forth in these islands again without you by my side, not as steward but as husband. It should have been so long since, when we were young. Perhaps this is love. Whatever it is, it feels like the first touch of spring sun, the smell of rain after long drought. In time, I will learn the truth of it. If you will help me.” So sweet, so new, that sensation of letting go, of sharing, of knowing she need not do it all by herself, ever again.

  “I love you,” he said once more, so softl
y she could barely hear, and folded her close. In a matter of moments the two of them slipped into sleep. They lay safe in each other’s arms as the women of the household began to rise, and stir up the fire, and prepare for a new day.

  FOURTEEN

  His voice

  A sigh in the west wind

  A song in the waters

  A whisper in the heart

  His voice and a new day.

  MONK’S MARGIN NOTE

  By the time the Sea Dove came back to Council Fjord, the bodies of Helgi and Svein had been consigned to earth with due ritual. Prayers had been spoken for Alof, who drifted somewhere in the waves beyond the Isle of Clouds, forever parted from his home shore. For Hogni it would be different. Hogni was a warrior by trade and must have a warrior’s rites.

  “It can’t be tonight,” Einar told Thorvald as men hastened to the place where the Sea Dove was beached, and many willing hands helped to convey wounded priest and exhausted girl to the shelter above the bay. “They have to fetch Hogni’s wife here; she lives right across the other side of the island, at Starkfell settlement, where the boats go over to the Isle of Streams. It’ll be a slow walk back with the children. They’re little lads; the younger was the last child born on the island before the hunt began. Besides, we’ve called a council for tonight. Asgrim didn’t want it, but we all insisted. You have to speak up for us, Thorvald, and do it quickly before he takes a grip on things the way he did before.”

  “Tonight?” Thorvald’s head was reeling with all that had happened, so much, too much for one mind, one heart to hold at once. The seer restored, his father, Creidhe, and now the men, and this . . . He drew a slow, deliberate breath and squared his shoulders. “Yes, of course it must be tonight, I understand. You’ve done well to persuade him. I must make sure my father is attended to first; he’s been terribly injured.”

  Einar’s eyes widened. “Your father?” he echoed, turning his head to look as the men who were carrying the wounded hermit reached the shelter and disappeared inside. “The Christian is your father?”

  “It’s a long story. Now tell me quickly, are they all here, Wieland, Orm, Skolli? Will all speak out if I lead the way?”

  “We’ll speak all right.” Einar’s mouth stretched in a grim smile of satisfaction. “And we’ll back you up with cold iron, if that’s what it comes to.”

  “I hope force will not be necessary,” Thorvald said. “He is but one man, after all.” On the other hand, Asgrim had held the Long Knife people in his power throughout those years of hardship and grief. He was strong, and a clever talker.

  “Don’t worry about the hermit,” Einar said. “Skolli has good hands for bone-setting, and there’s a woman up there with a knowledge of herbs and such. Don’t look so astonished, Thorvald. Every hunt brings losses. The women come to help tend the wounded, and to claim the bodies of the slain. At such times, Asgrim admits them to the camp. Besides, news travels fast. Once the word was out that you’d gone off south to confront the enemy, folk started walking in from Brightwater, from Blood Bay, from all over. People can feel change coming. They want to be here to see it happen.”

  It was still light when they gathered in the shelter, though the sun had set, for the sky held the pale, cool glow of the summer night. At the far end of the long chamber, Brother Niall lay on a pallet; Skolli had removed the makeshift splint, straightened the bones of the shattered leg as best he could, and bound the limb again while the white-haired man shivered and trembled and put his teeth through his lip, but cried out not at all. Now, a strong draft of soporific herbs had granted the hermit a merciful half-sleep, and he rested with hands relaxed and features peaceful. A wadding covered the gaping wound where his eye had been, with a strip of linen wound around the tonsured head to keep the dressing in place. By the pallet sat Breccan, pale but calm, and a silent, blank-faced Creidhe. Sam stood in the shadows nearby.

  Asgrim was taking a long time to come down from his hut. After an initial greeting, a few congratulatory words, an expression of shock and wonderment at the sight of Niall wounded and Creidhe alive, he had retreated quickly to his private quarters, raising no protest as the communal sleeping place became shelter to women and Christians both. Perhaps, Orm observed tightly, the Ruler realized he’d backed himself into a corner, and was spending what time he had working out how he might extricate himself. Skapti was keeping vigil by his brother’s body, which lay in a little anteroom off the main chamber. There were no personal guards, not anymore. And all of them knew the truth now, about what Asgrim had done to his own daughter. The question was, what was Thorvald going to do about it all?

  It felt odd to be going through the normal routine, cooking fish, handing out platters, sitting on the earthen shelves to eat, men and women together. It was not a joyful feast; too many had been lost, too much endured. Still, voices buzzed with anticipation, not untinged with fear. This would be the first council held since the days before the war began; the first since long before the years of the hunt. Much depended on its outcome. The men knew Thorvald; the women did not, and their doubt showed in their eyes.

  Time passed. Skapti came to join them. He sat by Thorvald’s side, picking at a platter of food. After a while, Einar went outside and came back in again. They waited some time longer, until Thorvald, making a decision, rose to his feet.

  “Einar, Skapti, go and fetch him,” he said crisply. “Folk are weary; the sooner we begin, the sooner this can be concluded and we can all get some well-earned sleep.”

  “No need.” The voice from the doorway was level, considered. “Let us begin, by all means. I see no real necessity for this, as I told Einar. There’s nothing to discuss. However, since the men insisted, I suppose we must humor them.” The dark eyes met Thorvald’s, cryptic, unreadable. “Who’s going to sit at the top, you or I?”

  “I’m happy here, among my men,” Thorvald said, matching the other’s measured tone, though his heart was thumping and his palms were clammy. “By all means take your usual place.”

  Asgrim moved to the head of the long hearth. He wore a plain dark robe and a belt with a silver buckle; his hair was neatly tied back from his face, his hands relaxed by his sides. If he felt any misgivings, he gave no sign of it.

  “Very well,” he said. “I must admit I was somewhat surprised when Einar and others requested a formal council on the very heels of the hunt, and with one of our own still lacking the funeral rites due to him.” A low rumbling sound emanated from Skapti, like a big dog’s growl of warning. “I’d have thought strong ale and good fellowship were more in order on such a night,” Asgrim went on, unperturbed. “Be that as it may, this gathering allows me the opportunity to congratulate the young man who, it seems, has saved us all. To see the Sea Dove sail in with her mission accomplished was a bright vision indeed.” He turned once more to Thorvald, nodding with a certain graciousness. “The seer is returned to his people, and the years of the hunt are over. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts, Thorvald. This was never your battle. It was never your quest. We feel delight at the unexpected restoration of your little friend Creidhe. We are grateful to Sam for the part he and his fine boat have played in this. For your own valor and persistence, we lack adequate means of repayment. Of course, we’ll make sure you are generously supplied for your return home, and the boat as well fitted as possible.”

  It was not necessary for Thorvald to respond. Several voices spoke, all of them angry.

  “What do you mean, it was never his battle?”

  “Return home? His home’s here with us!”

  “Let Thorvald speak!”

  Einar’s voice silenced them all, quiet as it was. “Not yet,” he said. “Thorvald will speak after me. I called the council; under the rules of precedence, it’s for me to set out the matter for discussion. Maybe some of you have forgotten that. It’s been a long time.”

  “Very well.” Asgrim’s tone was icy.

  “We all know what Thorvald did,” Einar said. “Others, too; I�
�ve heard the full story, and it’s clear that every single man, and woman, that sailed off on the Sea Dove today played a part in securing peace for us. There’s no need for formal thanks or rewards. Thorvald understands how we feel. It’s something too big to put into words.”

  There were nods, grunts of assent, glances and grins in Thorvald’s direction. For all his measured words, Einar was nervous; his hands were clasped together behind his back, and the five-line scar showed stark against the pallor of his cheek. After this it would be six, but then no more. Wieland was sitting beside his wife, a thin young woman with a tired, sad face; his fingers were laced in hers, and she leaned against his shoulder.

  “Anyway,” Einar went on, “what I’m telling you is that this council is not to mark the end of the hunt, as such, nor to thank those who achieved it, since they know already the depth of gratitude we bear them. It’s to decide what comes next.”

  The words hung in the smoky air of the shelter for a long moment.

  “Next?” Asgrim echoed. “What do you mean?”

  “The election of a Ruler.” Orm had risen to his feet. “That’s allowable when the people decide it. I can even remember how it’s done, I think, if all these years without proper councils haven’t driven it out of my head—”