The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

Freya led Simon toward the inner ring of stones. “Maybe they were worried about damage.”

  He peered closely at a patch of lichen on one of the monoliths. “No, that wasn’t it.”

  Why did she want to know? “So what was the problem?”

  Simon paused, remembering. “I think this is where they thought it was, and they didn’t want anyone else to find it.”

  “It meaning a hoard?”

  He nodded. “Archaeologists don’t approve of treasure hunts, do they?”

  “No, not generally.” Except when it suits them.

  “Scholarship is all—of course, dear Dr. Dane.” Simon bowed gracefully and flourished an imaginary hat off his head.

  That drew a smile as Freya pointed toward the trench. “Not a doctor yet, but over there’s where the crane is needed.”

  Simon paused and pointed back toward the Abbey ruins. “Quite a bit of monastic ware turned up over the years apparently—broken pots and suchlike. Nothing of much importance. They did find a bell, though—bronze, I believe, and marked with the cross inside a circle: Celtic Church. By the way, Ardleith Museum has a small exhibit of finds from Findnar. The Buchans donated material over the years.”

  “A bell—you’ve seen it?” She searched his face. I’ve heard it.

  “Yes, I was at Ardleith last weekend. The museum was open, and it’s the best thing in the exhibit, I thought. Does that interest you?”

  Freya busied herself lifting the tarpaulin. “You mentioned a Celtic cross. Did it look like this?” She pointed to the symbol carved in the stone. At least the surface of the slab was dry. That was great after all the rain.

  Simon squatted. “Yes.”

  She crouched beside him. “I want to know if there’s anything under there.”

  Simon surged to his feet.

  Startled by the sudden movement, Freya blinked. “So, what do you think?” A dazzle of sun, clearing from behind cloud, flared into her eyes. It was hard to see his face. “Will it be difficult to raise?”

  “Not especially.”

  Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed tense. Freya got up; her jeans were muddy from kneeling. “Good to know. I’ll just cover this again, if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “Not at all. I’ll have a look around, see what else I remember. Won’t go far.” He gestured toward the meadow and strolled away.

  It didn’t take long for Freya to stretch the tarpaulin and peg it down securely. Simon joined her as she finished, and they set out for the house together.

  “I’m starved. What about a sandwich? Least I can do.” She projected light and bright.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He responded just as breezily. But that was forced too.

  It was during the last part of the still, humid afternoon that Freya took Simon back to Portsolly. The sea was the color of pewter and moved with a swollen, dangerous roll.

  He squinted toward the horizon. “It’s glowering out there. You’d better be careful on the return trip; crazy weather, but that’s Scotland for you.”

  “It’s dry at least.” She peered toward the little town. “Thanks for all the advice, Simon. You’ve given me lots to think about.”

  He grinned. “My pleasure entirely. Just remember. It needn’t be as scary as you think—the money, I mean.”

  Freya said, drily, “That’s good. Money and me—always a dysfunctional relationship.”

  He glinted a smile. “Better find that hoard, then.”

  She throttled back, and the cruiser lost momentum, idling down to a respectable approach speed. “Please don’t forget the costings, Simon. You said you’d let me know.”

  He laughed. “So proud, Freya Dane. Of course. But designing the crane—that’s just pure pleasure and I like the challenge. Gratis, free, and for nothing. A housewarming present.”

  Freya flicked a glance at her passenger. He seemed so lighthearted, and she liked his droll way with words; she liked the curve of his mouth too.

  Their eyes met. He smiled at her. That conversation, again. The one without words.

  She upped the throttle. “That’s kind. Thank you, Simon.” She hadn’t meant to sound so formal. Ah, Freya. So hard for you to be beholden. Finn, her last serious boyfriend, had said that. He was right.

  She nudged the cruiser to the wharf. The tide had risen, and she could see the pub. It was doing brisk business as the day closed in. “Here you are. If you don’t mind, I’ll drop you and run.” She waved toward the sky. “Don’t want to get caught on the strait.”

  Simon stepped neatly to the stern as Freya cut the motor and grabbed a ring hammered into the wharf. “It’s been a pleasure—I really mean that.”

  He stepped ashore and fended the cruiser off as she upped the throttle, turning for home. She looked back briefly.

  Robert Buchan was standing outside the pub, a pint glass in his hand. He was watching her.

  Simon waved, and Freya waved back. It was only a moment, but before she returned her attention to the sea, she saw Simon raise a hand to Robert, acknowledged by a nod.

  She hadn’t thought of that. They knew each other.

  CHAPTER 29

  SHE WAS imprisoned in a windowless granary, musty with the ghosts of grain and old mold. For nine days and nine nights Signy had tracked time by the Abbey bell as it sounded canonical hours. Distantly, she heard voices. Her brothers and sisters—praying, singing, working—the sound coming and going like the wash of the faraway sea. But she was alone and perhaps would soon be forgotten. No one came if she called out, so she stopped. Gunnhilde would have called that pride.

  There was no opening in those cold walls except the door—it was bolted on the outside—and there was no light. Signy slept, when she could, on the earth floor, but every night was cold, and if the hard-stamped mud was warmer than stone, anger was her only defense against the bitter air. That did not last. Despair soon drove her to curl up, knees to chin in one of the corners, wedged like an animal in a burrow.

  Once each day, just after Tierce, she was given food, barley bread mostly, though green herbs were sometimes provided, and a skin of water. It was the only time that Signy saw daylight through the part-opened door.

  But no one spoke to her as food was pushed in and the bucket of excrement removed. Solitude and silence and cold were the kindest parts of this penance; her own mind supplied the torture. Where was Bear? Was he alive?

  On the first day, as the bell sounded, Signy began to pray. Mouthing the remembered responses, she called on Mary—begging for help from the mother of God, begging for justice—but there was nothing to sense, nothing to touch in the dark, no sheltering arms and no comfort.

  Time lost its meaning, and slowly, very slowly, her will grew stronger. She heard her sister whispering. Laenna’s voice was soft at first, but it was distinct and, in the silence between the bells, Laenna began to show Signy pictures—as if they were both invisible observers of life in the Abbey.

  They watched the Abbot pray in his cell. Signy heard him ask God for her salvation, but his eyes were hard, his words dry husks blowing from the window into the night. Her brothers in the Scriptorium too. They pointed at where the screens had been and nudged each other. When Anselm was distracted, one drew a crude little figure, a girl, kneeling, her breasts exposed. This monk thrust his hips back and forth, his eyes bright and salacious.

  And there was Gunnhilde. The skin of the old woman’s face had collapsed into folds and shadows. Her eyes were haunted, and she alone of all the Abbey people stared toward Signy’s prison and wept.

  Laenna showed Signy that there would be no justice from the Christians and, in her sister’s dreams, Laenna wiped Signy’s tears away, her eyes full of compassion. And she whispered that it was time; Signy must leave Findnar and find Bear. He was waiting for her over the water.

  On the tenth day the door scraped back. It caught on the uneven floor, and Signy threw her hands over her eyes, the light sharp as a sword. She was confused, for it was early, not long after
Prime. As usual her belly clenched against hunger, but she would not show that, not to these people.

  “Signy?” Gunnhilde said.

  Signy did not answer. She shrugged back into her corner. She trusted no one.

  The old woman pulled the door open as wide as she could.

  Signy sniffed; the air smelled of the sea and other clean things.

  “Oh, child.” Gunnhilde’s voice shook. The sight of Signy filthy as any wild creature upset her deeply. “I bring news. Good news.”

  “He will let me go?” Signy tried to be proud, tried to be strong.

  Gunnhilde nodded joyfully. “You are very lucky.”

  Signy tried to stand, but she was weak and slumped to the floor. “The Abbot will let me leave Findnar.”

  The nun hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  Signy faltered at Gunnhilde’s expression. “But you said he would release me. My sister told me I must go to Bear.”

  The nun quickly crossed herself. “Now, Signy, I know your penance has been severe, but she cannot have spoken to you. Your sister is dead.” If Signy thought she communed with spirits, things were most serious—the girl could be burned for such fantasies.

  “But Laenna did speak to me, and she showed me pictures. I saw you praying for me; you were the only one.”

  Gunnhilde gasped. “Signy, stop! You must not speak of this. Your soul is in grave peril.”

  Signy turned her face away. “You are wrong.”

  The nun was at a loss. “Please, child, please listen to me. I bear the words of the Abbot.” She swallowed. “He has decided. You are no longer a postulant. You will serve the Abbey as you did before.”

  Signy covered her face with her hands. “Bear said it was so—that I was a slave—and I did not believe him.” She sobbed, a great wrench of sound that shook her frail body.

  Poor Gunnhilde. Proper attention to the Rule fled as she pulled the grieving girl into her arms. “You have been given a chance to earn redemption. If your behavior proves trustworthy, perhaps, one day . . .”

  Signy pulled away. “You do not understand. I will never be a nun.”

  Signy winced.

  “Stay still, child.” Gunnhilde was shaving her head.

  “It hurts.”

  Gunnhilde sighed. It was true that the knife was blunt. “I am sorry, but most blades lack edge . . .” She stopped herself.

  “Since Bear has gone.” Signy finished the sentence.

  “We make the best of the situation; that is our duty.”

  Signy closed her eyes. If this was her only choice, she would not agree, but neither would she oppose Cuillin. She would be silent and she would wait.

  Gunnhilde said, earnestly, “The Abbot will be very pleased when I speak of your humility.” She turned away to wipe the knife on her skirts. Signy had become an intractable problem for Abbot Cuillin, and in that Gunnhilde had seen an opportunity.

  To some in the convent Signy was a martyr. There was the matter of the crucifix, of course, but during the days of her incarceration no other evidence had been found that Signy had betrayed her postulant’s vows with Bear. Even the girl’s detractors, jealous or scandalized or both, told Cuillin little he actually believed.

  How grateful Gunnhilde had been when the Abbot summoned her. “Very well, I agree to release her. But know, Sister, that this girl is now your responsibility. She will labor as an Abbey servant and sleep in the byre loft. She will not be veiled, and her head will be shaved—let the community see that she is not among the professed. Only you may speak to her during this time, for I will not have others infected with her pride. And that is an end to this sorry matter until it pleases the Lord to instruct me otherwise.”

  Signy flinched as Gunnhilde wiped blood from her scalp.

  The nun’s eyes filled. “You are a frail creature, child, as we all are, but your loving Father understands.”

  “Loving Father?” Signy stared at the Novice Mistress, her eyes lightless. “Tell me, Mother, how can we marry our Father? If God and the Holy Spirit and the Lord Jesus are one being, is that not incest?”

  Gunnhilde hesitated. What should she say? “It is not seemly for a woman to be a sophist.” Anselm had much to answer for. Where else would Signy have got such ideas? She went to a coffer and raised the lid. “I have found a kirtle for you; it is serviceable and will keep you warm.” Gunnhilde held out the old garment. Earth brown and patched, the cloth was coarse, but there was a shift also. “And these are yours.” Gunnhilde prayed the sandals would not bring her trouble. Only the novices and the fully professed were permitted shoes.

  Signy fingered the rough garment. “So, no habit or wimple.” She laughed. “But that is good. Let them see me as I am.” She stared at the nun defiantly. “I am a Pagan, Gunnhilde. I always have been.”

  Defeated, the old nun shook her head. “Get dressed, Signy. Please.” She offered a bowl of water and a cloth.

  “You asked me to be grateful. I am grateful—most grateful to you for all your kindness, for this water, even for the clothes. And I am sorry we can no longer agree.” Signy took the bowl.

  Gunnhilde tried to speak, but her lips trembled. She whispered, “I shall pray for you, my sister and my daughter, for so you are to me. I shall ask that you find peace and a way back to God and to the community, which longs to welcome you home.”

  “Home? I think, now, that I have no home. And Bear was my true family.”

  Gunnhilde ached for the dignity with which Signy faced the lonely void in her heart. It was then she took a most dangerous decision. She went to the box in which was stored her spare habit and shifts and lifted them aside. “I have kept these safe for you.” She offered the crucifix and the small lead box.

  Signy could not speak. She stared at the cross. Slowly, tenderly, she raised it to her mouth. And kissed that suffering face.

  CHAPTER 30

  FOR A time, it seemed the ceremony might not go ahead. Storms, one after another, swept in from the strait in dark battalions as the morning aged, but then, as all later acknowledged, Cuillin called down a miracle.

  For an hour, surrounded by his followers, he held the cross from the Abbey church above his head and blessed the waves, calling on them to calm. For a time there seemed little result, but toward Tierce, the winds abated and the rain ceased, but not everywhere. Like when Moses parted the Red Sea, perhaps prayers had found a way for Solwaer’s ships to sail to Findnar over a sea road that gently rolled, while all around, outside the strait, the waters raged.

  For months this day had been planned, the very day when all the adult men of Portsol would be baptized in the Christian faith. Having accepted Christ, Solwaer’s men, too, would be brought to God. And he, Cuillin, would soon become the conduit whereby Salvation descended upon a great mass of unbelievers. This was a profound mystery to him still. Was Faith, then, a form of holy contagion—a fever for His divine presence spread by the Lord Himself? Cuillin shook his head with wonder at the thought. He was unworthy to be the vessel, if that’s what he was, of such glory.

  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 f
aster 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.