The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  Signy was staring, wide-eyed. “You won’t come back.”

  Bear leaned on his sword, trying to breathe. “Of course I will.” Flames shot gold in his eyes.

  Signy sank to her knees. “I cannot hide. The altar stone. They took it.”

  Bear plunged his sword in the turf and knelt. “Hush. This will be over very soon. And then . . .”

  “Then?” She was shaking, dazed.

  Bear cupped Signy’s face in his hands. The skin was hard, but his touch was gentle. “Then, we have the future. Life. If you forgive me.” He kissed her.

  Signy twined her hands in his hair; she sobbed as she tasted his mouth, breathed him into her heart. “I forgive you. I love you, I always have.”

  “Very touching.” A sword hilt thumped the boss of a shield—ironic applause.

  In the drifting smoke, making leisurely way toward them came Solwaer. He’d observed the carnage at the Abbey dispassionately and decided to keep away from the fury. To find Bear was just pure, blind luck. Or not.

  Bear rose. He glared at Solwaer—the red stare. He pulled his sword from the earth. “In search of carrion, oath breaker?”

  The Chieftain smiled. He held out an open hand. “We are your friends.” Men were running toward them, Portsol men. They carried axes and howled like animals.

  From the dark side of the stones, a man ran from shadow to shadow.

  “Bear!” Signy shouted a warning.

  For a moment—only a moment—Bear thought Edor had brought aid.

  “Run!” Bear pushed Signy away, his sword held high. Solwaer hung back, watching.

  But Signy darted forward, a rock in her hands. Edor dodged as she hurled it. He howled; she’d winged the side of his face. Blood dripped, and he stumbled as Bear pressed forward and the blades engaged.

  Men ran toward the fight. Solwaer bellowed, “Hold!” They faltered.

  Edor was on his feet but off-balance. Bear drove at him, his sword a blur. The onslaught was vicious, and Edor backed, and backed again. Death came close, closer in that whirling blade. Bear howled victory and lunged, but Edor’s sword flashed and slashed Bear’s chest. Deep and wide.

  Signy saw Bear fall.

  “Christ!” In the clamor of the sack, her scream was a knife through smoke. Kneeling, she tried to raise Bear from the ground; blood turned her kirtle black.

  Shaken, Edor scrambled up. He wiped his blade and watched the girl cradle the demon he’d murdered, Grimor’s brother.

  “Magni!” A distant bellow.

  Through her tears, Signy saw him first. Fate. She stood.

  Bear, eyes turning toward the shadows, reached out, trying to hold Signy at his side. His strength was nearly lost.

  Edor swallowed. He rebalanced the sword in his hand as Grimor ran from the burning Abbey.

  And stopped. “Magni!” He knelt beside the dying man, half-lifted him from the grass.

  “I tried to save him, Grimor. But your brother was betrayed.” Edor turned toward Solwaer.

  If Solwaer answered, none heard him.

  An angel of destruction, the girl reared up, screaming, “Liar!” A knife flashed in her hand. Bear’s knife.

  Edor’s sword sliced at the air as the girl dodged beneath his arm. Her bright, small blade flickered in the light from the fires.

  Grimor, defending his lieutenant, surged from the grass. His fist caught Signy in the side. Gasping, the girl fell back against Bear.

  With the last flicker of his life, his breath, Bear flung his arm across Signy’s body. The arm would not do his bidding, but his fingers found hers, and grasped.

  Signy saw the light leave Bear’s eyes.

  She took his face in her hands, tried to give her breath to that massive chest. Bear, come back. Come back to me.

  He had brought her from death once, long ago.

  The girl pressed her lips against Bear’s, but Grimor’s brother lay open-eyed in those frail arms. Never again would he breathe in this life.

  As Signy keened, rocking Bear in her arms, the war leader knelt again beside the warm body of his brother.

  “Grimor.”

  He waved Edor away, blear-eyed.

  “Pick up your sword, Grimor.”

  The war leader was confused. Then he saw the truth, saw why the girl had tried to strike Edor, his brother’s killer.

  Grimor stood, death incarnate, the sword in his fingers an extension of his hand.

  Edor swallowed; he’d wanted this.

  Behind them, Solwaer drew closer.

  Grimor taunted, “Foolish man, dead man. Soon you will be crow food. No Walhal for you.”

  Was Edor superstitious? “You would have replaced me.” He waved his sword at Bear. “But now . . .” He feinted forward, trying for the first strike—a slash, and blood flowed from beneath Grimor’s right eye. “I will take the hulls.”

  “No!” Signy saw Grimor’s death arrive.

  Solwaer thrust his sword into Grimor’s back. The unsullied blade severed spine, pierced lungs, cut heart.

  With deep surprise, the Norse leader watched the cold stars slide away as he died.

  Edor rallied. Enraged, he rushed to split Solwaer’s skull.

  “Stop. Stop!”

  The Lord of Portsol snatched up Grimor’s sword and pivoted. “Edor! Think! This was the plan.”

  Edor shook blood from his eyes. He roared forward.

  Solwaer knelt in his path. The raider tripped and fell heavily; winded, he lay gasping.

  Solwaer, a foot on Edor’s throat, sword poised over his belly, shouted, “Listen!”

  The man flexed and struggled, but Solwaer leaned his weight behind the foot. He pushed the sword point through Edor’s tunic. It was close, very close to the man’s balls. Edor froze.

  “Sensible, finally.” The Chieftain glanced toward Grimor and Bear. Beyond, the Abbey was almost consumed. Solwaer shook his head. “You did this. Let them loose.” He glared at Edor. “Get rope. The Christians who live must be kept together. Leave her.” His glance flicked to Signy. “Go—stop the killing.” He removed his sword.

  Edor rose. He stumbled off, sullen. As war blood ebbed, he stared at the corpses of the brothers.

  Something must be saved from Solwaer’s betrayal; blood price, at least, must be paid.

  Signy, oblivious, knelt beside the body of the man she had so loved. She stared, unseeing, at the comet in the red night sky.

  CHAPTER 41

  AT DAWN it rained, and the ashes of the monastery leached bitter lye. After the tumult of the night, the day that followed was still and windless, no sound but the calm sea, the shift of insects in the grass. And it was warm, the morning benign, as it had been the first time. That was cruel.

  The Abbey was reduced, again, to roofless walls, and there were mounds in the grass. Unrecognizable as men or women, they were lumps among the verdant green—inconsequential. But blackened stone, floorless rooms—these had shocking substance. Bodies are fragile, but stone is presumed to endure.

  Signy, in her filthy kirtle, stared out across the strait. Seven nuns and two girls, novices, had survived the sack, and the group were all roped together—hands and necks—beside the rowan at the top of the cliff path. She had been similarly bound but was forced to sit apart from the others. Behind them, the gates within the palisade had been pulled down and lay abandoned. So passed Cuillin’s ability to control his world.

  Numb and stunned, Signy saw nothing except the gulls as they wheeled and dipped above her head, calling. She would not feel, she would not think, she would not . . . But Bear’s phantom hand still lay in hers. There was pressure from his fingers until she sensed the strength begin to fade. “No! Do not go.”

  One of the nuns bent closer. “Signy, this is our time of trial, we must think on Christ’s suffering and—”

  Signy jerked the woman’s face to hers by the rope at her neck. “Listen to me, Alberga. You are not my sister. Your God has failed us all. He must hate this place to let it burn twice. He must ha
te you.”

  The girl drew back, tears in her eyes. The other nuns stared at Signy reproachfully. Cuillin had said she was possessed; this proved it.

  Signy turned away, willing herself not to cry. In the east, as she stared into the sun, the circle of stones stood as it always had. They would stand when this agony was long gone.

  “That one.” She knew the voice. Solwaer. She would not look at the man, but her heart hammered.

  Bending down, a stranger blanked out the light of the sun. There was a knife in his hand. As his face loomed into hers, Signy saw the world in hectic color, heard the man’s breathing louder than a bellows. Her senses rioted. She welcomed oblivion. She would join Bear, and there would be peace—no more terror, no more suffering. Please, please, let him be there to receive me. There was a flash of that other time: she a child, hoping to die quickly as Cuillin tried to lift her up.

  But Signy would not close her eyes in submission. Let her killer see she was not afraid. As the knife descended, she stared into his eyes and stretched her throat, exposing its length to that bright edge. The blade was cold as it touched her skin. It sawed, back and forth, back and forth. That was hard to bear.

  The rope at her neck dropped away. Her flesh was not touched, and the bonds on her wrists were cut. She was free, but this was a fearful thing—she did not know what it meant.

  Solwaer stared at Signy. He took an inventory of her body, piece by piece, and she remembered, ah yes, she remembered when Bear had been taken by this man.

  “Sister Signy. Or should I just call you Signy?” Solwaer held out a hand as if today were a cheerful festival and she a bashful village girl. “Come. You have been distressed enough. I will protect you.”

  She caught his odor. Smoke, sweat, and wet wool. Yet there was a softness in his eyes, as if he truly understood what she was feeling.

  Signy almost laughed. She had seen him, she had seen this man stab Grimor with dispassionate accuracy. Protect her?

  Solwaer’s dirty hand cupped Signy’s chin. “I want only the best for you.” He turned her head gently, so that she was forced to stare into his eyes.

  She flinched from what she saw there.

  “Do you understand me?” He spoke loudly, saying the words with extra care. His other hand now grasped her waist. He might speak like a thoughtful lover, but that hand was hard and possessive.

  Signy frowned as if confused.

  Disappointed, he yelled. “Idorn!”

  “Here I am, Lord.” The translator hurried forward, sheathing the knife that had freed the girl.

  The last day and night had shifted Idorn’s world. After these anxious days standing between Grimor, Bear, and Solwaer, his allegiances had been sorely tested, especially when it seemed the brothers had the upper hand. But this was the moment to demonstrate loyalty to Solwaer; in times of chaos, great opportunities existed. “What do you need of me, Lord?”

  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 l
aid 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.