Idorn nodded. “It is. And I have found clothes for the girl—a very nice dress. It was on one of the Norse ships and—”
“I don’t care where you got it. Was she pleased?”
“Oh, yes. She asked me to thank you, Lord Solwaer.” Idorn lied unflinchingly. “I’ve had her washed, too, by the nuns. I think she looks very pretty.”
Solwaer shot Idorn a hard glance.
Aware he’d strayed into delicate territory, the translator said, “As I’m sure you will see for yourself very shortly, Lord. She is eager to please you.” He tried to sound sincere, but it had been a difficult afternoon. Signy had not been cooperative.
“She is to be guarded at the tent while I confer with Lord Edor; he can do it.” Solwaer pointed at one of the Portsol men. “You will stay with me.” He raised an arm to Edor, calling out, “I am coming, Lord Edor.”
It had been a long night, too long. Light had only briefly dipped from the sky into milky gloom, and now, all too soon, the sun had returned, and it hurt. It was hard, sometimes, not to take such things personally.
Solwaer rolled over, squinting. Was Cruach angry? Perhaps these spears in his eyes were punishment for linking the name of the mighty Sun with all the other Gods. A moment’s bravado in the full flight of the speech yesterday, and now he had something else to worry about.
Time to face the day. Solwaer managed to sit up gracelessly—more a roll than anything else—and stared around the talking place. It seemed he must have slept beside the fire trench with some of his men, and Edor was snoring among his followers on the other side. They appeared to be breathing, though Solwaer had some dim recollection of a fight between the Portsol men and the Norse some hours back. A fight in which he and Edor had jointly intervened and, of course, peace had demanded more ale be drunk.
Solwaer grimaced. It would be a slow start to the day, but that was not to be the worst of it—he’d still not enjoyed the girl and, in this state, doubted he’d be capable for some hours. A concubine had dared to mock him once after he’d found himself unmanned by ale; once, and no more than that, for life had not been pleasant for the girl afterward. But he had time enough to enjoy this one properly—all the time he might want. An incautious nod and his skull pulsed, the pain too big to be contained behind his eyes. Solwaer groaned; focus was impossible, and his mouth—he hawked up sour phlegm and spat into the ashes—his mouth tasted of sulfur and bile. He heaved himself to his feet and kicked Idorn where he lay.
“What?” The man woke, wild-eyed. Groaning, he, too, leaned over the fire trench and retched into the ashes. Perhaps that gave Solwaer a little pleasure, but not enough.
“There’s work to be done. Wake the others.”
“Yes, Lord.” Idorn stood too quickly; the horizon tilted, and the sun wove a giddy arc in the sky. Stumbling away with half-closed eyes, he paused here and there to shake ungrateful men to their senses.
Solwaer sighed. This would be an important day and another big night afterward. But then . . .
Though work had progressed well on the clearing and refurbishment of the tomb, not all was as it should be.
Death, as life, throws up politics, and finally, Solwaer faced the truth. He could not have everything he wanted—not if he wished to control the direction of the larger game.
He forced himself to sound reasonable. “We have two things that must be resolved, Edor. First, the work on the tomb must be finished today. Then we will light the pyres and place Grimor and Magni in the chamber tonight. We cannot wait past that.”
Edor, playing at knucklebones, frowned. This, at least, was true; the corpses of all the dead were besieged by flies.
Solwaer continued, “Then there is the matter of the slaves and the overseers. Mine and yours.”
Since he had claimed Grimor’s place, Edor had been presented with nothing but problems. He was tired of sitting around on this island, talking as the good weather wasted away. He threw the bones on the ground. “You can’t just kill them all, Solwaer. That’s very expensive.”
Solwaer stopped pacing around the dead fire pit. “Do you trust your men?”
“Yes.” Mostly, thought Edor.
“Will you trust them when they see the treasures we place around the brothers?” And Fiachna. “And Fiachna?”
“Whatever you do, we do not plunder the graves of our comrades.” Edor’s face was sullen.
Solwaer tried another tack. “You trust your men, and that is good. I certainly trust my own.” So much for disposing of the Portsol overseers, but there were only a few of those; they could be dealt with later. “I do not, however, trust the monks. Once at the market . . .” He left that thought hanging. “Bear—that is, Magni—and Grimor must have attendants. What I am proposing would serve the purpose, and it would be a most kingly gesture. Men would remember, after you are gone, how you honored these noble brothers.”
Kingly, an enticing word. Generosity was the mark of greatness—wasn’t that what Grimor always used to say? But Edor shook his head, his face a bland mask. “So, no income from the monks. And the nuns won’t be worth much. A scrawny bunch.”
Solwaer rolled his eyes. Idorn had told him, finally, where the nuns had been hidden, and he’d pretended to be angry—to make sure his translator did not make another important decision without his approval—but he’d been pleased, secretly. At least their value had been protected. “You know they’ll do better when we fatten them up. It’s all in the presentation.”
Edor stared at him. “You kept one for yourself, I hear, the girl Magni wanted.” He paused, conscious of an advantage at last. “Solwaer, this will be a long and prosperous relationship. We raid, you trade, and Findnar becomes the base of our venture. Yes?”
The other man nodded warily.
“If I agree to give the monks to the brothers, I think this girl goes with them. We both make sacrifices. Mine is greater.”
“How is that? We both lose jointly the value of the monks, and I fail to see—”
Edor held up his hand. He said patiently, “My loss is greater than yours because Grimor, who was more than a brother to me, was murdered. By you. I saw it. If I told my fighters, they would not be happy.” The hypocrisy was shameless.
Unguarded words jammed behind Solwaer’s teeth. He contained them, but only just.
Edor allowed himself to sound magnanimous. “Come, why squabble over something so small? Bear’s spirit will be greatly appeased with the girl as a companion.”
Solwaer forced himself to think. Normally he did not permit sentiment to interfere with business, but this was different. Personal considerations aside, the girl had a political value that might repay risk and long-term investment. Bear’s ruined face flashed into his mind. You’re dead. Go away. Signy was also beautiful—an impressive addition to his household—and she was the daughter of Portsol’s former shaman. With these advantages, she would give him children who might be worthy to carry his name and his goods into the future. The only son he had now from his chief wife was not at all like him; his mother called him sensitive. Yes, he needed more boys, proper boys, and Signy would bear them. That said, she was just a girl, and there were always fertile girls around.
He eyed the grinning Edor, a smile securely in place. “I’ll give you my answer tonight.” He forced respect into his voice and was rewarded by the younger man’s smug expression.
Solwaer’s own smile grew wider. Let the idiot think he’s won. And we’ll see who comes out ahead in the end.
CHAPTER 44
ANYONE HOME? Hello . . .”
All three heard the voice and the footsteps overhead. Dan wiped his eyes; the dust was irritating. “Who’s that?”
Freya dropped the pickax and hurried off. “Simon Fettler.”
“Who?” Dan’s question was redundant.
“Freya, there you are.” Simon sauntered down the stairs. He paused on the last step, amused. “My, my, what have you been doing?” His eyes swept past her to the brightly lit wall and the yawning
hole. “Hello there, Miss MacAllister. Working hard, I see.” A cheery wave.
Embarrassed by her appearance, Katherine nodded. She put the crowbar behind her back.
“Hi, Simon.” Freya stopped a pace or two away from the visitor. She didn’t care what she looked like, but the man was a heritage architect and the place looked like a war zone. “Nice to see you.”
Simon switched his attention back to Freya. “I’ve brought something for you.” He held up a tablet computer. “Plans. As I promised.” His eyes widened further as Dan appeared from the tunnel behind the girl.
Freya brushed dust off her clothes. “Great. Let’s go upstairs. I’m sure we could all do with a break.” She sounded jumpy; she was jumpy. “After you.”
Her visitor turned on his heel. “Excellent.”
Freya called out to the others, “I’ll stick the kettle on. Come up when you’re ready.”
Dan nudged Katherine. “And Simon is . . . ?”
“Too nosy by half.” The librarian looked grim. She tried to pat her hair into some kind of order as she strode toward the stairs. “He bought the church.”
“Nosy. What’s that supposed to mean?” Dan hobbled after her; standing for such a long time had stiffened his bad leg.
Katherine stopped at the foot of the stairs. “I forgot to tell Freya. Mr. Fettler’s been in and out of my library these last couple of days. He’s been researching the island. Tried to pump me, too, about Michael’s work.” She’d been so discreet about her relationship with Michael Dane—how had he known?
“And?”
“And, I’d say he’s too interested.” Katherine’s tone was grim.
“In what?”
“The past.”
“These are really lovely.” Freya watched as Simon clicked through image after image. “So many possibilities—just fantastic.”
“I’m glad you like them.” He clicked to another. “As I said, your house is interesting, and that makes it an added pleasure to work on.” He stared at her, bright-eyed. “Plaster suits you, by the way.” A teasing smile.
Freya leaned closer to the screen. “Is that the undercroft? Wow.” She spoke quickly.
“It really would make the most amazing apartment—great self-contained tourist accommodation with its own entrance downstairs. Unique. People will pay for high-end experiences in this part of the world. It’s not all about B and Bs. Could be a handy source of income for you.”
She sat back. “It’s certainly novel—if I could just get people to walk up that path with their bags.” Freya went to say something else but stopped. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think about what?” Katherine joined them.
Simon half-rose as the librarian sat. “Renovations—and something else. I almost forgot.” He hit a key. The image of a crane came up on the screen, and he pressed the Play arrow. The crane animated, lifting a stone slab—he’d even drawn the circle of stones in behind.
Dan entered quietly. He stood behind Freya’s chair. “Ingenious.”
“Yes, it is, Simon, it’s great”—Freya tried not to look uncomfortable—“but actually we’ve already managed to raise the slab.”
“Really?” Simon pressed Pause.
Freya ducked her head. “Yes. Dan came up with something—a surprise. He’s a boatbuilder.” She tried not to sound guilty; that made it worse. “Sorry. I should have let you know.”
Dan leaned forward across the table and held out his hand. “Dan Boyne.”
Simon hesitated. “Oh. Well, that makes sense.” He went to take the offered hand, just as it was withdrawn.
With a charming smile, Simon broke the awkward moment. “Still and all, glad to hear it worked. Great outcome. You must be happy—all three of you, I mean.” A smile for Katherine.
Dan pulled the chair out beside Freya. He took some time to sit down.
Simon observed the performance and asked, politely, “And did you find anything?”
“You mean under the stone?” Dan’s tone was neutral.
“No.” Katherine jumped in.
Freya glanced at the librarian, astonished.
Simon got up, uncurling his long frame. “Well, can’t be lucky all the time, I guess.” He extracted a sheaf of papers from his pack. “You’re busy, Freya, so I’ll leave these with you—a printout of the drawings. Take your time. I’m happy to talk further when it suits.” He waved vaguely toward the undercroft. “Have fun with, whatever.”
Freya got up hastily. “Thanks so much. Very kind of you to take the trouble to come all this way.” She ran up the steps to open the back door. “You’ve included an invoice for your time, I hope?”
Simon bent under the lintel. He paused and dropped his voice. “Don’t worry about money. If you like the ideas, there’s always a way to find what you need.”
She looked at him cautiously. “A way?”
“To finance things. I don’t know if your father ever found anything here, but if he did, there’s a market for real antiquities. I’ve got all sorts of contacts. Let me help you. I’d really like that.”
Freya stiffened slightly.
He sensed her hesitation, but Simon’s smile was genuine. “Look, just a thought. Don’t be offended. The art market’s booming. People are frightened to put their money into the stock market, for instance, or buying houses. In troubled times, unique objects outperform other investments; that’s well known. You should think about it.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
Simon nodded. He went to go, turned back. “By the way, next time you’re in Portsolly, a working dinner might be nice; when you’ve had time to look at the house drawings properly.”
The pause was telling, and the beginnings of a blush. Simon watched as Freya forced a smile.
“That’s a kind thought.”
He waved dismissively. “No pressure at all—just let me know what suits.” He strode away.
Freya closed the door on his back and leaned against it.
Dan stared at her. “You know what?”
She went back to the table. “No—what?”
“He’s after something.”
Freya said nothing, just stared at her hands, nicked and battered from the work.
“And he didn’t ask,” Katherine chimed in.
Two pairs of eyes swiveled toward her.
“What we were doing.” She gestured. Their clothes and faces might have been dipped in flour. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”
CHAPTER 45
I DORN WAVED the sentry away and pulled back the opening of the tent. It was warm inside, pungent and gloomy, daylight shut out by the badly cured skin walls. His eyes adjusted. The interior looked pleasing, though, considering what he’d had to work with; he’d even found sheepskins to strew over the grass as well as a number of hangings, not that Solwaer would care.
“Hello, Signy.”
“What do you want?” The girl was standing as far away from him as the space allowed. She did not sound welcoming.
“It is close to evening.”
“I know that.” Signy raised her chin. She stared at him steadily. Idorn cleared his throat. “I see you’ve been given food.” The charred haunch of something, perhaps a rabbit, lay on a wooden platter. The meat was untouched, and flies buzzed around it, disturbed by his entrance.
“I am not hungry.”
“You should eat to keep up your strength.”
Signy laughed heartily. “Why?”
He admired the defiance and felt some pity for the useless courage that drove her spirit. But despite what Edor had proposed, this girl might survive, still, if she allowed herself to be pragmatic. “I have good news, as you will see. By the way, you look very nice. Did I say that yesterday?” Idorn meant it. She might be too slender for his taste, but the girl looked so different for being clean. A captive had left the ocher-dyed tunic on one of the raider hulls; the color suited Signy, and the dress had pretty blue cord sewn around the hem and the neck, which was flattering too. H
e’d even managed to find a shift, and the flash of white linen at the throat was pleasing against Signy’s tawny skin, while the wide belt cinched her waist in a way that displayed the slight curves of her body very pleasingly. Had it been the nuns or Signy herself who’d tied her hair back in the white kerchief? In the warm afternoon, dark curls had escaped and clustered softly around her brow. His task was made so much harder by the girl’s appeal.
He forced himself to sound cheerful. “My lord wants you to witness the ceremonies. I’ve come to take you to him. And at first light in the morning, Bear and Grimor will be sent to their Gods.”
“In the tomb?”
Idorn nodded. He was economical with the truth; he did not tell her about the ancestors’ bones.
“Very well, I will come with you.” As if Signy had a choice, she walked toward him and paused not an arm’s length away. “Well?”
Idorn pulled back the flap of the tent and motioned her through. In his heart, he was troubled that his master now owned this girl. Solwaer did not deserve Signy—so finely made and graceful—and more than one man turned to watch her as they walked through the camp together.
But Signy saw nothing and no one. Tonight, as last light faded, Bear and his brother would be laid inside the tomb, and when dawn entered the passage and shone through to the chamber within—Cruach’s blessing on their faces for the last time—the brothers would be sealed away. Forever.
It seemed to Signy that time had ceased to be, that she would walk this path forever and never suffer the pain of arriving, of seeing where he was to lie without her as long as the moon hung in the heavens. Tears dropped into the dust at her feet. Idorn, close behind, heard the swallowed sobs.
Rounding the last part of the path to the talking ground, they smelled smoke—and something else. Flesh was burning. This was the cremation of the raiders ahead of the inhumation of the brothers. Once the fire was lit, fat dripped from the ripe bodies, and the pyre became an inferno, a storm of flame.
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