The Island House (61 page)

“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 He went to take the offered hand, just as it was withdrawn.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. He’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.

Men from the boats and Solwaer’s followers stood back. Red-faced from the heat, they stared somberly into the heart of the fire. They’d been promised beer, but not until the pyre burned down, and without ale or war blood, it was sobering to watch this roaring beast consume a comrade’s body. The smell reminded far too many of pork meat roasting.

“Solwaer?” Idorn approached his leader warily. “Here is the girl.”

Men were turning to look; some smirked as they approached.

The Lord of Portsol swung around. To honor the dead, he was wearing the torque Bear had made and a wolf-trimmed cloak, because the full pelt—head, tail, and claws—made him seem broader, more substantial. But so close to the fire, the heavy garment was a burden. Sweat dripped down his neck, and irritation was the result, especially when Edor asked him something and Idorn was not there to translate.

But Solwaer forgot bad humor when he saw the Shaman’s daughter. When he’d last seen her, Signy had been dressed in blood-stiffened rags—she was very different now. Face impassive, right hand on the hilt of his sword, he beckoned her to approach.

Signy was the sole woman in this gathering of men and, since he was her master, Solwaer had expected she would bow to him, at least. Another woman might have knelt humbly at his feet.

But Signy did neither of these things. Unblinking, she stared into his eyes as she advanced, and surprise made him look away. He covered the moment with a laugh, turning toward the men. “A spirited slave. Is that a good thing?” There was a ripple of laughter from the men. Some things crossed all language barriers.

Edor watched for what would happen next.

“Show me.” Solwaer waved a languid hand—he might have been inspecting livestock. “Turn.” There was an edge in his voice. Men had gathered behind him. “Do it, slave.”

Signy’s eyes widened. She lifted her head proudly and turned in a circle.

Solwaer grunted. “Again. Slower. Hands above your head. Now!” His voice was a lash.

Signy flinched.

The men laughed, not unkindly. It was to the girl’s credit that she was embarrassed—a harlot might have enjoyed displaying herself.

Signy’s breathing slowed, and she closed her eyes. From long training, she took her spirit away to the place that prayer provided. But who would hear her prayers in this moment? Bear.

She raised her arms high and trancelike, solemnly, turned as stiffly as a statue might.
Bear, protect me.

Solwaer frowned, but he had made his point. He commanded, she obeyed. “Idorn!”

“Yes, Lord?”

“I am displeased by this girl. Take her back to my tent.” He did not call her Signy—slaves had no personal possessions, not even names.

Signy shouted at Solwaer, “Idorn said I could witness the ceremonies. You told him.” This loss, a final sight of Bear’s face, was too much.

Solwaer turned his back on Signy. He would not dignify her defiance with a response. “Translator, Lord Edor asked me a question.”

Idorn was harried. He clamped his hand across Signy’s mouth, muttering, “Be still. Please.” He raised his voice as the girl struggled. “Yes, Lord.”

Edor threw the last of his mead in the grass. “I was asking, is the girl a virgin?”

Solwaer laughed uproariously. “Is she a virgin? I have yet to find out. It is a meaningless state for a slave.”