The Island House (5 page)

Smoke hung, curtain high, above the smudge of Signy’s face as she peered out. There was clear air close to the ground, but three handspans higher and the world was blanket-cloaked, smoke hiding the stars.

That, above all else, broke Signy’s courage. If she could not see
the sky, Tarannis would not see her. She would never get home, never; neither of them would. Tears fell, clean lines on her dirty face.

An owl came out of the smoke, pale as ash. It landed close, so close Signy could touch its feathers. It turned to look at her, gold eyes unblinking. A sign!

She whispered, “In the name of Tarannis, show me how to leave this place.”

Soft as it had come, the owl left, swallowed by the dusk and the smoke. The child screamed out, “No! Don’t go!”

A man’s hand descended from the smoke-blanket. He caught Signy by the throat, and she was jerked into the air, flailing and coughing. Desperation turned fingers to talons. Signy slashed at the man’s face, and she was lucky—long nails found flesh and gouged.

Blood filled the man’s eyes. Bellowing, he nearly dropped her.

She wriggled and howled. A lucky kick did the rest as one of Signy’s hard little feet found her attacker’s balls. He staggered, yelping.

That was enough. Signy fled, fast as a hind, swallowed by smoke as the owl had been.

Breathless, choking, she thought she was running toward the cliff path, but she stumbled and fell. She’d tumbled over something. A body, facedown in the grass. A sudden gust of wind tore the smoke.

Signy stuffed her hand in her mouth.

Oblivious to danger, oblivious to pursuit, she knelt. The back of the skull was a bloody mess, broken like an egg. Without words, without tears, she laid her face against the unmoving back, the dirty homespun cloth. Laenna. This was all that was left of her sister.

The smoke thinned, and through it she saw the man. He was blundering toward her, an ax in his hand—a red ax.

When Signy fled this time, it was purely from instinct, no
thought in her mind but running and breathing. She ran from the light of the fires, ran and ran, and when she cried, the tears dried in the heat of that night—the heat of destruction.

Down the cliff path, down to the beach, down to the sea. It was nearly dark, but no moon had yet risen to expose her. This was all she could do, and perhaps, in the end, Tarannis was merciful, for the ships hauled up on the beach were unguarded—there’d been no need to leave sentries.

So the child hurried alone, in the shadow of the cliff, to the place they’d left their coracle at dawn, outside the sea cave.

She found their small craft smashed.

Like a wounded animal, Signy crept deep into the back of the cave, and from the pain that clenched her body she thought she might die, but in the end she only sobbed until she slept.

She did not see the comet as it rose against the clearing stars. She was too deep in the dark.

The long-necked ships would leave soon. They were being readied to push out from the beach on the swollen, full-moon tide.

The raid had been successful, and the vessels were laden with trade goods because the invaders had kept nearly all the younger nuns alive, though some of the older monks, those who’d tried to fight, had been killed. A loss, of course, but the remaining boys—those without beards—would be valuable; they’d likely be gelded before the autumn markets and sold on as merchants’ clerks. And a large enameled cross had been looted from the chapel, along with a good, uncracked bell of bronze. Since there was always a shortage of bronze on the market, this alone would fetch a price that would put the raid into profit.

Reimer, the captain of the raiding band, was impatient at the slow start to the day. He was beginning to pace. A bad sign.

His men had eaten and drunk well after the raid—too well. After their days at sea, they’d gorged themselves on the fat sheep
of Findnar’s meadows. Mutton, though not as good for fighting men as beef, was relished after fish for so many days, and they’d also found jars of mead in an earth cellar under one of the barns.

“Men of God they call themselves—idiots and drunkards, that’s what
I
think them. Our Gods crushed theirs last night. No contest. Eh? Eh, Thorkeld?”

Thorkeld nodded, keeping his eye on the work going forward. He was happy to agree with his volatile war leader, since doing so saved trouble and time. No contest. The lieutenant yawned, scratching his belly. A big man who had survived late into his third decade, Thorkeld was unexcitable. He commanded
Wave Piercer,
the second largest ship in the fleet of twelve, and he’d worked hard last night but, after so many similar raids this season, he was, unusually, feeling the effects. His ax arm, for instance. He’d jarred it torching the chapel; plus the smoke, noise, and ale headache from the aftermath was more annoying than usual. The Abbey folk had not offered significant resistance, however, except for one or two hotheads, who were easily dealt with. On balance, irritations aside, a good result. Today though, when he was both queasy and tired, Thorkeld had no relish for the long, cold voyage to come.

Perhaps he was finally too old for this life. He didn’t enjoy it as much as he once had; maybe it was time to leave it to younger men and retire to his farm, paid for from twenty years of raiding, and breed sons. He’d earned that.

“I’ll kill you!”

Reimer and Thorkeld turned to look at a fight at the water’s edge. A wheat-haired youth in his late teens was choking another member of the war band. They were fighting over a coffer from the Abbey. Its lid was up, and vestments, one or two of silk, were spilling into the water.

“They’ll ruin those if they keep this up.” Reimer hated waste.

Thorkeld nodded and started off to pull the men apart. Reimer called him back. “No. It might help Grimor. He’s been black since last night.”

Grimor, the blond, was winning—his opponent was on his knees in the surf, blood from a split nose and a broken eye socket washing away in the sea. At last the defeated youth staggered to his feet, hands held high and empty; he waded out of the surf followed by Grimor’s jeers and the laughter of his comrades on the beach.

Reimer grunted, transferred his attention back to the loading. “No word of the boy?”

Thorkeld shook his head. “No. Just classic inexperience—the kid was full of himself after the river village, and he thought this one was easy.”

Reimer agreed. “A waste.” His band had sacked a settlement at the mouth of a small river some days sailing from Findnar before they burned this monastery. The river people had been a tougher contest since they’d been armed and had more trained fighters among them, but Grimor’s younger brother, Magni, had done well in what had been his first real raid.

Thorkeld continued. “I looked for his body this morning, so did Grimor. Nothing. Magni’s dead, burned I’d say. He showed promise, though, and courage—that’s something Grimor can take comfort from.”

The war leader sighed. “You’re right, you’re always right, Thorkeld. But we can’t let one boy’s death hold us up.” He was distracted watching the last women being stowed onboard. Reimer didn’t want them damaged. Two of the three were handsome enough to fetch good prices at the markets, and the third was a real beauty, even with all her hair hacked off. “Would you look at what the Christians did to her? The hair!”

Thorkeld took his leader’s elbow in the ribs in good part as they watched one of the men pull the girl to her feet—she began to scream, of course; they were all good screamers. But he agreed, the monks and nuns truly were fools. Why would you knowingly damage the looks of a girl like that? It would take at least a year for the hair to grow to anything like an acceptable length, and someone
would have to invest the money to feed her while she was held back from sale.

Reimer sucked his teeth reflectively and watched the pretty novice struggle as she was carried to
Fenrir,
his own ship. The craft was the largest in the fleet, big enough to take thirty rowers on each side. The girl was gagged now and her hands securely bound, but even though she was filthy with smoke and scared out of her wits, her face was a pleasure to look at. And her body was at that early stage of ripening that Reimer, personally, found very attractive; the young ones were so much easier to deal with. In fact, as he watched, he made up his mind. He’d keep this one. It was a while since he’d allowed himself anything pleasurable from a raid, and he deserved something for his efforts, long overdue tribute, in fact.

His senior wife would not be pleased, but she’d come around; he’d just have to make sure she didn’t harry the girl to a miserable death. But, in the end, what did it really matter—what was one concubine more or less?

“Careful! Look at that, Thorkeld. What is that great oaf
doing
!” The girl had wriggled so much the man who had her over his shoulder lost his footing, and he and his burden both fell into the surf. Having her hands tied, she hadn’t surfaced. “Pull her up, you fool! Go on!” The girl was hauled, choking, out of the water.

Thorkeld was bored. He’d seen it too many times; this island had given all it had for the moment, and he was as impatient as his master to weigh anchor. “I’m sure she’ll settle now, Lord.”

At the last minute, Reimer had decided that the three best women should be placed on his own vessel, and Thorkeld agreed with the decision. There was no point putting valuable merchandise on any of the other ships, since, having been used by the crew, they’d be in a shocking state by the time they arrived at winter quarters.

Reimer nodded absently as he watched the crying girl pushed
over the side into his ship. As Thorkeld had said, all the fight in her was gone. “Good. Let’s be away.”

After the raiders left, when the tide had lowered once and come in again, Signy left the cave.

She was hungry and thirsty and numb with grief, but the sea had washed away the marks where the hulls had rested. The raiders were truly gone.

Now she must bury her sister.

CHAPTER 5

T
HIS HOUSE
had a name, and Freya remembered it from the solicitor’s letter. Compline House, Findnar Island, near Portsolly, KA33, Scotland—a mouthful with a twist that seemed uniquely charming when first read.

Compline.
She’d looked it up. In monastic tradition, the last prayers before bed were called by this name—prayers of protection against the evils of the night.

Freya raised the lamp higher. She was reflected in one window of the largest room, at the very front of the house. In daylight there would be a view of all the western sky and the strait between the island and the mainland. The letter had told her he’d died out there. That night, in the water, there’d been no protection for Michael Dane; no search and rescue had come for him.

Lost at sea;
the words had never resonated before now.

Abruptly, Freya turned away from the glass. Holding the lamp higher, she saw faint marks on the board ceiling above her head. This must have been two rooms once, and there would have been a corridor where she’d entered from the kitchen; someone had taken the walls out to open up this graceful space.