Wolfskin (60 page)

“Please,” Nessa repeated, keeping her tone soft and sweet though anger burned inside her for the wrongs these folk had done to her people, and fear still clutched at her vitals. “Please, just let me pass. I mean no harm.”

The first man's eyes narrowed; he was looking at the rolled-up skin under her arm. “What's that you bear, girl?”

Nessa held her head high. She would tell no lies. “You can see what it is: a badge of honor, the recognition of your Warfather, Thor. I am a friend of the warrior Eyvind; I journey to Somerled's hall with a message of truth. I must be allowed to proceed unhindered. I must reach that place tonight.”

They gazed at her. “Hmm,” said one. “Just let you go, is it? I don't think so.”

“What's your name?” snapped the other. “Where do you come from? Answer quickly, now.” And he reached out to seize her arm in an iron-hard hand. In its wrapping, the harp trembled; Nessa struggled to keep hold of it.

“My name is Nessa. Let me go. I won't try to escape. I'm not so foolish as to believe I can outrun you. Only a weak man, or a very stupid one, uses force against a woman. These dogs will protect me. Look at them.”

And indeed, the moment the fellow had laid his hand on Nessa, Shadow's affectionate demeanor had changed. Now her ears were laid back, her head lowered, and a deep growling sounded in her throat. Guard had
stationed himself close to the second man, forelegs planted wide, eyes intent as if he were ready to leap into attack the moment the fellow made a move.

The first man cleared his throat. “You can't pass,” he said bluntly, but he had relaxed his vise-like grip. “You must come with us.”

The door of the cottage opened; a warm light streamed out as the two men made their way back with Nessa walking between them, still holding fast to her precious burdens. The dogs followed, watchful.

“What's going on? Why was the dog barking?”

It was a woman's voice that spoke, and a woman's form silhouetted in the doorway, a slender woman clad in dark gown and pale overdress pinned near the shoulders with twin brooches of silver that glinted in the light.

“What is it, Ash?” she asked.

“An intruder, my lady. Found her out yonder by the grain store. Says she's a friend of the Wolfskin, Eyvind that is, heading for court to see him. Sounds like nonsense, but she's got the skin, and she's got his dog, too.”

“Up to no good if you ask me.” The other man's voice was gruff. “Girl on her own, wandering around out here at night. Must be a trick. An ambush; pack of her kinsmen out there waiting to move in. We'd better rouse the other men quick.”

“I told you,” Nessa said wearily, “I've come here alone, but for the dog. Please let me pass; there's no time to waste. I must reach Somerled's hall before dawn. Please,” she said again, looking up at the figure in the doorway.

There was a moment's silence, and then the woman turned slightly so the light from inside caught her features, and Nessa saw that it was Margaret.

Olaf stared at the buckle and its tangle of knotted cord, frowning deeply. “Wolfskin,” he said, “tell us how you believe this object implicates the king in his brother's killing. There's a mystery here; indeed, I confess myself taken aback that the king did not produce this item far earlier in the proceedings if it has such import.” He glanced nervously at Somerled, and quickly away.

“Why bring it out at all if it's got no bearing on the case?” growled the knarr's captain. It was his first contribution to the hearing.

“I will tell you what it means,” said Eyvind quietly. “When I was forced to cut this buckle away in order to free Ulf, I thought only to preserve it for my friend, for I knew it to be a family heirloom of some value. I thought it would please Somerled to keep this remembrance of his brother. I did forget it for a long time; my mind was taken up by other matters. Then I had cause to examine the buckle anew, to look at the cords, which you can still see tangled and twisted about it, cords knotted so tightly I could not free the dead man's body without cutting the buckle itself away from his clothing. Look closely, my lord. Have you seen such a knot before, a decorative, neat construction resembling a close-furled flower? It is a difficult knot to make, one that tightens quickly at first, and then more slowly: a knot no living creature can escape. Ulf fought against it so fiercely that he came close to severing his own wrist; your chieftain bled to death from that self-inflicted wound. Whether the gulls came at him while he still clung to life, or later, there is no telling, but his body was still warm when I cut him free. No man deserves such a death, whether it is foretold or no. No man inflicts such torture on another, save one driven by the deepest of hatreds, the most carefully nurtured of resentments. My
lords, this knot is a thing of beauty and horror, to be employed only in the cruellest trap, for a creature caught thus dies painfully, by slow degrees. I have never used it in a snare myself, for I have always believed in a clean kill, a sharp, merciful ending. But I do know how to make this knot; Somerled taught me long ago when we were children. It was his invention, his secret. There are only two I know of who can do it: your new king there, and myself.”

Now the silence was profound. Harald Silvertongue had picked up the buckle; his fingers touched the little knots gingerly, his mouth was tight with distaste. Olaf had his chin in his hand, as if thinking deeply.
Now,
Eyvind thought,
now they must believe me. Somerled was a fool to keep this, and think not to be damaged by it. Now they must at least feel some doubt about his motives.
But Somerled was smiling.

“You heard the man,” the king said mildly. “Only two can make this knot. That may or may not be true, of course; who's to say I did not teach others my invention? Eyvind has no monopoly on my friendship, for all we are blood brothers. Let us say I did not do so. Let us say this secret skill is shared only by the two of us. Now think of the manner of Ulf's killing. A fit, able man, desperate to survive—did not Eyvind say Ulf fought against his bonds so hard that he caused his own mortal injury? What kind of killer could have brought about Ulf's murder in such a manner, tying him, moving him some distance probably, stuffing his mouth with weed to silence him, suspending him from the clifftop in the most perilous of places? Didn't someone mention that would take a man of exceptional strength? So, we narrow our field of suspects down to one who can make the knot, and who also possesses physical prowess somewhat beyond that of an ordinary warrior. While I wouldn't mind claiming the latter for myself, my friends, all of you know my own skills in feats of strength are adequate rather than outstanding. Eyvind's a different matter. If you had asked our people on the island, last summer, who among us was foremost in bodily strength and skill, every single one of them would have named this man you see before you. Eyvind, old friend, I'm afraid your stunning piece of evidence has done nothing but point the finger straight at yourself.”

“But—” Eyvind began, appalled that such a cruelly twisted version of events could come from the lips of a man who, not long ago, had professed the deepest friendship for him.
Curse it, man, I can't do without you.
All the arbiters were staring at him now; he saw in their eyes shock, disgust,
stunned realization. Only on Olaf Sveinsson's shrewd features did he recognize a shadow of doubt. It was to Olaf he spoke now in shaking tones.

“My lord, this is nonsense. What reason could I possibly have had to kill Ulf? I respected the man, I thought him a fine leader.”

“Heard you grumbling often enough about how you couldn't wait to get home,” put in the knarr's captain. “Cursing the idle days—a waste of time, I think you said once.”

“Maybe I was bored. That doesn't make me a murderer,” Eyvind said. “Besides, I slept by my brother and the others that night. I could not have carried out the deed.”

“He's right.” Heads turned; Erlend had stepped forward at the bottom of the hall. His blunt features were tight with unease. “Holgar and I lay close to Eyvind that night in the mist. It was cold enough to freeze your bollocks off. None of us slept longer than a snatch at a time. Eyvind couldn't have gone away without our knowing it. It wasn't possible.”

“That's true.” Holgar came out to stand beside his fellow Wolfskin; the two of them together made an impressive sight with their great height, their broad, fur-cloaked shoulders, and their fierce eyes. “And he couldn't have done it next day either, nobody went out searching alone. Eyvind had one of Engus's men with him all morning, until he went off with Somerled. They called me when they found the body. Eyvind didn't have the demeanor of a man who'd just murdered his chieftain.”

“And I did?” queried Somerled very quietly. A little muscle in his cheek had begun to twitch, something Eyvind had witnessed before from time to time. At long last, perhaps Somerled was worried.

“No, my lord,” Holgar said. “If I'd been asked, I'd have said neither of you could have done it. Eyvind was distressed, and you were…beside yourself with grief, it seemed to me, almost as if you'd have leaped off the cliff yourself. That was a terrible day.”

“A black day,” put in Erlend. “My lords, I cannot condone what Eyvind did at the Whaleback, for it runs contrary to a warrior's code to turn against his own comrades, to defy his own leader. In mitigation, I'm obliged to say it was quite clear to the three of us that Eyvind didn't intend to kill us, nor to inflict any serious injury. If he'd wanted to do that, he would have done it, war fetter or no. The man's unparalleled in close combat. We knew he sought only to delay the attack. We didn't understand why. Perhaps the revelations of tonight are the key to that. I can only tell you, Eyvind is well known to all of us, and all of us will say, Eyvind would never
have slain Ulf. Not only had he no reason to do so, the manner of Ulf's death rules him out as a suspect. Eyvind's been an expert hunter since he was a boy, we all know that. A hunter kills efficiently, with compassion. With respect for the life he takes.”

“Theories, theories,” grumbled Harald Silvertongue, “no case was ever proven on speculations such as these. What about some hard facts? Say we accept the premise that Eyvind could not have done the deed that night. We must, of course, bear in mind that you are the accused man's close comrades, bound by your oath to Thor, and that loyalty may play a greater part in your testimony than truth. However, say we accept what you tell us about that night. There is still the next day. You mentioned that no man went off alone in the morning. You say Eyvind had one of the islanders with him. In view of the king's talk of treachery, of the poison these folk put in the Wolfskin's mind, the presence of one of Engus's men by his side scarcely constitutes an alibi.”

“It's the opposite,” put in the knarr's captain suddenly. “That just made it easier to do the deed. Ulf was wandering as his brother was; they ambushed him, they set it up. Easy. There had to have been accomplices on the island to bring the net and the ropes. It could only have been done thus.”

Somerled nodded gravely. “Indeed. A shocking affair. Of course, nothing's proven. It's my word against Eyvind's. I would only ask you to bear in mind that I have been as open as I could, allowing Eyvind full rein to speak his mind although his account of himself was rambling and irrelevant. I produced the evidence he wanted, evidence he thought to use to incriminate me. I had no reason to do so, I could have concealed the fact that this buckle was in my possession. I've told you honestly that I would have pardoned the man's transgression had he been prepared to admit the islanders corrupted and used him. Why would I lay myself open thus if I were guilty of the heinous crime Eyvind seeks to pin on me? Still, it's not that particular offense we're examining here tonight. We risk forgetting the nature of the original charges if we allow this thread of argument to continue.”

Nobody commented. Harald was nodding sagely, even as his fingers played restlessly with the buckle. Olaf was staring down at his linked hands as if they were of deep interest to him. Others shuffled restlessly.

“You heard what Eyvind said.” The voice was Grim's, though Eyvind could not see him, for he was lost in the press of men by the west door. “Did it sound as if he was lying? The fellow's never told a lie in his life, he
wouldn't know how. He's confessed to the charges against him, and he's given his reasons for doing what he did. Why would he let himself be brought back here, except to tell the truth?”

“We're all tired,” said Somerled, rising to his feet. “Tired and distressed. You men can sit down.” His eyes passed over the tall figures of Erlend and Holgar; there was a chill in his gaze that made Eyvind shudder. To speak out as his fellow Wolfskins had done was to place one's whole future at risk. He did, indeed, have friends here, brave friends.

“This part of the proceedings is closed,” Somerled continued. “We'll discuss the evidence in private, and return with a verdict. Meanwhile, I want you all to enjoy some ale and a bite to eat; you've been patient. Let's finish this and allow Eyvind here to return to his cell and rest those shaky legs. Unless anyone else has a mind to jump up and say their little piece in his defense.”

Surely, Eyvind thought, the edge in the king's voice and the glint in his eye must be enough to deter the most determined of advocates. This was over. Harald Silvertongue began to rise, somewhat creakily, for he was getting on in years and the cold weather hurt his joints. The knarr's captain was already up and talking with some animation to those of his crew who stood nearby.

“I'd like to speak in Eyvind's defense, if I may.” It was a mild, inoffensive voice, which nonetheless carried right down the length of the hall, over the hubbub of chatter.

“Quiet!” barked Olaf Sveinsson, and silence fell. In the hush, the man who had spoken moved on his sandalled feet to the center of the hall, facing the table. He gave Eyvind a courteous nod. The curiously tonsured head was held high, the shoulders square; the little man in the threadbare brown robe made a strangely dignified figure amidst this company of tall warriors and richly dressed courtiers. There was a livid bruise on his left cheek and a deep, oozing cut over his eye.

“I have some words to add to the case, before you conclude,” Brother Tadhg said. “I came in late, of course. It's quite a way from Hafnarvagr, and my journey was interrupted. But I think I follow the thrust of your arguments. May I speak?”

 

Margaret dismissed the two guards with a few crisp words, then reached out a hand to guide Nessa up the steps and into the cottage. A savory smell wafted out the door; supper was cooking. Nessa's mouth watered.

“Here,” Margaret was saying, “let me take that,” and her hand came out toward the bag Nessa held.

“No!” Nessa started in alarm, her grip tightening instinctively. Within its covering, the bone harp shivered and spoke.
I am…I am
…

Margaret froze in the doorway, her hands at her throat, her face blanching to a sickly white.
“What is that?”
she breathed.

Nessa swallowed. “I'll explain,” she managed. The ancestors aid her, what she bore was made with the very bone and sinew of this girl's husband; it was his body she had opened to find the makings of her charm. Explain? How could she even begin? “Let me come in first; this is not a matter we can speak of out here. I'm cold and hungry, and I badly need your help.”

Perhaps something in her eyes spoke to the young widow; perhaps Margaret remembered a time not so long ago when she herself had asked for aid.

“Come, then. Warm yourself by the fire and share our supper. I am not so neglectful of my duty that I would leave you out in the dark. Come in.”

The cottage was cozy; a fire burned on the central hearth, and lamps stood at either end of the room. Shelf beds were well furnished with rugs and linen, and cups and bowls stood on a stone slab. The two dogs were already making themselves at home, Guard lapping thirstily from a bowl of water, Shadow sitting quietly next to a woman who was crouched by the fire, stirring the soup pot. Nessa blinked. Surely she was seeing things; hunger and exhaustion must have addled her wits. Yet the smell was unique; there was nothing in the world as good as Rona's onion broth.

“As you see,” Margaret said awkwardly, her eyes sharp on the dark, swathed form of the harp, “you are among friends here.”

Nessa came close to dropping the instrument then, overcome by a sudden flood of feelings, hope and sorrow and fear, grief and joy and terrible anxiety. Half-blinded by hot tears, she set harp and wolfskin carefully on the floor and ran to throw her arms around her old friend and mentor.

“Rona! By all the powers! I thought you were dead, Eyvind said you went off all by yourself—how is it you are here, with her? Don't you know what happened? They're all dead, all of them, Engus and Kinart and all the men who stood up with them, they cut off their heads and left them lying, and they took the women from the Whaleback, and now Eyvind is a prisoner, and Somerled—”