The Island House (37 page)

Anselm’s eyebrows ascended. “I am astonished, Sister. A craftsman, you say?”

The girl swallowed. “Yes, Father. He makes animals, mostly. Seals and birds, horses and dogs too. From whalebone. I have seen them.”

Anselm was shocked. Surely one of his monks would not be so profane? “Dear Sister, think carefully of what you are saying. Animals are God’s creatures, it is true, but they are without souls and not suitable subjects, therefore, for a man of God. The work of our hands is dedicated to our Lord and what He might require of us, not to luxurious or prideful idleness.”

There was silence behind the screen; then a hand appeared, an object hidden in the palm. The fingers uncurled, and there, displayed like a treasure, was a crucifix.

Anselm stared at the object with painful intensity. And then gasped; Christ’s face!

“Who made this . . .” Speech deserted him. He wanted to say
abomination.
“Speak.” Unwittingly, Anselm raised his voice—and regretted it. Behind him was a sudden perfect silence.

Signy hesitated. She was frightened by the monk’s tone. She said, in a whisper, “He is not a monk, Father.”

Anselm closed his eyes in pain. This was more than serious for the novice. He said, urgently, “For the good of your soul, name this person.”

There was a confused pause. “Bear. It is Bear, Father. He carved the crucifix and gave it to me when I took my first vows.”

Anselm hissed a stricken breath. A heathen. Not only had his sister accepted a personal object before consecration to Christ but she was seriously proposing this Pagan, an animal herder who had
already
carved a blasphemous likeness of Christ using his own face, as the creator of an image for their church—a thing that would be sanctified.

There must have been illicit contact between the pair. Anselm was aghast at the images that rushed into his mind. His pretty little protégée now seemed a wanton temptress—Satan’s creature—and he had fostered her pride through the vanity of the work he had given her.

Anselm reproached himself bitterly. He must tell the Abbot immediately all that he knew. If Signy’s soul was to be saved, that was his clear duty. Penance must be done, severe penance, by both the miscreants—the heathen for omission, his sister for commission. Anselm pulled the screen aside in one violent movement. “Leave the Scriptorium. Go!”

Signy shrank back against the wall; she was terrified. Her once kindly teacher seemed a man possessed by fury as he thrust his face close and hissed, “Pray. Immediately. You and he and that . . .” With horror, he gestured at the crucifix. He would not touch the blasphemous thing. “This is sin. Meeting in secret.
Illicit,
criminal
conversation between you.” Anselm would not name the boy and, oblivious to the effect he had on Signy, he was shouting at her now.

The world she had worked so hard to belong to collapsed on Signy’s head like an emptied sack of stones. Dazed and shamed, she stood. Every eye in the Scriptorium was on her, and she had the craziest desire to laugh. Shock. The brothers, and she, were stunned by the drama of the moment.

Signy collapsed to her knees; she whispered, “Father, forgive my presumption. I meant no sin against our Lord. I seek to glorify Him as you do and as you have taught me to.”

Anselm flinched and his face flushed, a sweating red. She had said the wrong thing, Signy saw that. She said, quickly, “Bear has always been a carver. Just little things, but they come from his love of all of God’s creation. I believe his talent is holy, not sinful, and I have not knowingly spoken to him since I was consecrated to our Lord. The crucifix was a gift, that is all, a symbol of holiness, to help guide me on my new path.”

“Sister, how can you not know . . .” Words deserted Anselm. He heard the honesty in Signy’s voice and saw it in her eyes—it was clear the girl had no idea the carving was blasphemous.
Once a Pagan . . .
But there was nothing to be done. His duty was clear.

He waved toward the Scriptorium door; he would not speak with her. He could not.

In that moment, it felt as if she had been turned to rock. A story she’d heard as a child floated through the roiling chaos; thirteen girls once danced in the light spring air, flouting their parents and the Gods. Unless it was midsummer, nothing danced but the waves or fire. The Sky God and the Sea God punished the blasphemous friends, and they were turned to stone. It was they who stood, black and rigid—God stones now—on the highest part of Findnar. Would she join them today, another outcast who had offended the Gods?

A hardly voiced titter swelled behind Signy as she stumbled
from the Scriptorium, swallowed words breathed out in half-whispers. She heard a smothered laugh, and turning, Signy saw her brothers stare, hands over their mouths, yet their eyes were bright. They were enjoying her abject fall from favor.

Strength flowed back, and Signy raised her head, dropping the leather thong over it. The Christ with Bear’s face hung once more between her breasts. She was white as the limed walls, but fury kept her strong as she walked away.

CHAPTER 25

T
HE EVENING
had stretched and mellowed beside the fire in the big room. After dinner—fettuccine with leftover sausage, chili, garlic, and tomatoes, plus the last of the beer—Katherine retrieved a sheet of paper from the desk. “More translation,” she said. “Shall I read it?”

Freya poked the fire energetically. Staring into the flames, she nodded.

Katherine settled into Michael’s chair. She’d carried it from the kitchen into the big room.

Dan glanced from one blank face to the other. Where had the tension come from?

Katherine cleared her throat. “So, as before, I’ve arranged the statements according to the feast days the writer mentions. The Annunciation of the Virgin falls at the end of March, and this is what the writer says.

“ ‘My sisters are jealous. Except for Mother Gunnhilde, none speak to me now, even in the personal hour. I am lonely, but I assist with materials for the new manuscript that is being prepared, the Book of Revelation, or the Apocalypse, which tells of the end-times.’

“The next is about a month later. ‘Mark the Evangelist’; the entries become quite short now. ‘
I saw my friend in the field after Tierce. He was with the sheep. He waved, but I did not wave back. He looks so unhappy.’
”

Dan flashed a dry glance at Freya. “A nun, you say?” She shrugged uneasily.

Katherine looked over her glasses. “And this is the last for today,
only a few lines. St. Breaca; that falls at the beginning of June.
‘I showed my teacher the crucifix. I will be.’
The next word is obscured.
Punished,
perhaps?” Katherine hoped the word was
punished,
and not something worse. “It continues:
‘The Abbot has ordered it.’ “

Dan might have made a joke, but he did not.

“The vellum is damaged here, but then the text continues:
‘Why is this God so cruel?’”
In the uncertain light, Katherine’s eyes were dark. “I think there must have been a tragedy.”

Dan glanced at Freya. “And we’ll never know what happened.” She nodded absently, sipping the last of her beer. Dan said, lightly, “What did they do to naughty nuns in those days?”

Freya shivered. Katherine looked at her sharply. “Are you cold?”

Dan stood. “Take my chair. You’ll be warmer by the fire.”

Freya clamped both arms to her sides, but that did not stop the tremors. “I’m okay. Truly.”

Katherine paused, then said, “Time for bed, I think. I’ll leave you both to the fire.”

Freya forced a yawn. “I’d forgotten about digging muscles.” She got up, gathered plates and glasses. “Night, Dan. Hope you sleep better tonight.”

He half-rose. “I could give you a hand with the washing up.”

Freya hesitated.
Would it help to tell him?
But Dan was eyeing the couch. She twitched a smile. “No need. Won’t take a minute in the morning. Good night, and thanks for your help today—we accomplished a lot.”

Dan stretched. “Surprisingly, I enjoyed the digging, I really did. But after that I won’t move, trust me. Nice to sleep by the fire.”

Light seeped through the uncurtained window, and Freya woke with a start. Lying in the narrow bed, heart running like a stag, she listened to the voices in her head.

You hardly know this man or her. Katherine. Be careful—there’s
much of value on Findnar. She will know about the treasures; maybe he does too.

Why is he here, really? Just because you asked him? He wants something, something he’s not telling you. Another kind of time on Findnar? How stupid is that.
Hectoring, even vicious.

“But it’s true. Something’s going on here!” Why was she suddenly so frightened? She had thought it would be better with people in the house. Was it the numb anguish of the last diary entry? That hit like a hammer, still.

Freya swung her legs from under the duvet. Something moved behind her; she felt the air displaced. She whipped around. Nothing.
Breathe. Just breathe.

She fumbled for clothes in the half-dark. They were on the floor somewhere—she’d been too tired to put them on the chair last night and dropped them where she stood. T-shirt, jeans, hooded top. That was enough.

Monday had become a cold, gray day. Behind the controls of the cruiser as they crossed the strait, Freya could not think and, it seemed, could not feel, but she could sense it: darkness, coming closer, moving faster. And tonight she would be alone, with a whole week to wait before she had company on the island again.

The craft bumped over the bones of the waves. “Sorry!” Freya called over her shoulder.

Katherine and Dan were sitting together in the body of the little vessel, prey to the flying water.

Why hadn’t she talked to Dan about the girl she’d seen?
Concentrate.

Freya throttled the engine back, ready to motor past the breakwater. Soon they’d enter the harbor, and the waking world would claim them. Normal life. Hers had been normal once, too, only last week.

She nudged the cruiser toward the quay. This bit, at least, was easy.

“There you are.” Walter was waiting for them. “I was starting to worry.” He was overjovial.

“Catch the rope, Dad.”

With effort, Dan stood up to help Katherine. “Careful, it’s slippery.”

“I can manage, Dan. Thanks very much for inviting me, Freya.” The delivery was light as Katherine clambered from the boat. “I’ll let you know how I get on with the rest of the diary. Looking forward to next weekend already.” A friendly smile, and she strode away.

Dan tried not to look surprised.

Freya said, too quickly, “I was meaning to ask, but forgot. Would you like to come back, too, Dan? I can pick you both up same time, same place next Saturday. I’d really appreciate your help again.”

Dan nodded. “Fine,” he said, with no expression.

Walter looked from face to face. Freya, usually so vivid, seemed drained of life. Dan, of course, was much as he always was. Taciturn. No change there. He smothered a sigh.