Foxmask by Juliet Marillier Read Free Book Online Page A

Sam observed, rising to his feet. The cat, dislodged, fell bonelessly to the floor and strolled away unperturbed.
    â€œAll the same. They’d think this foolish, dangerous. They chose not to speak of my father all those years; they made a decision to forget him. It’s hardly likely they’ll want him brought to life now, when he’s so conveniently faded into the mists of memory.”
    â€œStill,” said Sam, “your mother did tell you.”
    Thorvald shivered. “So she did,” he agreed. “More fool her.”
    â€œA bit hard on her, aren’t you?”
    Thorvald did not reply, but later, while Sam slept as tranquilly as a babe, he lay awake pondering this, wondering if he had been entirely fair to Margaret. There was no doubt in his mind that she should have told him the truth earlier, not saved it for now, then expected him to absorb, understand and forgive as if this were a small, everyday matter. On the other hand, she’d been young back in those days, younger than he was now. And perhaps Somerled had not been what people said. Perhaps there’d been reasons for what he did, reasons nobody else understood. Maybe he’d been like Thorvald, an outsider, a man with few friends, a person too clever for his own good.
    Thorvald lay staring up at the roof thatch, listening to the purring of the cat as it kneaded the blankets behind Sam’s knees. The fisherman sighed, turning over. Thorvald considered the implications of his plan. There was no doubt he would hurt people he cared about, his mother and Creidhe especially. It was a long voyage, almost certainly longer than he had given Sam to believe, and there were no guarantees of safe landfall. Somerled might not bethere; might not ever have been there. He might have perished long since, somewhere out at sea alone in his little boat. When she learned what he had done, Margaret would be horrified. Creidhe would be hurt that he had not confided in her; she was accustomed to sharing his inmost fears, his frustrations, his schemes and plans. This he could not tell her. He must hope she would forgive when he returned. If he returned. One thing was certain. This was a journey he was bound to undertake: bound by his blood.

TWO
    Three tides on western shores
Whale harvest, blood tide
Night of voices, death tide
Isle of Clouds, fool’s tide
    M ONK’S MARGIN NOTE
    C reidhe’s weaving was almost finished, a soft blanket of finest wool, vivid red on deepest blue. The decorative borders with their pattern of foxes, owls and little trees had already been done on the strip-loom; Creidhe would sew the pieces together to produce a seamless effect. Margaret asked her what project she would start on next, but Creidhe could not answer. For some reason there didn’t seem to be a next, not right now. Perhaps she would go to the Northern Isles as her parents wanted, she told her aunt. It might not be a good time to embark on a new piece of work. And there was always the Journey, that very private embroidery which seemed to grow and grow and never quite be finished to her satisfaction.
    â€œDon’t worry about Thorvald,” Aunt Margaret told her bluntly one afternoon when the two of them were beginning to fasten off the warp threads, working side by side as late afternoon sun slanted in through the open doorway, touching the colored wool to fiery brightness. “He’ll come home when he’s ready. He told you what this is about, I suppose.”
    â€œSome of it,” Creidhe said awkwardly. It was difficult to approach such a subject, even though Aunt Margaret was a trusted friend. This was not just about secrets, it concerned murder and betrayal, and it was beyond imaginingthat neat, self-sufficient Margaret, a woman who displayed none of the signs of a passionate nature, had ever been embroiled in such high drama. “I know he’s unhappy,” Creidhe went on. “I’d like to help him, but . .