Foxmask by Juliet Marillier Read Free Book Online Page B

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    â€œA man can’t be helped if he doesn’t want it,” Margaret said. “You’d be best to leave him alone, Creidhe. Thorvald has to work this out for himself. Your father’s right, a trip away would be good for you.”
    Creidhe said nothing. Margaret might think Thorvald was off brooding somewhere and would come home when he’d forgiven her. Creidhe knew better. Thorvald was away visiting Sam again. Sometimes it seemed to Creidhe that Thorvald thought she was stupid, just as he thought the pastimes she loved so much—weaving, sewing, cooking—were women’s pursuits requiring little in the way of cleverness. She knew she was not stupid. She could tell Thorvald was planning an expedition. He was going to find his father, and Sam would be traveling with him; it took two men to sail the
Sea Dove
. If Margaret had not worked that out, she knew her son less well than she imagined.
    This was going to be a challenge. It might be quite a long way, and Creidhe had never enjoyed the motion of a boat, not even the small faering they used to take out when they were children. But one thing was certain. For all his eighteen years, Thorvald was not very grown up at all, and had no idea how to look after himself. And whatever anyone might say about him, he was deserving of her help, of her love. People looked at Thorvald and saw only the bad side, the gloomy moods, the sudden anger, the silences. Creidhe knew him better. He had been her friend as long as she could remember. He had been there the day Kinart died, a terrible, long-ago day when her parents were too shattered by shock and grief to take heed of their little daughter. Creidhe had stood quietly in the shadows, watching as the cold, pale form of her brother was laid out on the table to be washed and dried, and prayed over and cried over. Margaret had come, and Thorvald with her, himself still a small child. It was Thorvald who had settled by Creidhe’s side, wiped away her tears, warmed her hands in his. It was he who had kept away the terror of the unknown that day when her whole world went awry.
    And later there were many more times, times when she had been sad or upset and he had heard her catalog of woes in accepting silence, and told her it would be all right. Times when he had got her out of trouble. She could remember a trip out on the lake in a forbidden boat, a capsize, and an embarrassing rescue. If not for Thorvald that day, she might herself have drowned. If not for his help, she’d most certainly have had to go home in wet clothes and confess her stupidity to her parents.
    Then there was the reading and writing, something Creidhe had always found immensely difficult. She’d struggled with Margaret’s lessons, for her attention kept straying to the things she’d rather be doing: baking, embroidery or just being out of doors in the fresh air. Thorvald had helped her then, adding his own unofficial tuition to Margaret’s formal sessions. He’d sit with Creidhe down by the western dike and watch gravely as she made the letters in the earth with a pointed stick. He never got cross when he was teaching her. It was her own fault that she hadn’t been able to learn.
    There was no doubt in Creidhe’s mind that that patient teacher, that kindly child represented the real Thorvald, the essence of the man he would become. Other folk might see him as arrogant, unfeeling, even cruel. There was no doubt he could be all of these. His true face, Creidhe thought, he showed only to those he trusted, and there were precious few of them.
    All the same, right now he was still unpredictable and moody, and still prone to sudden, illogical decisions. He must not undertake such a grand adventure without her by his side.
    Once she had decided this, there were plans to be made. There was no way Thorvald and Sam would agree to take her with them, so she’d have to stow away. That meant finding out when they