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he did not deserve friends, most certainly not loyal ones like Creidhe, who could always be relied upon to listen and wait by him even when his dark mood made him snap and snarl like a feral cur. Creidhe would be better off staying right away from him. Who knew when this bad blood would surface? It was not safe for any man to befriend him, nor any woman, least of all a guileless girl like Creidhe with her cozy domestic pursuits. She was a child, and knew nothing of the world. She was innocent of such destructive forces as those he bore hidden inside him. From now on nobody would be safe. Unless . . . unless, against all evidence, what they told of Somerled was somehow wrong. If the tale had been twisted and changed, as is the pattern of stories over so many years, if that were so then maybe there was a glimmer of hope. If his mother said Somerled had killed Ulf, that fact must stand. But perhaps there was a reason for it, a justification. Why had Somerled acted as he did? And what had become of the man? He’d been cast out to sea from the west coast, near the Whaleback. Trackless ocean was all that lay before him then, until he reached the rim of the world. What a punishment that was, a penalty grand and terrible enough to belong to an ancient saga, like a burden imposed by a vengeful god or thwarted monarch. That it was Eyvind who had determined it was unbelievable. Creidhe’s father was widely respected in the islands, not just as husband of a royal princess of the Folk, but also as a mainstay of the group of landholders who assembled twice yearly at the Thing to maintain order and administer justice. Eyvind was known as scrupulously honest and absolutely fair, a model of strength and honor. But he was most certainly not a man of devious imagination or cunning irony. To devise such a method of exile seemed to Thorvald quite out of character. Maybe there were parts of the story Margaret hadn’t told him.
    Asking Eyvind was just not possible. Pride forbade it. He couldn’t talk tohis mother. The thought of what she had done disgusted him. If she had such a model husband as Ulf, why lie with some misfit wretch of a brother-killer? And how could she not tell her own son, all these years? It was this that hurt Thorvald most. Up till now, when he was angry or upset, he had relied on Margaret’s grave advice, her calm words to soothe him. When he could see his mother was lonely or out of sorts he had done his best to divert her with a game or a walk or a tale of what he’d been doing. It had been thus ever since he could remember: mostly just the two of them, unless you counted Ash hovering silently somewhere in the background. Why his mother kept Ash, Thorvald couldn’t comprehend. It was quite clear to him the fellow wanted a bit more than the relationship of trusted servant to mistress of the household, and that Margaret was not in the least interested. A man who would hang around like a stray dog for years and years, waiting for table scraps that never came his way, seemed to Thorvald a lost cause. But silent, poker-faced Ash stayed while other servants came and went. All the same, they were a small family of two, Thorvald and Margaret, neither much given to open displays of affection, yet trusting and depending on each other. Until now. That closeness was destroyed forever now. She might as well have thrust a blade through his heart, Thorvald thought, kicking savagely at a stone that lay on the track in his way. She might as well have cast him out like his father, away from the paths of right-thinking men and women, so he could be conveniently forgotten. How could he ever forgive her for this?
    It was late afternoon when he came down the hill past the small settlement at Stensakir, where smoke from cottage fires was whipped sideways by the wind, and the heather thatch shivered, straining at its bindings. Thorvald could see the
Sea Dove
making a steady course back to shore, the red-striped sail taut