by Kit Caine
The Hanged One
A Fate of Runes and Sorrow Novelette
Kit Caine
Black Dragon Gold Phoenix Publishing
Copyright © 2020 Kit Caine
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: The German Creative
This is for all those who could have been.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Books By This Author
About The Author
Chapter 1
Every morning Wolfric counted her lies, and every morning they tallied the same:
Seven strips of terry cloth,
One hanged girl,
And a stolen name.
With practiced hands, she wrapped the bindings around her chest that kept those lies from tumbling from her heart like a sinner in the confession box. She hissed, sucking a breath between gritted teeth. Pressure built behind her eyes—body protesting the constraints.
She hated this part.
Head tilted toward the ceiling, she blinked back tears. The world turned to glass as she wrapped and tucked tender flesh. Her eyes raked over oak, counting each beam as she reined her breathing.
One more strip and her secrets would lay flat beneath her robes. One more strip and she could bury the woman begging for a name. Maybe if tied tight enough, her lies might seep below the skin, merge with bone, and become truths. Wincing, she tied off the remaining piece of cloth, before studying her handiwork in the mirror.
Wolfric stared back at her with brown curls, shorn to the ear, and a soft jaw. Another year and her lies would all come undone.
Who would she be then? Best not to think too far ahead.
Her bare feet tapped a nervous rhythm on cold stone. The fire, near burnt to ash in the hearth, did nothing to abate the chill trickling in from the window. Winter’s breath crept along her back, leaving her skin pebbled with the promise of frost. She shrugged into brown robes, adjusting the fabric to hide the swell of budding hips.
“You are Wolfric,” she whispered her father’s words. “You are Wolfric.”
Bells echoed in the courtyard, signaling the call to lauds. She closed her eyes as the chimes sang through monastery walls. If concentrating hard enough, she could almost hear the syllables as the clapper struck the inner rim.
Im-O-Gen.
Im-O-Gen.
Im-O-Gen.
Her father had stolen those syllables from her tongue. That forbidden name. No longer her own. The permanent hollow under her ribs ached for the sound. But seven years had made her a liar swallowed in a monk’s habit, bearing a stolen name.
Pushing lies from her mind, she scurried from her small room, bible hooked under her arm.
Imogen had hanged for her crimes.
She was Wolfric now.
No matter how many times she whispered Wolfric, Imogen still clung to her skin tighter than terry cloth.
Chapter 2
“Don’t dawdle, boy.” Monk Genry waved Wolfric to his side with a pale hand.
Before the final bell tolled, she fell on bruised knees with beads slung between her fingers. Years of worry had smoothed the wooden marbles until they slid like silk between her palms.
Genry pierced her with a sideways glare. “Stop that fidgeting,” he snapped. His beady eyes trained on the front, where the Abbot led the monks in worship.
Head bent in supplication, Wolfric recited the prayers. They tumbled from her lips without sound or meaning. Over the years, she had learned to fake devotion. It was either that or face the Abbot’s cane.
She added that to her list of lies.
She traced the grooves with her eyes. Her hands had worn small divots in the stones. Every day she spent hours on her knees, praising a god who never answered.
“Heavenly Father, we bask in your grace and ask for your blessings to cover this house. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,” the Abbot’s voice echoed off high walls.
Repeating the words, Wolfric crossed herself with cold fingers. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” Breath-turned-vapor wreathed her face.
From the corner of one eye, she scanned tall windows that stretched toward the ceiling. Frost bloomed in icy buds on the stained glass panels. Beams arched and crossed in intricate patterns along the ceiling.
Mary glared down at her from one of the high panels, undressing her secrets. She snapped her attention back to the beads. No amount of holy water could cleanse her of these sins.
After the lauds were received the Abbot dismissed them for daily duties. Wolfric lifted herself on wooden knees, joints popping as she stood.
“And just where do you think you’re scurrying off to?” Genry side-stepped into view.
Heart sinking to her feet, she mumbled, “Nowhere. of course.”
“You have training.” He looked down his pointed nose, disappointment etched in his wrinkled face. “How are you to be the Lord’s sword if you don’t apply yourself?” His jowls shook as he tisked. “Ceadda is your age mate and he has already surpassed you in both swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat. I would skip your scripture studies this morning and earn your sweat on the training field.”
No matter how much she practiced she would never be half the fighter Ceadda was. A natural swordsman, he had bested her in their sparring matches since they were children. She preferred the quiet sanctuary of the study rooms to the clang of steel in combat. But she bit her tongue. “Of course. But yesterday the Abbot instructed me to transcribe several molding scrolls in the archives. I will train as soon as I have finished that task.” Another lie to garnish her list.
“Then get to it.”
She dipped her head and limped toward the private study.
Chapter 3
Before Wolfric pushed at the doors to the private study, hushed voices gave her pause. Hand hovering over the handle, she pressed her eye toward the crack between the door and frame.
Her face scrunched as she struggled to make sense of the sounds emitting from the other side.
“What are we going to do with it?” Brother Mark whispered. “Jorgensen has written that they were seen!” He waved a crumpled piece of paper into another brother’s face. “The whole operation is compromised.”
Abbot Phillips stood, clearing his throat. “Even if they were seen, we still have our orders. Once Jorgensen and the boy return, we will decide what can be done from there. Besides,” he paused, picking up a pipe and lighting it with a candle. “The Northmen don’t travel this far south in the winter. We have at least until the season is over before they make a move. And we will have dealt with this…issue by then.” He inhaled a deep breath and exhaled smoke.
The foul stuff spread through the room and floated into her nostrils. She covered her mouth to stifle the cough tugging at her lungs.
Ceadda had gone on pilgrimage with Jorgensen. What trouble could they have possibly gotten into? She inched forward, ears straining with the effort.
“Did you not read the letter? You’re a fool to think that Jorgensen would lie about something like this. If you ignore it then you are signing our death warrants.”
The Abbot turned
his back to Brother Mark, swallowing a deep breath. “There is no such thing. Jorgensen is known for his eccentricities. This is nothing more than a gross exaggeration.”
Mark stepped forward, the little she could see of his face red and shaking. “You damned old man,” he said. “If you think our god is the only one then you haven’t been paying attention.” Spittle flew from his too thin lips and landed on the Abbot’s expensive robe. “There’s magic in this world and the Northmen have it. And they will bring a bloody hellfire on this house if we let those two return with the stone.” His chest heaved under the heavy robes.
Magic? Like fairies and little men tucked under bridges? Brow knotted, she dared to inch closer. Her mind twirled with thoughts of raiders and magic—of lies bigger than her own.
“Lower your voice,” the other brother hissed. “If you’re so worried about our lives, how about you try utilizing caution for once.”
“Damn you all.”
Before Wolfric realized what was happening, Mark swung the door open.
Sweet mother of God. She blinked, willing herself anywhere but there. Why didn’t the earth open and swallow her down its gullet? Eavesdropping was a dirty act that she didn’t usually indulge in...usually.
Her mouth opened, a dozen apologies springing on her tongue, but the words didn’t form sound.
Mark pushed passed her in a flurry of dark robes, face twisted in disgust. “You’re worried about someone hearing us when this entire monastery is in jeopardy,” he spat over his shoulder.
The thunder of hoofbeats clapping against stone rang from the courtyard. Mark’s face creased with a snarl. “It’s already too late.” He threw his hood over his bald head. “Consider this my notice of transfer. I won’t stay here a moment longer.” Brother Mark swept down the hall in the opposite direction of the courtyard.
The Abbot ambled out of the small study, his eyes locked on her, dripping with malice.
Wolfric shivered, the sting of his cane still lingering on her skin. She retreated several steps, but she couldn’t escape.
“Some men don’t know how to bend,” he said without looking at her. “But they break…in time.”
She didn’t know if the words were for her or Mark, but the low rumble of his voice made her tense, ready for the lashing coming her way.
“It’s sinful to spy on your betters.” He gripped the gilded handle on his walking stick, pipe bobbing between his teeth. “You are to report to my office this evening for your penance.”
Her heart sank to her gut, the world pressing down on her skull. She couldn’t take another beating. The last nearly killed her. She bit the inside of her cheek to staunch the scream building in her throat.
“Go, before I change my mind and have you strung up.” The Abbot shooed her as if she was of little consequence.
She turned on wooden legs, tears stinging her eyes and prayed without hope that Ceadda had returned. She needed her playful confidante. Without him these walls were empty. Her legs pumped faster toward the sound of hoofbeats.
Chapter 4
Wolfric stood ankle deep in slush as her eyes followed the turn of wheels crunching through snow.
Was it really Ceadda? Had he finally returned?
A team of four horses galloped up the lane. Each pounding of their hooves set her heart racing. She glanced down at her foot tapping a nervous rhythm and forced it to stop with a swift fist to the thigh.
Months had crossed over into a year since the last time she set eyes on him. The prospect of his return so soon from pilgrimage set her mind racing.
Soft snow sprayed her robes as the carriage slowed. Her heart did a little flip, a nervous bend curving her lips. These months without him had made her realize just how much she missed their banter. No matter how much they fought, he meant the world to her.
An icy breeze stole her breath. Even this late in the season, she could taste salt sweeping in from the coast. They had spent hours on those beaches during early winter months when the threat of raids had passed. It was too cold now to tiptoe through those sands, but they would find other pastimes to occupy the hours that should be spent studying.
Wood doors swung open with the cry of protesting hinges. A man’s long frame unfolded from the rickety carriage followed by Monk Jorgensen.
Wolfric peeked around the tall stranger, searching for a bald head and slim build. He wasn't there. Had something happened to him on the pilgrimage?
Her eyes flitted over the monks congregated around the carriage; all smiling faces and excitement. Chest tight, she searched the swelling crowd. Her heart slowed, each pump rang like church bells in her skull.
Where was Ceadda?
A pair of large booted feet crept into view. She looked up at the person attached to them. Long legs, broad shoulders and hooded. Retreating a few cautious steps, she put some much needed space between herself and the stranger.
"What? You don't recognize me?" the stranger’s voice was rich, filled with deep laughter.
Why would she recognize him? A gale swept through the courtyard, and his hood fell away. The world faded to white and, for the first time in fifteen months, she stared into amethyst eyes.
Her breath caught, the words on her tongue turned to frost sprites on the breeze. "Ceadda?" It couldn't be. This was a fully grown man, and the Ceadda had left all those months ago, was a boy—and bald.
But those eyes.
It was him.
"It took you long enough." His features twisted in that familiar roguish smile; like he knew the secrets she tried to keep hidden in the deepest part of herself. "I thought I might have to wrestle you down for you to recognize me."
When her mind finally slowed enough to form thought, she wrapped her robes closer around herself. Ceadda coming back like this--a man--shined light on her mountain of lies. Her lack of growth and the stubborn baby fat still clung to her in all the places it had melted from him.
She wet her lips with a sandpaper tongue and tucked brown curls behind her ear. "Sorry--I hadn't expected--I mean I didn't think you would change so much."
He flashed white teeth in a smile that made the world tilt on its axis. A lock of dark hair fell into his face and Wolfric’s heart caught in her chest. Just for a second, she could have sworn it stopped. Despite the cold, her body prickled with heat.
What in God's name was wrong with her?
"You’re still the same. Short as a donkey.” He poked her arm with a finger, digging into her soft flesh. "Haven't you been training?" Before she could scurry away, he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and tucked her into the crook of his elbow. She squirmed as his warmth seeped through the fabric of her robes and down to bone.
She knew what he was after before he made his move. "Don't you dare," she hissed, raising her hands in defense of the inevitable.
His knuckled-fist dug into her scalp, peals of teasing laughter rumbling in his chest.
This was different. He was different. His body. His voice. His playful touch. All of it set her blood ablaze and she needed to get away from him before all her precious lies came undone.
"Get off!" she shouted with as much bass as her distinctively feminine voice could muster. "We aren't kids anymore. For once in your life, can't you act like someone befitting your station?"
His arm dropped from her shoulders, that glow in his eyes replaced by something cold and unfamiliar. Her words hung in the air between them, the weight of them growing with each rapid beat of her heart.
"I guess you have changed." It was just a few simple words but they choked her like a noose.
He lifted his hood back over the dark waves falling down his back, and pushed passed her toward the monastery.
She ran in the opposite direction. Her heart didn't stop racing until she made it back to her room and slammed the door behind her. Her lies all surged to the forefront, and Ceadda’s presence only made them that much more obvious.
Her time here had come to an end, her secrets slowly unraveling.
Chapter 5
Wolfric avoided Ceadda and the other monks for the remainder of the morning and into the night. She stuck close to the walls, drifting between shadows when she had to venture out of her...their room. It was only God's blessing that kept Ceadda away.
She needed a plan. One that would help her escape the monastery--and her father. It did seem hopeless of course. Even if she successfully fled, her father would send his men to drag her right back. The scars from her last attempt still branded her skin.
Wolfric tipped her hood over her head and crept along the stone walls. A heavy sack hung over one shoulder with the meager supplies she’d managed to gather throughout the day. She needed food, clothes, and most of all, a weapon. The monastery grounds sprawled across hundreds of acres. That meant she needed to collect these items tonight, and as quickly as possible. If anyone caught her creeping around with a sack full of stolen goods, even the heavenly father wouldn’t forgive her this time. She tugged the hood further down her face, and lengthened her stride. This was her only chance; while the monks were occupied with the Christmas festivities, and supplicated with wine and food.
"Going somewhere?"
Her stomach froze at the familiar voice. Straightening, she turned to see Ceadda's smirking face.
"Of course not. I was just--" her mind blanked. For a person who built her life on lies, she should be better at this. "Just throwing out some old things."
Ceadda's head fell back, throat bobbing with his chuckle. "We’re monks. Our entire existence is built on minimalism." He leaned in, face inches from hers.
