He led her in the direction of the forest. Seconds from the gate, a horse whinnied, and the staccato of hooves pounded the earth. Armoured riders bearing no colours had whipped their mounts into motion. Someone in the convent was a spy. Ufrid’s men had known exactly when to lay a trap for the queen’s bastard.
Herfod grimaced in disgust. Keth was going to have his head for refusing an escort. And if Keth didn’t take it off, then Vik would.
Peril notwithstanding, from brother, from friend, from foe, he grinned like a fool, grabbed the woman by the arm, and rushed her beneath the trees. A quarrel thudded into a trunk ahead of him. He shoved her in front.
“Run!”
She was running, but not nearly as fast as he would have her go. The thunder of hooves sounded just to his rear. Time to fight.
“Take the baby!”
She turned. Hands reaching, her eyes flashed upward. She screamed. He thrust the infant into her arms. A bolt thudded into his chest from the back. The wound never stopped him from attacking.
He whirled, his killing wands flashing out from his back sling. The closest attacker wielded a sword. Herfod took the horse down first. He darted at its head and smashed the skull in. The rider he killed with a blow to the temple as the man fell with the horse. The next attacker, the archer, shot an arrow at the woman. Herfod knocked the bolt aside. The archer gaped in amazement.
“I’m not giving you another chance to live!” Herfod warned the man. He eyed the third and fourth attackers who waited beyond.
“Shoot him again!” the fourth commanded.
Herfod smiled, the curl of his lips as sinister and hungry as any demon’s. He shifted his wands to one hand. With but a thought, he pulled blue fire into his empty palm and blasted the leader dead with the tossed orb. He killed the third as quickly.
By then the archer had decided to flee. He couldn’t kill a man with a quarrel already sticking in his heart from the back, a man who could knock arrows from the air, a man who could spin balls of death in his hands without a word to the gods to summon the holy fire.
To hells with the king and his secretive, dishonourable mission. The archer bolted after the two panicked riderless mounts that galloped far ahead of him.
“Tell that goat’s ass sucking Ufrid I send greetings!” Herfod shouted after him and then laughed viciously. Smirking, he faced about. With the babe in arms, the woman crouched on the ground and stared at him in terror.
“Are you afraid of me?” he said in surprise.
She nodded tearfully. He wiped off his killing wands, set them back in the sling, and crouched at a distance from her.
“I just saved you from certain death. Do you realize that?”
She nodded again. Her gaze flitted down to the point of the quarrel jutting out of his chest.
“I have a secret to tell you,” he said. “That baby you have, that’s the queen’s bastard.”
Her eyes widened.
“If you tell anyone, King Ufrid will discover him and kill him. All that stands between that boy and death is you.”
“Me?” she said.
“Yes, you. You’ll be the one who raises him, you know? I’ll see to it that that you stay on as his nanny after you’ve finished with the nursing. He needs a sturdy Ulmeniran nanny, that boy does. Omeran softness won’t do.”
Her eyes widened further. He had just promised her a secure future. She clutched the infant closer.
“Careful now. You’ll squeeze the breath out of him.”
She dared a hurried peek at the baby. His little nostrils flared in and out with the usual regularity. He had fallen asleep again, in the middle of a battle no less. Her gaze shot back to Herfod, accusative and miffed. He had frightened her for nothing.
He smiled. “You like him.”
“He’s a fine boy!” she said, a bit of spirit firing her up. “He’s going to be strong and … and … strong!”
Herfod’s grin widened. “You’ll do.” He rose. She flinched away. He shook his head at her instant cowardice. “I need your help.”
“Mine?” she said, uncertainty making her diffident.
“Yes. You see, if I go home with this bolt in my chest, I’m going to get into a lot of trouble.”
“Will you?” She gawped at the bolt. He should be dead. Yet he stood there without a sign of discomfort.
“Do you think you’re brave enough to get in back of me there and shove it further out?”
She considered it, and Herfod made an effort to be patient, but it appeared she might withdraw further, because she eyed his wound with patent awe.
“Please?” he begged.
She gaped at him. He was very handsome, bald true, but handsome nonetheless. Pleading, he was actually somewhat irresistible. Her courage returned. She nodded and rose to a stand. Her legs shook as she moved around him, but more from reaction to the brief skirmish than fear of him. To his rear, she stared at the bit of fletching jutting out the back of his habit. It was through him, an entire bolt, and he lived. He wasn’t breathing. She was certain he wasn’t breathing.
“Are you breathing?”
“Only to speak. Never mind about it. Shove the bolt through.”
“What about the feathers?”
“Oh, just shove it all in. It won’t make a difference, really.” And likely she’d only hurt him worse if she tried to break the shaft beforehand. He could do without the torment.
“Will it hurt?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t just now.” Much.
“Are the gods keeping you alive?”
He heard the swelling reverence in her voice. He rolled his eyes, lied and said yes, and asked her to get on with it. He grunted as the bolt jarred inside him.
“Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry! Are you dying now?”
He laughed despite the ache. “No. Just come over here and pull it out now.” He bent over as a wave of pain hit him. “Please hurry! This isn’t pleasant at all!”
Her thin skirts arrived at the fore, and he lifted himself upright. She stared uncertainly at him.
“Go on. Save me from my stupidity.”
Her lips jerked into a surprised smile. She flushed and wiped the mirth off, but he only smirked at her for her timidity, took up her hand and set it on the bolt tip. Her expression becoming grim, she pulled the arrow out as quickly as she could.
He landed on his knees when his heart burst into life again. The air, of which he’d only inhaled enough to speak, filled his lungs completely. The cold breath seemed to send fire to every cell of his body. His heart became a protesting hammer thudding on the anvil of his chest.
“Oh! Brother Herfod! Don’t die!” he heard the woman shout.
“Fine!” he squeaked. “Just fine!”
Gods! Marun had taken an arrow better than this. Not even the dagger had been this painful. Perhaps because he hadn’t kept it in so long? There was a thought. Never delay the necessary. Belated wisdom.
“Brother Herfod?” she called again.
“Getting better now,” he breathed. “Just you stop worrying.”
“Oh! Brother Herfod! You are so brave! A real martyr!”
He laughed in derision. “Yes. A martyr.” He rose to his unsteady feet. “Do you think you might do this cowardly martyr one more favour?”
“Cowardly?” she said in shock.
“Yes, you see, my brother won’t be very happy if he knows about this trouble we’ve just had, and well, my brother can be testy when I get into these little messes of mine.”
“Oh. I see.”
She didn’t at all, and he knew it. “Just promise you’ll never say a word about it,” he begged her.
“Of course, Brother Herfod. Never!”
He glared at her. “No! I mean it! Never a word! Not in gossip! Not to your best friend! To your confessor! Your future husband! Not even to the gods!”
She reddened. “Yes, Brother Herfod,” she said. “I promise for real.”
This time he believed her. He sucked in another
painful breath and offered his arms for the baby. She refused and tucked the child within his borrowed cloak.
“You said I was the nanny!” she reproved.
“Oh, fine, then. What with my heavy cloak on you and the baby weighing down your arms, you’ll be crawling to the monastery outside of a mile.”
“I will not! I’ll have you know, I am a sturdy woman!”
“Are you, now? You’re an awfully skinny, sturdy woman.”
“You said it yourself. They didn’t feed me enough, and I was starving before.” She flushed in sudden shame, remembering why she was in this predicament.
“Ah! Forget that!” he said, guessing the reason for her disconcerted expression. “New life. You’re a widow. Your husband fell sick one day and left you without the means to support yourself. Your baby died and you offered yourself as a wet nurse. Got it?”
She waggled her head eagerly. He nodded in satisfaction and began the march home.
“You’re not at all like they say,” she called forward.
“Well, don’t believe everything they say, then,” he advised dryly.
“They said you were a saint. I mean the sweet and meek kind.”
He shook his head in disgust. It seemed that once she lost her fear, she was a bit of a jabberer.
“You’re more of the fiery type of saint, I think. Like Saint Turamen, the Dragon Slayer.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” she affirmed. “And you’re perfectly handsome enough to be a saint.”
“Am I, now? Saint Turamen was more like your boy, there.”
“He was? Oh! Isn’t that wonderful! I should like to call him Turamen. Do you think his new family will let me?”
He said he would mention the name as a possibility. She caught up with him and beamed happily.
“You’re a very nice man. Frightening, but nice.”
He sighed and refused to acknowledge the mixed approval. Monks did not need approval.
But the five miles beneath the shaded forest to the Saint Turamen Monastery was travelled to a constant stream of it, Herfod’s quiet notwithstanding. The nanny didn’t need approval either, just someone to listen to her go on and on indefinitely. Herfod got an earful, but he bore up under the punishment like a true martyr, suffering in perfect silence.
***
They were ready, but Keth was missing. Brother Herfod searched the yard from on top of the wagon seat. He couldn’t see the man at all.
“What’s the delay?” Pola demanded. She stuck her head out from behind the canvas.
“Relax, woman,” he whispered. “The babe is sleeping. Enjoy the spare time.”
She scowled. “I want to get out of this yard. Then we can talk freely.”
“We? You mean you talk freely.”
“Oh, pish! You like listening. Why else do you keep your mouth shut?”
He couldn’t help grinning at that. She had a mouth on her and a sharp tongue to match. “I’ll hold my own in a talking contest, woman. Just you wait. I’ve only kept my tongue because I’ve had a vow to uphold until now.”
Vik turned on his mount and smirked. “You’re going to lose, Pooh-la,” he teased.
“Oh? We’ll see about that, Yik!” she said too loudly.
One of the elder monks wandering near the wagon shushed her. She ducked back beneath the canvas cover, but Herfod heard her grumbling behind it. Three days of good food and gentle treatment, and she was in fine fettle once more.
“Do you want to leave without him?” he asked his brother.
“Yes. Let’s,” Vik said complacently. Keth would catch up in any case. He wasn’t about to let either of them wander off to Omera alone.
Herfod grinned and snapped the reins. The carthorse trundled off. Keth chose that moment to dash down the main flight of the monastery in a very undignified manner, habit flying up as he leapt three steps at a time. Grinning, he caught up the reins of his horse and mounted.
“What took you so long?” Vik said as they trotted out of the yard.
“I had to dig something up. Literally,” he whispered back.
Keth had buried treasure? What treasure would he consider worth burying? The man was full of surprises, especially so for a monk. “What did you dig up?” Vik asked.
“Wait! We aren’t free and clear yet,” Keth hissed. His eyes danced with merriment beneath his sandy head.
Vik smiled faintly and guided his horse out of the gates. He was a patient man. Let Keth enjoy his secret a bit longer.
Brother Samel waited outside the gate. He smiled at Brother Herfod and lifted a hand in farewell. He wanted badly to go on this journey with the young man, but now was not the time. Elderly Abbot Anselm was about to be called from this life. A new abbot would be chosen. As one of the seniors of the monastery, it was Samel’s duty to remain behind. Younger monks made their journeys to learn their life lessons, as was only proper.
Herfod smiled back at Samel. They had already said their farewells. There had been no advice. Samel trusted that he would do whatever was necessary, whatever was right for a monk of Saint Turamen, wherever he might travel on his long journey.
He would be gone years. Samel knew it. He would miss him terribly. The monastery would miss him terribly, but he had to go. He needed to go. The young man was broken inside, and a cloistered life would not heal him. He required distraction, an immense amount of it. He needed gentle distraction, the kind that came of seeing the world, its peoples and its many wonders. He needed to live.
Herfod turned away. Samel felt his heart would burst with sadness, pride and love. Herfod!
“You are blessed,” he whispered.
Herfod didn’t hear him. He snapped the reins and the carthorse picked up its pace. Samel smiled and returned within, to the home where he would wait expectantly from each day onward.
Dozens of yards down the path from the sanctuary they left behind, Keth showed no sign that he wished to explain his delay, but the smug set of his face hinted he would reveal his secret if some begging occurred. Being an easygoing fellow, Vik obliged him.
“All right. Give. What did you have secreted away from the disapproving elders?”
Keth grinned mightily. “I’ll show you!” He lifted up in the saddle and reached beneath his habit, to pull out a small leather-bound book that he’d tucked in his braies.
“A book?” Vik cried. “Your buried treasure is a book?”
“Not just any book! Erotic poetry. The latest one published.”
Pola poked her head out of the canvas covers. “Erotic poetry? Read some, Keth!”
“Yes,” Herfod agreed. “Read some. It’ll keep her mouth shut.” Pola smacked him on the back. He just grinned impenitently.
Keth opened the thin volume and picked one of his favourite passages. “Mind you, it’s translated,” he warned, and then quoted some verse.
Traced the air with blade that was ice,
Eyes blind to the arc.
A body lost in the grace of the dance,
Mind afire with yearning;
Bound, the senses fixed on death’s edge,
The promise of release.
Keth looked up expectantly at his audience. Vik said not a word. Herfod was intensely silent.
“That’s not erotic!” Pola scoffed. “That’s about suffering.”
“Yes, but the man is suffering from love,” Keth asserted. “It’s exquisite verse.”
“It’s poetry about despair!”
“Despair is erotic!” Keth snapped.
“And are knife blades?” she challenged.
“Yes! Very erotic!” he affirmed.
Pola scrunched her nose in rejection. “It doesn’t even rhyme. It’s drivel.”
Keth reddened with outrage. “The poet is a genius!” he declared. “He changed the way poetry is done! He’s the greatest poet that ever lived!”
“And who is this great poet who wrote this rhymeless, not-so-erotic drivel?” she inquired.
Keth scowled and
opened his mouth to answer.
“Ihmelvik,” Vik pronounced before he did. Vik glanced at his brother. Their eyes locked. Both smiled.
“Oh! You’ve heard of him?” Keth said eagerly. “Have you read his works?”
“Yes.” Vik’s expression was impassive as he faced Keth again, but his lips twitched.
“And? What do you think of him?”
“I think that’s not his most erotic piece,” he said blandly. “Pola’s right. It’s about despair.”
“Oh, fine. I’ve read ones more frank,” Keth admitted. “But—”
“Who translated this poetry?” Pola interrupted. “The translator must be a complete idiot! He lost all the rhymes!”
Keth glared, but then caught sight of Brother Herfod’s grin as it widened in absolute delight. Keth almost detonated. “That’s not funny, Herfod!”
“Yes, it is,” Herfod contended.
“No, it is n—!”
“It is,” Pola said.
“Oh, you dense woman! There are no rhymes! Be quiet, Pooh-la! You have no sense of higher concepts.”
“Higher concepts! In erotic poetry? Get a sense of reality! Now, who was the translator?” she insisted.
Hissing, Keth jerked the book open to the first page. “Ihmelkef!” he said. He frowned. “That’s odd. Their names begin with the same two syllables.”
“Perhaps they’re related,” Vik suggested.
“Oh, yes. That could be it.” Keth stared at the translator’s name, frowning distractedly. “Ihmelkef. Ihmelvik. Strange names for Winfellans. They usually stick to one or two syllables, surname and given name. You’re Winfellan. What do you think, Vik?”
He looked up inquiringly, only to see Vik grinning. It looked as if the man might burst out laughing soon. His gaze shooting toward Brother Herfod, Keth once again noted the immensely amused expression on his face.
“What’s with both of you? You think my interest in poetry is silly?”
“Oh, no,” Herfod said immediately. “I think it’s just fine.”
“Then what are you grinning about?” Keth snapped.
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