Brothers of the Wild North Sea

by Harper Fox

  Cai drew a shuddery breath. It was all very well to agree on a celibate life not five minutes after satiation. Keeping the resolve would be much harder, he could see. His shaft had risen at the thought of Leof’s pale, lithe body in the water with him. Leaning his shoulders on the shell-encrusted rock, he allowed his spine to stretch, his hips to float. His palm ached to explore his aroused flesh, and briefly he reached down, stroking, lifting the warm, compact weight of his balls. An idea flitted through his mind that maybe his own touch didn’t count.

  He groaned aloud at his own weakness. Of course it did. What chance did he stand of purging his earthly desires, if he couldn’t keep his hands off himself? Cursing his father for bequeathing him not only a large, restless cock but a need to use it often and hard, Cai scrambled out of the water. The cracked church bell was ringing again, this time to announce Theo’s feast.

  Perhaps he’d moved too fast. Perhaps—although he did his best to discourage such beliefs—the fear of the naïve younger monks was true, and undischarged seed could rush up into the brain and wreak havoc there. The sunlight around him darkened to black, with fringes and tassels of scarlet. The Vikings are coming… He dropped to his hands and knees, lowering his brow onto the stone.

  The fit lasted only a few seconds. The sunlight returned. Trembling, he sat up and looked around him at the brilliant day, the rich spring light only now beginning to take on a russet flush in the west. High on the crag above him, Demetrios and Wilfrid were making their way home, to all appearances the best friends in the world, the goats trotting peacefully in front of them. Wilf was even carrying the Greek’s basket of leaves. Cai was only hungry, tired from travel. All was well.

  Chapter Two

  For the brethren of Fara, a feast was a modest affair. Theo, knowing that fields had to be tended and goats fed no matter how many chapters of his book had been finished, allotted his guests one good tankard each of mead and rolled out a small vat of heather ale to be shared around. A sheep had been killed, and Caius finished bottling up his remedy for sore heads, then followed the scent of roasting mutton down to the refectory.

  The sight he found there pleased him. He took his place quietly between Brothers Leof and Benedict, and accepted his mead from the abbot’s own hand. This was very different from his father’s idea of a celebration. By now a drunken, coerced girl would have been dancing on the table. With not enough women to go round between Broc’s friends, Cai would have found himself fighting off the sweaty attentions of a warlord before the main course had been served.

  Life wasn’t perfect here at Fara. Men squabbled, petty grudges were borne. Around him at the long wooden table Cai found every type of human face, from Leof’s ethereal beauty to the lumpen grin of poor Brother Eyulf, a halfwit rescued by Theo to work in the kitchens, who closely resembled the turnips of his trade. But they all turned to Theo, as he stood to give them grace, and Cai could see nothing but goodwill, as if by common consent each one of them had left the unworthy parts of himself behind for now, and come with warm fraternal hearts to join the feast.

  Theo led the ancient Latin grace with a careful sincerity that made the words new. Then he blessed each one of the thirty men gathered, thanking them briefly for their work—the shepherd and the weaver, the doctor and the cook. He nodded to Brother Michael, who struck up a north-shores ballad on his smallpipes—music during dinner being the rarest of treats—and signaled for the meal to begin.

  Caius took an early leave. His long day’s walk was catching up with him, and he needed to put distance between himself and Leof, partly for his own sake and partly because Leof, after half a cup of heather ale, was losing his convictions. Cai could see it in the lambent softening of his blue eyes, perceive it in the lingering press of his elbow when he passed the bread. Although on a night like this Cai would gladly have led him out to the moonlit slopes beyond the farmland, he didn’t want to be the means of his undoing.

  He paused for a moment on his way out of the refectory. A story came into his mind—one of the many Theo had told him, of a sparrow that flew into a king’s feasting hall through one window and just as swiftly vanished into darkness on the other side. Even so, man appears on earth for a little while, but of what went before this life or what follows, we know nothing.

  He shivered. He knew that life was short. That it could be bloody, and grasped in dirty hands until it spilled out its juices and died, he had learned from his father too well. Cai didn’t know how he would succeed in his efforts to renounce it, but he could only try, and certainly he could step out of the way of Leof’s much more promising struggle. He could see Leof as an abbot himself one day, pure-minded and serene, counselling novice monks of his own. Now he was chattering to Eyulf, who adored him with the mute passion of a hound. Quickly, before Leof could glance up and see him go, Cai slipped away.

  The night was calm and still. The shadows in the courtyard were deep, but Cai’s feet knew each dip of the well-worn flagstones, and he made his way easily past the well and up the mossy outer stairs that led to the dormitory chambers. He was relieved to have his own cell to lie down in tonight. He’d spent his novitiate year in the communal chamber with only five other brethren, and hadn’t exactly been cramped, but tonight he meant to say his prayers as taught and stretch out in solitude, receptive to the voice of God. Cai thought he could give his life away, devote himself body and soul, if he were quite sure he had heard it for himself. Just once, he asked silently, letting himself into his cell and pushing the heavy oak door shut behind him.

  The dormitory building was perched on the very edge of Fara rock, and Cai’s unglazed cell commanded a view out over the moon-silvered bay and far beyond it, right to the glittering horizon. He opened the shutters, leaned his elbows on the sill. Just once, God—and the great crescent moon seemed to roll on her back among the clouds and offer herself languorously up to him.

  He sighed and turned away. He got undressed quickly, as he’d been taught, paying his nakedness no attention. He lay down flat, placing his hands at his sides. No, wait—he was meant to fold them on his chest, wasn’t he? Theo’s instructions hadn’t been very precise, and Cai had suspected the abbot didn’t care much how his novices slept, as long as they did so contentedly and awoke refreshed. Clasped on his breast, Cai’s hands were at least out of mischief, and he drew and released a deep, calming breath and closed his eyes.

  He just wasn’t destined to have this made easy tonight. Even the dried bedstraw herbs in his thin sleeping mat smelled wonderful, heady and sweet. No sooner had he dismissed the scent from his mind when the door of the cell next to his creaked and banged hard against the wall. That meant Benedict, who despite his bulk moved quietly, was drunk. And if he was drunk, caution would be thrown to the winds, his beloved Oslaf clutched tight in his huge farmer’s hands and half-carried into his cell.

  Cai rolled over. Monks had no pillows, so he pressed his hands to his ears. The cells ought to be soundproof and normally were, their great doors once closed, but Benedict had left his shutters open to the warm spring air, and Oslaf’s first laughter-cracked groan carried effortlessly through. Images leapt into Cai’s head. It would be so good, to be thumped down onto a bunk tonight and ploughed under by a nice warm weight like Ben’s. For the life of him, Cai couldn’t see what was wrong with it. Well, Leof had never said that it was wrong—just distracting.

  Oh, God. It was very distracting. Oslaf began to moan, quietly but in explicit rhythm. The wooden frame of the bunk cracked off the wall, and there was a short-lived scuffle. Then a cry from Ben made Cai’s skin prickle tightly all over in response—the sharp joy of penetration, desire finding target in flesh. Not something he and Leof had ever done. Cai had feared to hurt him, and Leof had shown such confusion when Cai had offered himself in that way.

  At least his two neighbours weren’t going to torture him for long. The thuds and grunts had accelerated. Then there was a silence that was somehow worse, and a long whooshing groan of utter satisfaction fro
m Ben.

  Cai gritted his teeth. He was erect again, much worse than when he’d been down in the pools. Heat like summer lightning flickered all over the surface of his skin. He took hold of the edge of the thin mattress ticking and buried his face in it until the lack of air became more urgent than the ache in his cock. Eventually the miles of road he had covered that day, the hills and tracks and wild moors, came to his rescue, and he fell into a restless, haunted sleep.

  He had a strange dream. In it, a wolf came from the sea. Cai, standing on the moonlit beach, felt no fear. He’d met wolves before, during long winter journeys through the forest, and he knew that none would come near Fara at this time of year, and never from the sea. Therefore he must be dreaming. He let himself enjoy the creature’s beauty as it bounded from the waves.

  It stood still, shook off its fur and became a man. Disbelief held Cai in place. When finally he turned and began to run, it was too late—his feet tangled in seaweed, and the creature caught him easily, knocking him flat. Hot breath brushed his ear. Wolf’s teeth sank into his shoulder, but there was no pain. The weight that pinned him was all human. A human arm locked round his chest. A strength like nothing he’d ever felt before restrained him, and he shuddered in terror and pleasure. Rough words resounded in his head, a language he didn’t understand, but he knew what he was being told to do and did it, spreading his thighs, lifting his backside to his captor’s thrust. He waited to be torn apart.

  No pain. A living heat drove up into his core. The creature—the human, the wolf—said his name, and the tenderness of it, the deep vibration, sent a melting rush into Cai’s very bones. He pushed up in longing, and there was no pain, only an overwhelming feeling of being owned, claimed, brought home. Thrust after thrust…

  He awoke coming. His fists were clenched on the bunk’s wooden frame, his body soaked in sweat. Rigid, he rode out his shaft’s helpless spending, sweeter and more dreadful than he could bear. It broke him to tears. He lay sobbing, eyes squeezed shut.

  He could hear bells. Disconnected thoughts flicked through his head. He would never know the voice of God, not if it depended on chastity. He’d better get the mattress ticking off, rinse it under the pump. Perhaps he should just leave Fara. A wolf from the sea…

  A bell, stirring gently on the inshore breeze now tugging at the wooden shutters. Wiping his eyes, Cai struggled out of bed. He went to lean on the windowsill, momentarily dizzy and weak. To climax so hard on his own like that—ah, he was hopeless, the very idea of losing Leof’s sweet services enough to drive him wild. From here he could see the church, its reed-thatched roof shining eerily under the moon. The bell in its small, squat tower was ringing passively. An inshore wind—Cai didn’t like those, in or out of raiding season. No northern coast dweller did. From instinct and habit, he looked out to sea.

  There was a sail on the horizon. A great square sail, pregnant with that breeze. In front of it—impossibly clear to him just for an instant—rode a dragon’s head.

  They would continue by. They were out of season. Even Theo had agreed on that, the wisest man Cai knew. Fara held nothing for them, not so much as a woman, a jewelled altar cross or a chalice of gold. Cai’s heart ached for the villages further north, and for the hundredth time he wished monastic life would stretch to a fast-paced horse such as his father kept. He would fling himself onto it and ride, ride faster than any damn Viking could sail to give warning to…

  The clouds shifted. The sea at the foot of the cliffs was suddenly revealed. Cai shrank back from the window, a choked cry dying in his throat. It wasn’t the sail on the horizon he needed to fear. It was the great dragon-prowed longship that had come in vulpine silence to the very shores of Fara. She was moored, rocking. Her crew was no longer aboard. That meant they were somewhere between the rocks and the meadows at the edge of the cliff.

  And that meant in turn that Cai had a minute. No horse, no real hope—just bare feet and a dead run. He seized his cassock and dived into it, pulling it hard over his head. He wouldn’t have spared the instant for that, except that he could fight better dressed than naked, hide up his sleeve any weapon he could find. Harsh laughter burned in his chest—a weapon? He’d be lucky to find a big enough chunk of rock in this sheepfold, this beautiful, soft-bellied refuge for peace-loving men.

  A rock would have to do. Cai shot into the passageway and began to pound on Benedict’s door. Only a horrified silence answered him, and Cai knew what that meant. Two naked lovers jolting upright in bed, paralysed like fox cubs in a den. “Ben! It’s me, Cai. Vikings!”

  Another silence, probably of disbelief this time. Cai banged his fists off the woodwork again, and Benedict pulled the door open, his face sleepy and colourless with fright. Behind him, Oslaf was scrambling upright, shielding himself with a discarded cassock. “Vikings? Cai, it’s too—”

  “I know it’s too damned early! Just wake up the others. And send Oslaf to get Theo. Now!”

  Cai tore off down the stairs. Moss slithered under his bare soles, but he was faster like this than in his cumbersome sandals. The air hit his lungs, full of nighttime sweetness. Had he really just seen a longship still rocking from the exit of her crew? The dream of the wolf-man had felt more real. Rounding the corner of the main hall, he saw that the refectory was empty, all his brethren gone to their rest.

  The church was made of wood frame, wattle and daub. Only the tower at the end was built of stone, to support the bell. Twenty yards of turf divided the church from the hall, a patch of ground Cai flew across without looking back. There was no point. He’d heard the first shouts, and the air he was hauling into his lungs was no longer pure but tainted by acrid smoke. Cai felt a flash of love for the drab little building hunched beneath its thatch, an affection he’d never known on freezing mornings, shivering his way through dawn prayers. He ran through the nave, his shadow leaping round him as the flame from the sanctuary candle danced, grabbed hold of the bell rope and began to pull with all his strength.

  The bell rang out into the night. Its voice seemed weak over the roar of Cai’s blood in his ears, a whisper when he wanted it to scream. He counted off the tolls. One dozen, two. He wouldn’t be allowed much longer. Something thudded onto the roof, like the landing of a heavy bird, the sound followed instantly by several more. The door flew open. Cai tensed to run, but he wasn’t worth the confrontation. The soft thumps he’d heard overhead had been firebrands, and the figure in the doorway only paused long enough to toss another inside, this one landing almost at Cai’s feet.

  The thatch was dry as dust after a rainless spring. The brands on the roof burned straight through. The timber rafters caught alight, one beam crashing down to cut off Cai’s route to the door. Dropping the bell rope, Cai leapt out of range of the sparks. The tower had one window, little more than a hole in the wall to let in light. It would have to do. He jumped, grabbing at the sill, got his head and shoulders through and tumbled out onto the turf.

  Straight into the path of his first Viking. Cai had a moment to be glad he’d drawn a short one, and startled him by his sudden appearance. He got an impression of animal skins—of a twisted, grinning face beneath a cap-like helmet—hair in a great, thick braid, and then the firelit flash of an axe. He twisted aside, and the blade which would have split his skull in two bounced off the tower wall instead, flying from its owner’s grasp.

  Cai forgot he was a monk. He grabbed the Viking’s plait, whipped him around and smashed his face into the stonework. He didn’t stop to look at the result—let the limp body fall and snatched up the axe.

  He was his father’s son. Broc had been pleased with his prowess. It was part of the old man’s rage upon Cai’s defection—to lose a warrior child. But Cai hadn’t cared about his father’s fights, had gone in swinging at his side only from habit and lack of choice. He cared now. He began to run. “Leof! Leof!”

  Predictably, Theo and Leof were defending the scriptorium. Cai cannoned into the blazing room, whose parchments and vellums were already burni
ng, the desks knocked to the ground. Leof was grabbing armfuls of books off the shelves, clutching them like children to his chest. A huge shape emerged from the flames, rumbling with laughter, and seized him by the hair. Leof howled but hung on to the books, and Cai solved the problem for him—this one—with a well-aimed slice of the axe, catching the vast raider just at the base of the skull, the gap between his helmet and tough leather jerkin.

  “Leof,” Cai gasped. “Get out of here, beloved. Just run.”

  “I can’t! I must help Theo!”

  “I’ll help him. Run!”

  Too late. Three more raiders poured into the red-black chaos. Cai didn’t take a moment to think—launched himself at them, blood like fire in his veins.

  He didn’t stand a chance. He hacked and grabbed, gouged and bit like the beast he was beneath his robes, but the flat of a blade slapped his face and he went down. Through a roaring wind he heard Theo, who was yelling back in Latin at grunted demands from the Viking holding him at sword point. Cai didn’t understand. His darkening mind tried to grasp at the words, forge from them a chain of sense to pull him back to the surface.

  Stop this! Stop it. There’s no secret here, no treasure. We have nothing! Stop!

  Theo fell silent. Cai struggled over onto his back, and Leof dropped down beside him—limp, discarded, a wheat sheaf tossed on the threshing-room floor. One side of his beautiful face was nothing but blood.

  Cai surged to his feet. He locked his arm around the nearest Viking’s neck—braced and pulled as Broc had taught him. A terrible, glorious crack of bone rewarded him. His victim fell. Cai whirled to find the next and hit him square on, a roaring, stinking fury in leather and fur. Huge hands clenched on him, a grip beyond evasion. Expecting nothing but a sword through his guts, not caring when it came, Cai fought. The Viking bore him backwards through the flames. For a moment there was a mad beauty to their dance. The burning spaces of the lovely room whirled past Cai’s fading vision. He had only ever seen it lit by sunshine, brilliance cloud-muted, coolly reflected from the sea. Rippling patterns of sun on golden sandstone…