by Harper Fox
Cai slipped past Theo’s study, where lights used to blaze in improvident splendour halfway through the night. He rounded the corner into the narrow passageway beyond. Empty, and the doors to the clerics’ cells intact, as far as he could see…
Firelit shadows patched themselves into the shape of a man. The Viking, naked but for a blanket he’d hitched round his waist like a kilt, was leaning in a corner, his back pressed to the wall. His sword was clutched in both hands. His face was gaunt with pain, and Cai could count the hollows between each rib. “Fenrir!”
The Viking’s head jerked up. He swung to face Cai, raising the sword in a movement of practised, murderous beauty. “This isn’t your business, physician,” he hissed. “Go back to your ward.”
Cai strode to meet him, disregarding the blade. The Viking was about to drop it anyway. He was ready to fall. “You shouldn’t be out of your bed. What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“I have come to slay the scarecrow. My honour demands it. So should yours, but you are soft and puny. I shall do it for us both.”
Cai grabbed him. He took the sword from his hands before it could clatter onto the flags and wake the whole corridor, got a steadying grip round his waist. “I’ll show you how soft and puny I am in a minute, you stupid bastard. Nobody’s going to do any slaying here tonight. Come with me.”
“No. My flesh remembers his torment. I shall murder him, and then the one who held you back from aiding me. Then the one who walks past my bed without seeing when I thirst or hunger. Then the ones who do not meet your eyes when you speak to them, or turn away from you discourteously, or…”
“We can’t murder men for bad manners. As for Aelfric, I’d like to kill him too, but the others…” Cai pulled Fenrir’s arm around his shoulders. “The others are afraid of you.” He tucked the deadly wolf’s-head blade into the girdle of his cassock. “I can’t think why. Now come with me.”
“No. If you won’t let me slaughter these fools, turn me loose. I will go back to the beach, fend for myself until my brother comes back for me.”
“Gunnar?”
Fenrir twitched. He emitted a faint growl, twisted out of Cai’s grasp and slammed him against the wall, just below the guttering torch. “You will not say that name!”
Cai couldn’t say anything at all with a sinewy arm pressed to his throat. He couldn’t breathe, either. The Viking stared hard into his face. Freeing himself would have been easy—a knee to the groin or a jab to the healing wound—but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He wasn’t afraid. The press of a living body against his was a terrible comfort, even like this. A hot pressure like tears built up behind his eyes, and he ran his hand down Fenrir’s arm.
The vulpine features altered. It wasn’t exactly a softening—more the relaxation of a snarling hound bewildered by a caress. “You will not say the name,” he repeated, and sank to his knees at Cai’s feet.
“Oh, God.” Cai crouched beside him. The makeshift kilt was soaked with blood. “You’ve torn out your sutures. Come with me. Hold on to me. Come on.”
The journey back across the courtyard and up to the ward was painful. Oslaf met them in the doorway, his eyes wide. “Caius, forgive me. I only just noticed he was gone.”
Cai hefted his burden over the threshold and back into the quarantine cell. Fenrir was stumbling, barely conscious. “That’s because you didn’t look. Is his bunk mat clean? Fetch a fresh one before I lay him down.” Oslaf ran to obey, and together they eased the Viking flat. Cai began to examine his wound. “I understand your hate. I won’t force you to help with him, but if you can’t, you have to tell me, so he’s not left on his own.”
“Where did you find him? Why… Why are you wearing his sword?”
Cai had forgotten that. He undid the awkward weight from his girdle. “I need fresh sutures. Quick, before he comes round properly. He was outside our new abbot’s rooms.”
“With his sword? Cai, don’t you see? He’s going to murder us all in our beds.”
Cai couldn’t argue. “Well, just now he’d have a hard time getting back out of his own. I don’t care what you think, Oslaf—as long as he’s in here, he must be treated like anyone else.”
“Why?”
Cai frowned. It wasn’t like Oslaf to argue or question him, not like that. Maybe Benedict’s new chill was rubbing off. “Because I’m a doctor. Because—”
“No. Why bring him in the first place? Everyone loves you here. And they know it’s you they have to thank that we lived through the last raid. But they can’t forgive this.”
Threading a strand of sheep gut through a fine bone needle, Cai bent over his task. “I’m not looking for forgiveness,” he muttered. “Sage oil, please. Rags. As for my reasons…” I wounded him myself. He was alone. Theo spoke inside my head and told me to. None of these would do. Because he was beautiful, my wolf from the sea, and I couldn’t bear him to die. Cai bit his lip. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
He plunged the needle into the pale skin. Fenrir jerked on the bed. Oslaf was ready to hold him down, but this time instead of lashing out, the Viking only clutched the edges of the bunk.
“Sorry,” Cai told him, pulling the new suture tight. “I didn’t want to sedate you again. But I can, if you can’t bear this.”
Fenrir gave a low rumble of laughter, such a contrast to his pain-racked face that Cai and Oslaf both jumped. “I’ve felt your blade, monk. Your little prick…doesn’t bother me at all.”
Cai worked on. With an effort he kept his face straight. “Ah,” he said, when he thought his voice would be steady. “Viking humour. I’ve heard of this.”
“We do not call ourselves Vikings. We bear the names of our ancestral clans—Hallgrimr, Vigdis, Torleik. Nor do we raid in horned helmets, as your foolish Saxon bards would have it. The horns are for rituals only, the worship of Thor. Can you imagine—in a packed longship, or close-quarters battle…”
He couldn’t go on, and Cai finished stitching as deftly as he could. He pressed a wad of soothing willow extract onto the wound. “Yes. I suppose you’d have someone’s eye out.”
Fenrir smiled. It was the first time Cai had seen him do so naturally, without his lupine snarl. He turned away quickly, astounded at the charm of it—ashamed of his response. He shook out a fresh bandage and began to bind the wound up.
Oslaf was staring too. “He does speak like us.”
“Yes. I told you. His Latin is better than mine.”
“I thought him merely a beast.”
“Well, he isn’t.” Cai dared a glance into the gleaming agate eyes. “He’s a man, and a bloody dangerous one. So. Can you keep a watch on him while I’m not here, and treat him like a man as well as guard him?”
“Yes. Ask him to pardon my neglect of him—and my help in keeping him prisoner.”
You could ask him yourself. But Cai knew he was placing a huge burden on Oslaf as it was. He gestured to the younger monk that he could go, and returned his attention to his patient.
He worked on for a while in silence. As well as his pulled stitches, the Viking was covered with other cuts and grazes, trivial in a healthy man but each a possible gateway for infection after long illness. He cleaned the injuries methodically, making quite sure not to linger or let a swab become a caress. “Why am I not allowed to call your brother by his name? Am I considered too lowly?”
Fenrir focussed on him with an effort. He’d exhausted himself with his abortive hunt and was on the edge of sleep. “No. Well—yes, you are. But that isn’t the reason.”
“What, then?”
“My brother is the heir to Sigurd’s Torleik clan. Our lands are wider and richer by far than all Sigurd’s rival tribes put together. I wish my lord Sigurd health and long life, but when he dies, my brother will be powerful beyond imagination.”
Cai shrugged. “I’m pleased for him. Even a king has a name, though, and any peasant may use it.”
“You don’t understand. Gunnar is more than…” Fenrir’s b
row furrowed as he searched for the word, or perhaps steeled himself to use it. “He is mine—bróðir minn. He is coming back for me. Until he does, his name belongs on my tongue only. How did you find it out?”
“You called it when you had a fever. And you still do, in your dreams.”
For the second time that night, Fenrir’s mask softened. Then he flushed in what could have been shame or anger, and he turned awkwardly away onto his side—not before Cai had seen the glitter of tears. “I forbid you to listen, then.”
“I’ll try.”
“And while we are discussing names—do me a kindness and stop trying to call me Fenrir. You cannot pronounce it, and the sound you make pains me.”
“What shall I call you, then?”
“Fen will do.”
“Very well. And since you sound like a sheep giving birth when you say mine, you’d better call me Cai.”
In the morning Fen was better. Cai, who had fallen asleep on a spare cot in the ward, awoke to the commanding ring of his voice. “You! Physician Cai’s dogsbody, Odleaf or whatever you are called—fetch him to me instantly. What has he done with my hair?”
Cai swung his legs off the bed. There were days at Fara when things were more difficult than others, and this one was off to a rare start. He took a moment to splash his face with water, then strode to Oslaf’s rescue. Fen was bolt upright on his bunk, his eyes bright with imperious life. Cai pushed the door closed behind him. “Keep your voice down. What the devil is wrong with you now?”
“My hair. Where is it? Where did you put my sword, and where is my fine helmet with the chased-silver cheek guards?”
“Your sword is locked up out of your reach. Your helmet…” Cai hesitated. He’d thought about using it, giving it to one of his warrior monks, but somehow the thing had repelled him. Behind its cruel mask, even a friend’s face would become a stranger’s. He’d locked it up inside a chest in the armoury. “Your helmet was lost. And as for your hair, I gave it to the tanner to stuff saddlebags.” That wasn’t true, but the look on Fen’s face was worth the price of the lie. “Don’t worry, it’ll grow back. You can look like a great louse-ridden thug again soon enough.”
Fen’s brows shot up to the place where his fringe had once been. “You’re a fine one to talk about lice. I’ve heard about you dirty Christians, mortifying your flesh beneath your robes until it rots—using your vows of poverty to excuse yourselves for sleeping in flea-ridden filth.”
“There, Oslaf. Aren’t you glad he’s started talking? Go and get your breakfast.” Cai advanced on his patient. “And you—keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re talking to the men who help you here. There’s precious few willing to do it. Have you passed water this morning? Was there blood in it?”
“You have no right to ask me such questions. You must show respect for me. You must—”
“A simple yes or no will do.”
Again, that unlikely blush. Cai couldn’t tell if it was rage or mortification, and wished he didn’t find so fascinating the movement of blood beneath the pale skin.
“Yes, then. And no.”
“Well, that’s good. You can get up. I’m about to teach you a few things about dirty Christians.” He hoisted Fen off the bunk by his armpits and deposited him on a bench. “This mattress—which I’m about to change for you yet again—is filled with the dried flowers of a plant called bedstraw, a natural repellent to fleas and other vermin. If it smells sweet, that’s because of the Tanacetum vulgare—tansy—that drives away ticks. We also use it to flavour our bread. As for mortifications of the flesh…” He threw a blanket at Fen and shook out the new mattress. “I can’t answer for the abbot and his clerics. But the man who used to rule us here—Abbot Theodosius—forbade us all such things. He said…” Cai paused, waiting till his voice would be steady again. He was remembering Theo catching Wilfrid by the arm one day, asking him why he was limping, and with gentle firmness making him hitch his cassock up to show the circlet of bramble thorns round his thigh. “He said it was monstrous to misuse the bodies God gave us. Like breaking a beautiful gift. Now, do you think you could walk with me down to the courtyard?”
“Walk with you? I could sling you over my shoulder and carry you there,” Fen returned, but with less of his customary snarl. He was watching Cai oddly, as if reassessing him. “Why should I, though?”
“I haven’t finished teaching you. Come on.”
“In my blanket?”
“No. In one of these.” Cai took a fresh cassock out of the linen chest. He waited for the outcry, but perhaps he’d shocked his patient speechless. Making the most of it, he shook the garment out. “As you say, it has a skirt. It’s also warm, comfortable and practical. Put it on.”
“Where… Where are my other clothes?”
“Incinerated, mostly. We salvaged what we could, but you’re not walking round this monastery dressed like a pirate.”
To his surprise, Fen took the garment from him. He stood up, letting his blanket drop. He showed no sign of consciousness at his nakedness, and Cai studiously failed to notice it either, waiting while Fen pulled the cassock over his head.
“With what shall I gird up my loins?”
He made a fine figure in the long brown robes. They had belonged to Brother Petros, who’d been about the same height. With his shorn head and his direct gaze, he was pleasing to Cai somehow in the way of an oak sapling—young enough to bend, set to last a hundred years. “You’ll gird them as you usually do. The linens are in that box. But don’t bother now—I’m taking you for a bath.”
Fen refused assistance down the stairs with a haughty gesture that made Cai want to slap him. In the fresh air of the courtyard, though, he swayed and grabbed at the low stone wall that surrounded the well.
“Sit down,” Cai ordered him, looking out across the fields. The little packhorse he used on his travels and the monastery’s only other pony were both hard at work in the hay pasture. “Wait. Sit there, and…” He tugged up Fen’s hood to conceal his bright hair. “Just for a moment, try not to be conspicuous.”
Broc’s chariot horse was feeding her head off in the paddock to the south. She had proven useless between the shafts of cart or plough, rearing and kicking in a fit of royal rage to match Fen’s own. Cai had expected from day to day that Aelfric would order her slaughtered and salted away for winter meat, but there she was, looking glossy and bored in the sun. She came when Cai whistled, as if he might at last have something interesting for her to do, and bumped her chestnut muzzle hard against his chest. As far as Cai knew, she’d never been tried as a saddle horse—not that Fara, or indeed Broc’s stronghold, ran to saddles. He clambered the drystone wall and took her by the halter.
The Viking sat up straight at the scrape of hooves in the courtyard. He pushed his hood back, his face becoming keen and intent. “Roman,” he declared, as Cai led the mare up to him. “Yes. Roman, with two hundred years of your Briton puddle-jumpers mixed in, and…” He pushed upright, pain and weakness forgotten. “And a strain of the Barb. You won’t know what that is, monk. You think the world ends at the Oceanus Britannicus.”
“I do know. My abbot Theo told us of places far beyond that—Barbary, Arabia, where men called Berbers live in silken tents and ride about the desert on beasts that can gallop as easily on sand as soil. What does a vikingr pirate know of horseflesh, though?”
“It’s true that we are masters of the sea.” Fen ran a thoughtful hand down the mare’s flank. “And the ponies we use for raids are scrappy beasts, not like this. They take us to the battle, then we fight on foot, our stupendous skills in warfare bearing all before us. This explains what I saw in your weapons barn. I thought it a fever dream.”
“The chariot?”
“Yes. What does a Christian monk know of those?”
“I told you—my father is no Christian. He’s a Roman warlord, or he likes to think he is, and he gave me this beast and the chariot to help me defend Fara against monsters like you.” Cai pause
d, distracted. The morning breeze was full of the scent of kelp and thyme, too pleasant in his lungs to fuel hostility. “You really think she has the Berber strain?”
“Mm. Look at her high forequarters, her crouped rump.” He leaned stiffly, patting her fetlocks, and Cai crouched beside him to take a closer look. For a moment monk and Viking dropped away and they were simply men, heads together over an intriguing piece of horseflesh. “Her hooves are rounder than the Roman breeds. What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she has one.”
“You should always name things—beasts, ships, swords. It brings down the spirit upon them. Speaking of which—where is my wolf’s-head blade?”
“Safely locked up.” Cai took a step back, renewing the distance between them. This man was his enemy. He had forgotten. “Out of bounds to you. Listen—while you’re healing, I can treat you like any other sick man. But once you’re well, you’ll be a prisoner here. You’d better behave like one, or…” Cai fell silent. He had to have imagined the flicker of hurt in those dark eyes. “Here. I’ll give you a leg-up.”
“I can manage for myself.” Fen grasped the horse’s mane just in front of her withers. He braced to spring up. Then his knuckles whitened, and he let go a gasp that would have been a scream from a lesser man. He rested his brow on the mare’s flank. Cai reached for him, but he flinched away and scrambled, grey-faced, to stand on the low wall that bounded the well. “I can do it from here, if you will hold her.”
Cai held the mare’s halter while she danced and sidled. She wasn’t used to a weight on her back, but Fen sat quietly, and after a moment she settled, head high, exhaling in wide-nostrilled snorts.
Cai led her out of the courtyard. Once out on the wide sweep of turf, the salt wind warmly buffeting his face, he was ashamed. “All right,” he said, not glancing to see how his magnificent prisoner looked on horseback. “What is its name, then? Your wolf’s-head sword?”
“Blóðkraftr dauði. The mighty blade of blood and death.”
Cai shook his head. “It would be.”
