by Harper Fox
“And brought you back. Give me your hand, love.”
“I’ve told you, I don’t want…”
“No. To finish what Danan started.”
Fen caught his breath. Carefully he unwound the relic from around Cai’s arm. “The handfasting?”
“Yes. I know the words.”
“Then say them.” Fen wrapped the ribbon tight round their joined wrists—awkward, and not in the intricate pattern Danan had begun, but it was tight and hot and it would do.
“It feels like using up the last of the magic in it.”
“If it’s so, then you can only use it once. Not like Danan’s ribbon—not just for a year and a day.”
“I would never take your freedom, Fen.”
“You are my freedom. Bind us. Bind the wolf.”
Cai swallowed. “Solstice to solstice, hand to hand, from blood-mother earth to the heart of man…” He couldn’t go on. Instead he hung on to his end of the strand, and Fen grasped the other, tighter and tighter until their veins ached and pounded with the force of pent-up pulse.
Then Fen released them both, gasping. “Can I love you? Can I have you without hurting you?”
“I don’t care if it bloody kills me. Find a way.”
Fen undid Cai’s shirt. He knelt over him, unthreading its leather fastening one loop at a time. With the same deliberation he pulled out its hem from Cai’s belt, and lifted, exposing his belly. Cai hadn’t looked at his own flesh in daylight in months. He didn’t look down now—kept his gaze fixed on Fen’s, reading there all the changes in himself, the message of the wound that hadn’t healed. Fen caressed the scar. Cai arched his back in response, his skin sending wild mixed signals of pleasure and pain to swirl around in his head, raising waves of goose bumps, suddenly lifting his cock. “God. I wasn’t sure I could anymore.”
“That’ll be the last thing to go, if I know my Caius.” Fen’s grin was too bright, and he swiped the heel of one hand across his eyes before returning his attention to his task. “Sit up a little way. I want this shirt off you.”
Cai shivered in the wind, until Fen drew the cloak round him tighter and leaned over him, shielding him, kissing his shoulders. He brushed the flat of his palm over Cai’s groin, teasing and promising before he tore his belt buckle open and pushed his hand down inside.
His grip was perfect. He had learned Cai’s body in the waves of Addy’s island, in the summer hayfields, in these dunes. He knew the tender dip between his balls where a light touch was unbearable but an outright grasp, a squeeze of one finger into the sensitive gap, would wring out cries of pleasure, call up climax even from exhausted flesh.
Cai writhed and clutched at him. “Yes. Like that. No.”
Fen gave a muffled grunt of laughter. “Yes? No?”
“It wasn’t just your hand I missed on all those nights. It was all of you.”
“I want you comfortable on a bunk somewhere before you get…all of me.”
“Not like that. I mean I want you in my arms.”
“I don’t want to put weight on you.”
“Beside me, then. I’m still good for that. Oh, God, Fen, please.”
Fen stretched out at his side. Cai drew him in so that they were sharing the warmth of the beautiful cloak. He undid the wolf’s-head belt, and Fen’s fingers tangled with his in the urgent undoing of his leggings. He gasped with impatience—his Viking was girded for battle, another of those cunningly worked bronze cock-pieces shielding his manhood, stitched into his subligaculum. “That can’t help you now.”
“Help me? It’s strangling me. Help me get it off.”
Between them they unwound him. Cai sobbed in relief as at last the garment was out of the way and Fen shoved his hips forwards, his hand on Cai’s backside holding him still to receive the long, shuddering stroke. Held and braced like this, Cai could push back. He groaned beneath the next thrust and the next, an anvil where the white-hot fetters of the wolf were being forged, and then he hurled himself into the fire, all pain and injury and shadowing death forgotten.
Fen clutched him close. Their mouths met roughly, muffling howls of climax. Sand shifted under them, receiving their struggle, cushioning its aftermath as Cai rolled up and onto his lover’s body, hammering out the last of his strength. He fell and Fen caught him, easing him into the endless embrace of the dunes.
“Cai, when did Addy come home?”
Cai stopped brushing sand out of his clothes. There was little point to it anyway—he’d be washing it out of his crevices for weeks. He thought of the weeks, and the washes, perhaps down in the sapphire pools, Fen splashing and complaining of the cold beside him. How many days might be left to him? It didn’t matter, he decided. His lung was tight and aching now. The next fit of coughing might tear him apart and finish it, and he’d never think himself short-changed, not after…
He looked up at Fen, who was standing on the crest that overlooked the plain, holding the two horses. He had just retrieved them. They had wandered off placidly together, united in their good opinion of the turf at the foot of the dunes. The plain was now deserted. Had Broc and Sigurd too found peace for the sake of good land?
His passion-fogged brain cleared a little. “Addy? He didn’t—not that I know.”
“Look.”
Cai stumbled up to join him. Fen’s arm closed tight round his waist. He pointed off into the dusk. “There. Down by the islets, the place where you said the first monks from Hibernia settled. Near the green mounds.”
Cai leaned on him to look. The night was falling fast, the light shifting before his eyes could adjust. He’d never really noticed that the ancient beehive cells were surrounded by mounds, but they were. In the spring they were covered with every scented and dancing shoreline flower you could imagine—celandine, harebells and yarrow, sea pinks and thyme, snowy drifts of scurvy grass. It must always have been such a beautiful place, its sanctity held, deep and potent, in its very rocks. And yes—down by the worn wooden cross, a frail but vigorous figure in a plain brown cassock. “I can see him. I didn’t hear anything about him coming home—he’s still the bishop of Hexham.”
Fen broke into laughter. “Perhaps they threw him out. He’s got a girl with him.”
The girl was leading Addy by the hand. The old man was following her serenely. The sun dipped down between two bands of cloud and threw one final bright lance across Fara and the sea. Cai’s distance vision was no match for Fen’s, but suddenly the whole scene crystallised. She was wearing a green robe. Her hair blazed around her like an aura, and in this light Cai couldn’t tell if it was fair or…
Fair or white. “Fen, that’s Danan.”
“What—your old salamander from the fire?”
Salamander, witch, hare. Traveller by unknown tunnels beneath the sea and currents of air in the night. “She’s wearing all her jewellery. She made me trade for it over the years, but she never put it on, just hid it like a dragon in a cave. Do you see her earrings?”
“Yes, but…”
“Those are coral flowers in Roman gold.”
“It’s her daughter, then. Her granddaughter.”
She doesn’t have one, as far as I know. But the lives of our fellow souls are strange to us, most of them hidden like a dragon’s gold, and perhaps Fen is right. Cai leaned his brow on Fen’s shoulder, and shuddered in pleasure as the grip around him tightened. “What is she doing with Addy?”
“I don’t know, but he seems pleased about it. Look, they’ve seen us.”
The girl raised her free hand. It was gleaming from wrist to elbow with Danan’s horde of bracelets, and her smile was just as bright. Addy’s too, when he turned and waved to them. They were standing at the foot of the largest green mound. Slowly, as if in a dream, Cai lifted his hand and waved back.
“Cai, look at all the seals.”
“Seals? Where?”
“All over the rocks there. I thought they were the rocks. Is it a haul-out time?”
“No. The tide’s wrong. God�
��listen to them.”
The seals began to sing. Hundreds of them—grey, mottled, inky-wet black, from smallest pups to mountainous grand-dams—were congregated on the rocks of Fara. They tipped up their sleek heads. The noise that rose up should have been a raucous clatter, huffing and barking, echoing off the cliffs. Instead it took flight on the wind and whirled up to fill the dusk from sea to zenith like a mermaid’s song of worship to the sky. And when Cai looked back to find Danan and Addy, they were gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
In the dead of winter, a king came to Fara. The first Cai knew of it, he was standing in Cai’s study, a puzzled frown quirking his fair brows. Cai rubbed his eyes. He glanced down at the Gospel of Science spread out upon his desk. The candles had burned low. A sudden dark had come down.
Mortification touched Cai. He hadn’t seen the change from afternoon to twilight. Fen was standing by his chair, a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. Cai had been preparing his brethren’s lesson for that night. He’d fallen fast asleep over a treatise on how rainbows came out of white light. “Fen…I’m sorry.”
“You need your rest. This is King Ecgbert of Bernicia, who’s come a great distance to see you. Your Majesty, this is Abbot Caius of Fara.”
Perhaps Cai was dreaming. He could see prisms and bands of coloured light in water still. Fen’s quiet courtesy was perfect, all the more so for the uncompromising fire that lay beneath it, but Cai couldn’t get used to his own title. And other than a dream, there was no explanation for the golden-haired vision in front of him. He took the best breath he could and stood up. Fen knew better than to aid him unless he asked, but his warmth was at Cai’s shoulder, a kind of exterior strength held in trust. He rested his hands on the desk. “I’m honoured by your visit, sire. And at a great loss to account for it. But please, sit by the fire. Have you been offered food and drink?”
“Your assistant has asked for hot mead to be brought. Will you come and sit also? I wish to speak to you.”
Cai could make the walk from his desk to the circle of chairs round the fire. The room wasn’t large, nothing like Fara’s old scriptorium, and different in its function. Cai called it his study, but all were welcome here. It was a kind of roundhouse, built in half-Celtic, half-Dane Lands style. A fire burned in the centre, and Cai taught his brethren and the villagers in the nimbus of its comfortable warmth. It had risen in the space of a week, to the sound of conflicting Saxon and vikingr work songs.
The king had taken a seat, his coronet glimmering, blue and scarlet garments exotic in the firelight. Cai settled near to him, careful not to wince, smiling at Fen to come and sit at his side.
“I had thought to have audience with you alone, Abbot Caius.”
Cai shrugged. The assumptions of men—even kings—were so much dust to him now, cobwebs in the wind. “This is Fenrisulfr. You may speak as freely before him as to myself.”
Ecgbert raised one eyebrow. “He is Alexander too?”
Yes, except that this Hephaistion could never have been spared to rule in Asia on his own. Cai remembered Theo’s stories, and how the younger monks would weep at the tales of their separation.
Fen came and sat, his face composed, eyes glimmering with amusement. Ecgbert looked them over, plainly trying to work them out. Fen was in his cassock—every inch a monk, and yet somehow every inch a splendid Viking too.
“He is my friend and companion—my most valued helpmeet. Now, tell me what has brought a king to this lonely place.”
“I have been here once before, you know.”
“Yes. I remember.”
“I was on board ship, and I saw you—you and your companion—on the shore.”
“You came to fetch Addy. Forgive me—Aedar of Fara.”
“Yes. And it’s news of Aedar that brings me back now.” The young king spread his palms and looked into them as if searching for words. “This is difficult. He spoke very often of you, especially when he was… I know he was your friend.”
Fen leaned forwards. “I will tell, if it is better.”
“Yes, then. If you would.”
Fen reached for Cai’s hand. Cai returned his grasp on instinct, as if they had been alone. Many fireside hours had passed for Cai thus, hours when the feel of drowning inside his own lungs had put him past thought or speech, and that grip had been a lifeline. “What’s happened, Fen?”
“Addy’s dead,” Fen said simply. He laced his fingers through Cai’s. “He was a good bishop, but his heart was here. And when he knew his days were drawing to a close, he asked King Ecgbert to bring his remains back to Fara.”
“Fara? To his island, or…?”
“No. To Fara monastery. He asked that his body be placed in your keeping.”
Cai gazed into the fire. “When did he die?”
But here even Fen faltered. “It was four weeks ago,” Ecgbert supplied. “He was well cared for and peaceful to the end.”
“But that can’t be. I saw…” Cai trailed off. Reluctantly he let go of Fen’s hand, and the two sat in silence, gaze locked on gaze. What had they seen? Cai had fallen sick that night, worn out by his long ride, and Addy and Danan had flickered through his fever dreams until memory had merged with delirium. “Did you do it? Did you bring his body here?”
“Yes, just as he asked. His casket is on his funeral bier, under supervision by my personal guard. I have come to ask permission to place him in the crypt of your church.”
“Granted. Granted, of course. I will come and see it’s done at once.” Cai ran his hands over his hair. He had met old Addy only twice, but still a bitter grief knifed through him. You said we would meet one more time. The world is darker for your death. “This land is unsettled and dangerous, Your Majesty. I have never known a king come so far on such a mission, even for one of his bishops. Why?”
Ecgbert sighed. He looked as if he would have liked to pull off his gold coronet and scratch in bewilderment. “This too is hard for me. I’m a man of Christian faith, but I have also striven to educate myself. And yet now I have seen things that…” He shook his head. “Yes, I am rational. But Aedar’s body hasn’t decomposed. He lay in state for three days in Hexham crypt, and we have taken two weeks on our journey here. I travelled with his casket because I had to see for myself. But it is true.”
The scientist in Cai awoke. He too had seen things that had challenged his bright, plain view of the world, part of his inheritance from Broc. But dead men soon faded, reaching out to meet the earth halfway. “I’m a physician,” he said. “Tell me—was the crypt in Hexham cold? You’ve had a cold journey of it up here, I know.”
“Aye, we have. But this is different, Abbot. He looks as if he’s sleeping.”
“Was there rigor mortis?”
“His attending doctors argued over that. If so, it was quick, and now…”
Cai gestured him impatiently to silence. King or no king, if some idiotic, beautiful mistake had been made… “These attending doctors did make quite sure he was dead?”
“There’s no breath, no pulse.”
“I will come and see. There may be a catalepsy or some hypothermic state. All men rot, Your Majesty.”
He set off well enough. Pain and hope were sparking in his blood, a stimulating mix. He knew he should have paused at the door, let Ecgbert precede him, but to hell with that—he marched out into the dark and made it halfway down the hill to the torchlit church before the breath scraped in his lungs. Fen was there instantly. Oh, not a second too soon—catching him, restraining the stumble that would have dropped him to his knees. Speaking to him gently, too low for Ecgbert to hear. “Cai, slow down.”
“I have to get there.”
“Will you let me help you, then?”
“Yes, love. Thank you. Just…please don’t let him see.”
It was too late—Ecgbert had caught up with them. He looked them over with the pity Cai had struggled so hard to avoid. With Fen’s aid, he had managed—kept his faintness and battles for air out of sight of his
brethren, a feat that grew harder every day, his determination hardening with it.
“I fear you don’t have your health, Abbot Cai.”
“It’s nothing. A pleurisy.” He moved on, Fen’s arm around him. Fen had learned an unobtrusive hold that kept him on his feet. He had promised to use it until Cai told him to stop, until his failing body took the choice from him. He kept it in place until they were on the frosty path to the church, and then let him go so he could make the final stretch on his own.
Cai was glad of it. News of the arrival had spread, and brought not only as many of the brethren as could be spared from their tasks down to see, but half the population of the villages as well. Quite a crowd was shifting about, the flames of the cressets lighting up faces of wonder, cynicism, blank incomprehension. As Cai approached, all turned to him, the cluster of bodies parting. Did they think he had answers for them? Well, perhaps he did. Ecgbert was a man of faith, but it was not the same faith as Cai’s. Perhaps only the pure faith of a Saxon king could keep dead flesh incorruptible. What would happen when a man who had read Theo’s Gospel of Science looked inside?
The bier had been lifted from its cart and carried inside the church. Around it, the king’s honour guard stood at attention. They were clad in royal livery and well-enough armed to deter any attention their rich attire brought down, but they too had had a long trek through the dark. They were looking disdainfully at the farmers, women and children milling about in what once had been—as it should be still, Cai knew, by ecclesiastical law—an enclave of holy men.
Hunger and cold did nothing to ease relations. Cai smiled and nodded at Hengist, who had been doing his best to bring some order to the crowd. He stopped in the doorway and clapped his hands. “Gentlemen,” he said into the ensuing silence, looking at the guards. “These people are my friends and my brethren, and much excited by the news you bring. Show patience to them. You must be in need of food and drink. Has anyone—”
“I have.” Hengist stepped forwards, flushed with eagerness. He had a real kitchen again—another work of Celtic and vikingr hands—and could barely contain his desire to refresh the royal visitors. “Mead and hot flatbreads. Gareth and Eyulf are fetching them now, and our evening broth is ready at your command.”
