by Joni Sensel
Lana ran over to clutch him.
“Get to the door,” he ordered, seeing the blazing house empty of raiders. “Take care it is safe before you go any farther. Run to Liam, if you see him. He’ll protect you.”
She took two steps before halting. Her eyes had crossed the pile that might have been a female captive. She ran and crouched to check.
Deciding he would get her out faster without argument, Aidan yanked Brendan Donagh to his feet. Still blinded and bound, the lord’s heir shouted questions, but either composure or cowardice—it was hard to tell which—kept him from offering any struggle. Aidan hustled him toward the door and shoved him outside to the dirt of the yard. Young Donagh’s ropes could be removed later, once Aidan had saved someone he cared about more.
He found Lana trying to get not one but two battered and frightened young women to their feet. His sister, Regan, when she recognized him, flung herself into his arms. He nearly carried her out, putting her down more gently than he’d managed for Brendan. Lana followed, guiding the other. Several men from the village, done swinging weapons and abruptly left with nothing to do, met them.
Aidan started again for the doorway, wreathed now in flame. Lana grabbed his arm.
“One more,” he said, yanking loose and sprinting back to the threshold. If he took time to explain, the flames would make him too late.
Running crouched and coughing into the burning house, Aidan pulled the neck of his robe nearly to his eyes against the smoke. He could see almost nothing, but he thought he could get there by feel. He cracked his knee against the overturned table. Jerking away, he trod upon the Viking he’d downed, then stumbled and fell to his hands and knees at the hearth.
He felt the squeaky, dry crunch of coals under his left palm even before the burning began. Jerking away did not seem to make any difference. Pain screamed in his hand and fingers and wrist.
Moaning in agony, Aidan clutched his left hand to his chest, crawled away on his knees, and swept the far corner of the room with his right hand. Moments before, as he had seized the ax and cut the captive boys free, something else had registered in his overtaxed mind. A bundle of altar linens sat against the rear wall, revealed by the heaving aside of the table. Square corners had poked through the drape of the fabric. At least a few precious books might yet be recovered.
Aidan’s fingers felt cloth. Not sure his burned hand would work right and certain he could not stand any increase in the pain, he used his left forearm and right hand to scoop up as much as he could reach of the linen and the weighty load wrapped within it. He trapped the chunky bundle against his body. Feeling volumes slipping and thudding away and knowing he had not gotten them all, he faced the hardest test he’d confronted all night. He floundered for an instant after lost books before his lungs refused to inhale the thick air again. He knew the dark smoke would claim him if he didn’t go now. With a choked cry, he spun and made toward the door.
The floor was littered with debris and flame. Aidan never got to both feet for more than two steps before tripping again. He would not have made it over the threshold at all if Lana had not waited there for him, the holly branch still in her hand. As she drew him and his bundle to better air, smoke whirled in his head. He slipped into a half-conscious swoon in her arms.
The sensation of falling into blackness did not scare him. He felt confident that if he were bound not for sleep but for death, Lana would simply use her holly, God’s evergreen token of mercy and rebirth, to raise him again.
XXII
A roaring headache and a greater, tear-pricking fury in his left hand pulled Aidan back reluctantly to the world just a few heartbeats later. Somebody had borne him to the horse trough and doused him with cold water to quicken his spirit. Lana now held his wet head and shoulders in her lap, urgently calling his name and asking him questions long before he could understand any more than her voice.
He sat up, dizzy, and nearly wavered back over again. Just moving upright sent a rush of blood down his arm to his wounded hand. It answered with a fiery throb, forcing a cry through Aidan’s clenched teeth. He curled protectively over his hand.
Lana pried it away from him to see what was the matter. When she saw the blisters and cracked skin, she yanked his whole arm to plunge his hand into the trough. Aidan closed his eyes and tried to breathe rather than gasp. The cold water helped.
“The Norsemen—all beaten?” he croaked, hoarse from the smoke.
“I think so,” Lana said, before urging, “The yew needles, Aidan—if they’re still in your mouth, spit them out.”
He rolled his tongue to check. When he found them there, bitter, he did as she’d said.
“I thought for a moment they weren’t going to protect you,” she said, her voice trembling. “That beast with the ax …”
Aidan nodded, too wrapped in pain to feel much triumph or relief. Eager for any distraction, he managed, “Lucky the table tipped when it did.”
“I believe in forces larger than luck,” she replied. “You may thank the boys and the table. I’ll thank the yew. And your numbers.”
Her words recalled the maelstrom of noise and confusion through which they’d just passed. A shiver rippled Aidan’s skin at the memory of that test, but having met it gave him new confidence, and not just in himself. The humming of numbers, steadfast amid chaos, reassured him that an order existed beneath the surface of the world, one he could hear and have faith in.
Wary of succumbing to pride, he told Lana, “Perhaps God deserves the most credit.”
She stroked his arm where it stretched over the side of the horse trough. “Is that not what I just said?”
Liam approached through the smoke. Aidan pushed himself shakily to his feet. The dawn light showed his older brother so drenched with blood, Aidan feared that some of it must belong to Liam.
“Are there wounds under that blood?” he demanded, reaching to check for himself.
“None I can feel,” Liam replied. “Better tend to your own.” He pointed, not to Aidan’s hand but to the front of his robe.
Aidan looked down. A long rip marred his robe over the top of one thigh, high enough to have sliced the thin tunic beneath, too. The Viking with the ax had not missed completely. A bit of blood oozed. Now that Aidan knew it had cause, his leg hurt, although more with the ache of a blow than the sting of a slice. He fumbled with the torn fabric to see how much worse it looked underneath.
“I already checked,” Lana told him. “’Tis not so much more than a bruise and a scratch.”
“You already—” Aidan faltered, turning red at the liberty she had taken while he had been absent from his body.
Liam laughed.
“I saw nothing immodest,” she protested. “Just the wound on your leg!”
“Call yourself blessed and thank God, little brother,” Liam told him. “I truly expected to mourn your bold heart. But even from outside, we were cowed.” He gave Lana an appreciative look openly tinted with fear. “I hope your rage has been spent, dread maiden.”
Lana stared at her hands, her face drawn in dismay. “Not ‘dread,’ she whispered.
“Liam.” Uncharacteristic iron edged Aidan’s voice. “Her name is Lana, and I don’t want a word said against her.”
“Nor shall one be,” Liam said. “I’ll make certain of that. After what she has just done for us, with such unspoken cunning, no one would dare.” His brow creased, however, and he stepped nearer Aidan to whisper, “I know who she is, Aidan, and whose daughter, too. But I saw her striking at them as they ran out the door. Those scratched by her holly could barely raise arms or see their way to run.” Giving Aidan a pointed look, he added, “Be wary of her.”
Lana must have heard that, for amusement battled with the regret on her face.
Despite the holly’s enfeebling effect, the villagers had not come away from their ambush unscathed. One man was dead. Another had received a gut wound, and although he was on his feet, laughing, they all knew it would likely take poison
in the next days and kill him.
“Kyle?” Aidan looked about in the dawn light for dear faces. “Michael?”
“Both sound,” Liam assured him. “Michael took a fair nick on one arm, but it should heal. He’s with Regan.”
Their sister and the other young woman who had huddled with her had been terrified and abused, but they would survive. The alehouse shimmered in flames. Neither the brewster nor his wife voiced a complaint. They knew others had suffered more, and all were relieved to say the raid was over at last. Not a Norseman had escaped, and Liam planned to let them lie where they’d fallen for Lord Donagh to find.
“Should we hie away from here, then?” Aidan asked his brother. The sunrise was beginning to rival the fire. “Is it wise to be here when he appears?”
“I don’t see why not, since his own blood did not spill.” Liam jerked his head. Brendan Donagh had been released of his bonds and now strolled among the corpses, spitting on faces and thrusting one of the Vikings’ own weapons into their motionless flesh. The two brothers watched dubiously.
“He should have shown that much spirit before the bag went over his head,” Liam muttered.
Aidan shrugged. Having accounted for the people he cared about most, he wanted to check something else.
The bundle of books lay not far away. Aidan cradled his scorched, dripping hand and went to inspect them.
“I didn’t get this far, did I?” he asked Lana, beside him. “Someone dragged it away from the reach of the flames.”
“I did,” she said, “while they hauled you to the trough. I knew it must be important to you.”
He slid aside the wrappings that belonged on the altar. Eight books lay beneath, including several Gospels and a fine Book of Hours. Although their bindings had no rich metals to scavenge, the raiders must have realized that their finely wrought illumination would fetch a price worth carting them off. These eight were but a fraction of the abbey’s former collection, and any remainders were charred vellum by now. Still, Aidan touched their tooled covers and felt pleased with himself. Eight books were much better than none. Starting over from scratch would have required the scribes to disperse to other monasteries for as long as two years before they could bring any new copies home.
He didn’t object when Lana turned a few pages and ran her fingertips over the gold-inked illumination.
A shadow from the breaching sun fell over them both. Aidan looked up. Brendan Donagh stood there. Aidan rose, mindful that the fray was over and he’d better now show the usual respect. Brendan was not guaranteed his father’s position, but wealth and force and dynastic intrigue made his selection almost that certain. In the meantime, no more hissing or thumping would be tolerated.
“I’m told that I owe my liberation to you,” Brendan said.
Uncomfortable, Aidan shrugged. “And to others,” he said, keeping his eyes low.
“I’m not the fool I may look,” Brendan told him. “I surrendered to them to save the lives and honor of my mother and sisters. I knew they’d want ransom more than they wanted to kill me, and my father could provide it.”
“You owe me no explanations, lordship,” Aidan said. Brendan’s powerful seven hummed and scratched in his ears. The young lord obviously felt defensive, and Aidan might not have made the same choices. Yet the fellow was neither stupid nor weak, his number confirmed that, and he would be no man to thwart once his father was gone.
“If I or my father can repay your courage, I would like to hear how.”
Aidan tipped his head. “If my family has need, perhaps I may ask in the future.” The young lord might remember the offer when tribute was due or drought ruined a crop. “Many thanks.”
Brendan nodded but did not step away. Wondering if his answer had not been enough, Aidan peeked up. He discovered the lordling gazing down at Lana, who still crouched near Aidan’s feet. Not only had she not risen courteously, she did not look up from the books. The whites of her knuckles gleamed against the colorful pages. Instinct, still primed from battle, told Aidan that fury, not fear, clenched those fists. He felt himself grow tense in response.
“I thought I recognized your screeching,” said Brendan Donagh, a smirk on his face.
Lana rose abruptly, staring Brendan right in the face only long enough to deliberately turn her back and walk away.
Surprise and trepidation hoisted Aidan’s eyebrows. He glanced back at Brendan.
Still smiling slyly, Brendan rolled his eyes to meet Aidan’s. He did not seem to mind either Lana’s disrespect or Aidan’s inquiring look.
“I’ve tasted that saucy fruit,” Brendan said, raising his voice so that she would still hear him. “’Tis a pity you are a monk. You can’t take full advantage.”
In the instant before Aidan realized what he meant, he merely frowned at the gleam in young Donagh’s sharp eyes. Then the mockery hit hard against something he already knew.
From where he stood, the quickest blow with his uninjured fist was a backhanded slash. Brendan stumbled back. The shock, pain, and outrage on his face so satisfied Aidan that he leapt after the nobleman to hit him again. He was only sorry his left hand hurt too much to help.
Kyle, nearby, heard the thud of fist on flesh, or perhaps Lana’s yelp of dismay. He dragged Aidan off before he’d done too much damage or taken any in return. Liam and others quickly clustered around.
“Soft, friend,” Kyle said amiably, getting Aidan under control. “We already know you’ve gone mad and admire you for it. But why beat on someone you just risked your life for? Is this something they teach at the abbey?”
When Aidan’s anger had ebbed enough for him to reply, he growled, “Yes. I’m beating a bit of the sin out.”
He glared while Brendan regained his composure. The witnesses carefully looked elsewhere. The young lord dabbed at the bloodied and already swelling parts of his face. He scowled at Aidan, and they locked eyes a long time.
“I believe anything I may owe you has just been repaid,” Brendan said softly.
Aidan found several retorts, but Kyle gripped his right arm with enough force to numb everything beneath those clamped fingers. Aidan took his friend’s silent advice and said nothing.
Brendan nodded thoughtfully, then turned and strode swiftly away without another glance at Lana or anyone else.
Liam cuffed Aidan so hard across the back of the head that Kyle had to help him keep his feet.
“He could have had you blinded for that!” Liam said. “What were you thinking?”
“Nothing,” Aidan replied. “Just that I will never make a monk.”
XXIII
Lana said not a word about Brendan or the fisticuffs. Once the others had turned away, Aidan drew her close. She merely clutched him and hid her face in his sleeve. He could feel her shame through her trembling hands. Having seen what she’d done in the alehouse, he wondered why she’d never punished her half brother with some kind of hex. Aidan knew not to ask. He held her instead.
In pain and abruptly exhausted, he decided not to wait for the elder Lord Donagh to appear. Aidan asked Lana if she wanted him to walk her downriver to her mother’s cottage.
“No,” she said. “First I want to make a birch poultice for your poor hand. We can do that at the creek. Then I want to go back to the holly and see if it would keep my rowan charm. You should come with me.”
Aidan wearily wiped his face with his sleeve. “What I should do is take the manuscripts back to the abbey.”
“They’ve been gone overnight. Another hour or two won’t make a difference. Leave them with your kin.”
Too tired to argue and longing for the searing in his hand to subside, he gave in. Before they left, Lana thrust the raw end of the battered holly branch into the ground near the horse trough.
“If it takes root it will bring powerful luck to the brewster,” she explained. “He’ll need some.”
“I thought holly brought ill luck except on the Yule.”
“It wasn’t unlucky for you, was
it? You have to know how to wield it.”
Aidan studied her face, recalling the dreadful apparition she’d made with a blazing bough in one hand and a holly sword in the other.
“You were astounding, Lana,” he said softly. His heart squeezed down on itself in an unfamiliar and vaguely frightening way. “Terrifying and astounding.”
She looked at the ground, licking her lips. “I’ve never hurt anyone like that before,” she mumbled. “Even if they were invaders.”
He touched her elbow. “You did right. They would have gone on to kill many more somewhere else.”
“Will my soul burn for it, though?”
Aidan knew how he wanted to answer, but not what heaven’s answer would be. Thinking of the newly dead villager and the injured one likely to join him, he ached as though he’d dealt their fatal blows himself. If he had never sunk the longboats, probably both men would have welcomed next week. Yet he didn’t see how a person could take action at all if he stood trembling in fear of the unknowable future.
“If any soul needs the purification of fire for tonight’s work,” he decided, his stomach clenching, “it is mine. Yet Christ spoke of forgiveness. I will pray hard that God may grant it to you. Perhaps His grace will extend also to me.”
The concern on her face did not vanish, but an uncertain smile lightened it. She cupped the back of his burned hand. “You’ve already been in the fire,” she said. “I’ll hope that was enough.”
Lana dressed Aidan’s seared hand with a mash of wet, crumpled birch leaves and moss. The cool, soft cushion soon muffled the bolts of pain being thrown up his arm. She decided to hold the poultice in place with a strip ripped from the hem of her chemise.
“My undershift is already torn,” he offered. “Want to use that?”
“You can’t tear a decent strip with only one hand, can you?” she asked.
“No, but you probably—” He stopped at the picture that rose in his mind. The potential embarrassment in lifting the hem of his robe up his bare thighs or fishing through its new rip daunted them both. Lana blushed. Neither said anything more about his idea.
