by Joni Sensel
Lana had only to curl the border of her long shift a few inches to tear at the fabric beneath. Though he’d seen plenty of legs while working the fields, Aidan found himself fascinated by his glimpses of hers. When she struggled, he wanted to help. He thought better of it.
As she gently tied the strip around his useless hand, he studied her face and wondered what she would do. Even if she still surrendered herself to the abbey, as she’d agreed to do just the previous afternoon, Aidan no longer believed a stone penitent’s cell would hold her. Perhaps her part in repaying the raiders—and saving the ransom—might move Lord Donagh to pardon her. Freed, she could return to her mother. Aidan felt a stab of selfish sorrow at that hope.
He thought about his own future, too, as they made their way back to the holly bush they’d visited in the dark hours before dawn. Brother Nathan’s scriptorium would bear Aidan’s mark; the books he had saved ensured that. But could he bear the abbey’s mark upon him? He pondered going back to unhurried movements, downcast eyes, obedience, silence. The monastery promised rest and peace. Although at the moment he longed for both, he feared a monk’s life, for him, would also bring numbness.
When she spotted the holly, Lana gave a cry and ran ahead. Her rowan charm lay on the ground beneath the branch where she’d hung it.
She scooped it up and spun to him, beaming. Her eleven rose and sang.
“Look! The holly has given my charm back. That means we don’t owe it anything more. It is satisfied with our use of its wood.”
He smiled, more pleased by her jubilance than whatever relief he should feel. While she drew the red yarn back over her neck, Aidan gnawed at his lips and tried to make a decision. Looking back down the hill toward the monastery, and seeing instead everything that had passed since they’d both been inside its ramparts, he realized abruptly that most of his choice had already slipped past him. He had spent a year of apprenticeship in the abbey, and years of study before that, and the events of a single night had swept him too far downriver to return.
The same events had swept him elsewhere, though, and he was not there alone.
He caught Lana’s hand and drew it to his chest. The girlish joy on her face mellowed to something richer but also more uncertain. She leaned into him. The hum of eleven about her leapt with a harmonic of hope.
Aidan brushed his lips against her eyelids and the bridge of her nose, but he forced himself to stop there. If his lips fell upon hers, he knew the Naught of her kiss would completely empty his mind, and he had something he wanted to say, or to ask. If he did not set it loose soon, it would cower inside him until more reasoned thoughts battered it into regret.
“Lana, listen to me,” he pleaded, when her free hand glided up his arm to his shoulder, urging his face back toward hers.
The earnestness in his voice gave her pause. She drew back a half step.
Aidan closed his eyes to ask for some grace. Deprived of the sight of her face, they sprang open again.
“I’m sure I am not under the proper tree, or the moon is not right, or everything’s wrong,” he began. The words tumbled from his lips and seemed to skitter away, unchecked, into the long morning shadows. “I can’t help it. And I know that you haven’t known me for long, Lana, but it feels as though you’ve known me fairly, and I am … bewitched by you, truly. So I guess with God’s help what I mean to say is—Lana, would you be my wife?”
Her mouth fell open before she caught it up and made it work more correctly. “But … what of the abbey?”
He looked down between them, acutely aware of the dirt and blood and violence marking his robe. “With my father and Gabriel gone,” he said softly, “there will be enough O’Kirin cattle for me.” He gulped back both sorrow and guilt, feeling as though he were treading on graves that had not even been dug yet. He and Gabriel had been close, though, and Aidan knew that Gabe would approve of him taking his place. “I haven’t asked Liam or Michael yet, of course,” he amended, “but I am certain they will not object. And so many have been killed that the clan will be forced to hold a gaveling soon, to redistribute the land, and I can get a share of my own.”
After a worrisome silence, he added, “I will ask your mother, your uncle, or even your father for your hand if you like. ’Tis your answer that matters first, though.”
“Oh, Aidan,” she murmured. Then she fell quiet again. He could barely raise his eyes to her face, afraid of finding disdain, or worse, amusement. He steeled himself and met her gaze.
“Yes,” she said, having waited for that. “I will and with honor, if you don’t change your mind.” Apprehension tainted her happy glow. “But what about your books? What about being a scribe?”
He tried to ignore the knot between his stomach and throat. “I don’t think I can do it,” he managed, forcing the words out. “I’m not sure I could have taken the vows in good faith even if I had not met you. And now all that has happened, all that I feel …” He shook his head helplessly.
She stepped closer again and raised her free hand to stroke his where it still held the other to his chest. “You know how to read regardless. If you’ll chop the wood, I will help you make tablets from beech. Beech wood is smooth and full of ideas, and it holds on to knowledge. It is perfect for writing. You can make books of your own.”
Trying to smile at her innocent suggestion, he did not lay out the reasons he couldn’t. He just raised both her hands and pressed his lips to her knuckles. They wanted to explore her hands farther, but he made them talk yet.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he said. “After Mass I will ask Father Niall—” A fear struck him. “If he’s still alive, anyway, I will ask if he would sanctify our marriage.”
“Our handfasting,” she added, squeezing his fingers. A dreamy anticipation lit her face.
Reluctant to disturb that joy but unable to press back a worry, Aidan said, “I’m not sure if a bastard’s father has the right to approve any match, but yours often takes liberties that aren’t rightly his. Do you think he will object to me?”
She snorted. “He won’t care. You just saved both his son and his ransom. Besides, I can always renounce the inheritance that the law says I should get. He’d be delighted to keep that as a bride-price.”
“I don’t deserve a bride that costly,” murmured Aidan, both relieved and appalled.
“Don’t make me slap you,” she said, softening the words with a smile. Then a startled look crossed her face. “My mother certainly has to approve, though!” Her concern shifted quickly back to a grin. “Though ’tis hard to see how she could object to a monk.”
Aidan said gently, “I won’t be a monk for much longer. I’ll just be a herdsman and a tiller of land.” It hurt even more to say to her than to admit to himself. He grimaced in apprehension of relating that decision to those left at the abbey.
They parted there in the woods. Lana would not hear of him taking her back to her mother’s cottage that day. She wanted to present him as a suitor, preferably one not wearing a monk’s robe streaked with blood. He understood. He didn’t mind missing the extra walk, either. Hunger had begun to gnaw through his exhaustion and he wanted to beg a few bites from Liam, return the manuscripts he’d saved, and be done with whatever trial he might face with the monks.
Aidan found the abbey mercifully free of corpses. The grating sound of the number one, that buzz of fear and pain and dread that had echoed the last time he’d been here, had faded. Kinder, more familiar numbers had replaced it, prompting a twinge of nostalgia he hadn’t expected. He hesitated just inside the front gate, braced for shouts or expulsion. The few monks within view only looked, saw he posed no threat, and continued their scrubbing of blood.
Not sure where to go first, he glanced into the open doorway of the dead abbot’s chamber as he passed. It was not empty, as he had assumed it would be. Brother Nathan kneeled in the corner, his hands clasped in prayer.
Aidan stopped and stood in the doorway a moment, unsure what to do. He did not want to interrupt
devotions, but the door yawned wide open, and Brother Nathan was the person he most wanted to see.
While he debated whether to speak or walk on, Brother Nathan heard his rustling presence. He opened his eyes.
“Brother Aidan,” he said. “I was not sure we would see you ag—” He froze, taking in the fabric-wrapped bundle clasped to Aidan’s chest.
“I’ve mostly come to return these,” Aidan said, hurrying to rest his load on the table. “Did you hear what took place at the brewster’s?”
“We heard.” Brother Nathan’s somber expression made Aidan wonder which details the monk knew. He supposed, given his errand, it made little difference.
Nathan continued, “The messenger did not mention, however, that any of God’s stolen riches had been retrieved.” He rose quickly from the corner to lay his hands on the altar cloths. As he drew the fabric aside, the old monk uttered a dry gasp.
“’Tis only a few, the rest were hacked apart for their bindings or burned,” Aidan said, apologetic. Brother Nathan did not answer. He ran his hands over the leather-bound volumes, quickly sliding them left and right to see which books had been saved. Even after he’d touched each one twice, his hands hovered, trembling, over their covers.
“I think,” he said, sinking very slowly onto his stool, “you had better explain your part in this merciful bounty from God.”
XXIV
Aidan told Brother Nathan in broad strokes what he had done since he’d run out of the chapel the night before. He managed to do so without mentioning Lana, only describing the events at the alehouse as a vengeful attack by the villagers. Brother Nathan might very well know the whole story already, but Aidan would not be the one to bring up her name or anything she had done.
As he talked, he fought a distraction. He’d spotted a few fragments of wood in the corner. Roughly the size of spoons, they’d caught his eye because he could hear them humming numbers far too low for wood. He realized they must be the discarded wood rods Lana had been trying to pawn to pilgrims. Remembering that she had wanted them back, he hoped he would get a chance to retrieve them for her, either with or without Brother Nathan’s permission.
When Aidan finished speaking, Brother Nathan tapped two fingers against his lips.
“I cannot tell you how grateful I am,” the old monk said finally. “My prayers have been answered in a way I thought impossible.” His eyes narrowed at Aidan. “One of my prayers, at least. Tell me, Brother Aidan, how another will be answered. You have been blatantly disobedient and absent from this monastery for nearly a full day. How shall I view your return? Shall I call Brother Eamon and give him the glad news that he still has a novice to ward?”
Aidan focused on the pain in his left hand to avoid the tingling shame that coursed through the rest of his body. He couldn’t raise his eyes off the table.
“I still long with all my heart to serve as a scribe, Brother Nathan,” he said, when he trusted his voice. “But I have realized that my devotion may be too weak for me to be a good monk.”
“Or your own will too strong, perhaps,” Nathan remarked.
Closing his eyes, Aidan just nodded.
Nathan rose from his stool. Aidan flinched, not sure what to expect, but the old monk simply walked past to stand at his door, looking out. Aidan kept his face toward the wall.
“Your honesty, at least, pleases heaven,” Nathan said from behind him. “I am forced to agree. Yet I hesitate to release a novice whom God has directed to restore our library.”
Taken aback, Aidan listened to Brother Nathan’s nine humming an intricate harmony against the hush in the room. An imaginative spirit coiled inside that number. Hearing it, Aidan decided he had nothing to lose.
“I have not heard of it done,” he said to the table, “but might your scriptorium ever admit a lay scribe?”
“I cannot allow profane hands to set down God’s holy Word,” Brother Nathan replied immediately, his tone clipped.
“Of course not,” Aidan murmured. “I’m sorry.” He had thought, when he had asked his question, that little hope lay behind it. The distance his heart now fell made it clear he’d been fooling himself. He let his fingers say good-bye to the books on the table before him. His hand shook.
Then he cleared the lump from his throat and added, “Should I see Brother Eamon before I go?” He wanted desperately to bury his dreams and escape.
“Not yet.”
Aidan clenched his jaw and waited to see what else Brother Nathan might say. The monk did not move from the doorway. The silence stretched on so long, Aidan would have thought Brother Nathan had departed if not for the lyric nine zinging behind him.
Finally he peeked over his shoulder to check whether Brother Nathan was even looking at him. The senior monk leaned against the door frame, his eyes closed, his head bent, and his hands folded in prayer.
Confused, Aidan fidgeted. Brother Nathan’s instructions to remain, however, had been clear. While the failed novice watched and wondered what to do, the elder monk flashed his hawk’s eyes open once more.
“I am not abbot yet,” Brother Nathan told Aidan. “It is likely, however, that I will be, unless our good Lord Donagh has more kin in need of a post.”
Wondering why Nathan even mentioned his own authority, Aidan concluded it must herald the declaration of some punishment or price for renouncing the life of a monk. He steeled himself to hear it.
“I will remain the scriptorium’s master regardless,” Nathan continued. “We have more empty tables today than we did yesterday. Yet God’s grace has ensured that the scribes who remain need not sit idle.” Leaving the doorway to return to his seat, he gave Aidan an inscrutable look from beneath his woolly gray brows.
“I cannot allow profane hands to copy God’s Word,” Nathan repeated, “but decoration, perhaps, might not always require the tonsure. Vines and borders and humble creatures are part of God’s work but not, strictly speaking, His Word. A lay brother might serve as a colorist or illuminator. Or a copyist of our two remaining profane works.” His gaze slid briefly to the books on the table before returning to Aidan. “If the circumstance were unusual enough.”
Aidan tried to draw a breath. His chest refused to permit it. He must have misunderstood.
“And if he could be trusted never to step over the bounds he was given,” Nathan added. “On pain of expulsion, with no second chance. Could you bow to such constraint? Obedience has not been your strength.”
His eyes wide, Aidan started to reply jubilantly. He’d always been more drawn to illumination than text, and most scribes specialized in one or the other anyhow. Whatever bounds Nathan drew would be spacious compared to losing the opportunity forever. And the abbey’s expectations of those who would never take perpetual vows and the tonsure were light enough to bear, especially knowing he could throw them off again every eve—
A thought struck him. He hid his face in his good hand. “I guess I cannot,” he moaned. “I have asked someone to become my wife, just this day, and she has accepted.” He imagined telling Lana that he’d changed his mind. Although he thought she might understand, he couldn’t face the full weight of the guilt and loss that wrenched at him now, just considering it. He still wanted Lana, even knowing the price. “I’m sorry, Brother Nathan,” he added. “Only heaven knows how much. But I can’t turn my back on that pledge. Or on her.”
His eyebrows crowding his hair, Brother Nathan rubbed his weathered jaw. “I must say you have been remarkably busy since you left to gather oak apples, Aidan,” he said. “And you are wise to recognize the gravity of your commitment. But I do not see any objection per se. A lay brother is not a monk in holy orders, and while many live here with us by the rules of this house, others vow chastity as a voluntary virtue. Members of the laity are not bound either as residents or bachelors.”
Aidan could not believe his ears or God’s grace.
“Besides,” Brother Nathan said dryly, “you know as well as I do that some of our clergy, and monks in too man
y lax houses, take Saint Paul’s advice against wives rather lightly. I will ask only that you behave as discreetly as possible. You are here by the Hour of Prime and remain through Vespers, just as servants and all lay brothers do. And she does not enter this abbey except to worship at the High Cross like any other Christian woman. I reserve the right to rescind this privilege, Aidan, and I will do so immediately if my heart ever tells me that God does not approve.”
Aidan would have remained there giving thanks until sunset if Brother Nathan had let him.
XXV
In his excitement, Aidan almost forgot Lana’s wood. When he remembered, just outside the doorway, he stuck his head back inside and meekly asked Brother Nathan if it would do any harm for him to take it.
The senior monk raised one eyebrow and gave Aidan the most scrutinizing stare of his life. He felt as though Brother Nathan were seeing him unclothed.
“I told them you would never withstand that temptation,” Brother Nathan said. “I tried to distract you. I see how soundly I failed. But I suppose the truth is better known sooner than later. I hope you will take it upon yourself to lead your bride, once she is yours, nearer to God.”
Having no intention of repaying Nathan’s generosity with a lie, Aidan licked his lips and said, “I will try, Brother Nathan.” He didn’t expect to succeed.
“At least ensure that she does not lead you farther from Him. If I see that, our agreement will end.”
“Of course,” Aidan assured him.
Nathan’s gaze shifted to the wood on the floor. “Can I trust that this … kindling will trouble pilgrims, Lord Donagh, and this abbey no more?”
“I swear it.”
Brother Nathan waved at the sticks. “Take it and begone, then. I expect you to find a clean robe and a few hours of sleep and to stand at the High Cross with the lay brethren by Prime in the morning. You can begin your new life fittingly with the Mass.”
Aidan cradled the wood to his heart and pondered its humming all the way back to Lana’s uprooted tree. He wasn’t sure she would be there, but she had offered to return before sunset in the hope that he could also return and share the results of his trial. Though he tried to run, his feet dragged in weariness and he stumbled over painful memories of lost family and friends. He wondered, aching with loss and guilt, if those dreadful deaths had somehow funded his recent good fortune. As excited as a part of him felt, he would not have chosen the trade.
