She squinted at the cramped writing. Hippocrates?
The Physician! And for a pagan you’ll leave the Lord’s own words unread? Her inner voice sounded like the old abbess’. Enough of that; no fault of his he lived before Christ and had no chance to hear the Truth.
Mayhap he became a saint when Our Lord harrowed Hell. He was a good man.
She moved closer to the hanging lamp, taking care that no oil might drip onto the page. She whispered thanks that this was a Latin translation, for she read little Greek.
She jumped when the door creaked. Halldor bowed his head to clear the doorway. “Is all as it should be here?”
“The books are safe.” Brigit clutched the volume. It had no gold leaf, few pictures, and no jeweled cover. Surely he’d not seize it?
“The men misliked my orders,” Halldor said, “but I’ve long known that a book may be a treasure. What is it you have there?” He reached out.
Brigit surrendered the tome; at least his hands were clean.
“A collection of writings by Hippocrates. He was a Greek physician who lived long before Christ.”
“And his words wandered past his lifetime, far from his own land?”
Halldor looked thoughtful. “I have never fared to Greece, but I’ve drunk with some who did. Bright sun, tiny islands in a dreaming sea—well, the world is wide. No man can see it all.” He looked down at the page. “Yet those marks are his words, long after he lies cold.” He smiled and handed back the volume. “So what does this great man say, that has been preserved so long?”
Brigit ruffled through the leaves. “Here is one that may pertain to how I treated your son: Extreme remedies are very appropriate for extreme diseases. Though I think Hippocrates would not have done as I did. His way was more with herbs. I’ve seen herbs fail too often.” She looked up at Halldor, his brown face weather-scored, his beard and hair showing first streaks of grey, and said, slyly, “Another here: Old people have fewer diseases than the young, but their diseases never leave them.”
Halldor flexed his fingers. His mouth twisted. “Right,” he said. “No fevers burn me, nor the wasting cough, but year by year these hands creak more when they wrestle cold lines, or grasp the tiller in an icy fog.” He closed one eye. “Ah, the stiffness of old age!”
Brigit blushed and gripped the book.
Halldor smiled. “Well, what else have you here?” He gestured to the other satchels.
Brigit spoke in haste. “Gospels, and a life of Saint Brendan the Navigator, and also of Saint Senan, who founded this monastery and banished a monster from this very island.”
Halldor chuckled. “Banished a monster? Well for us that he did!”
Would it might return and drive you hence.
“This Brendan—I’ve heard he was a sailor too.”
“Brendan sailed west with a crew of monks in search of Tir na n’Óg.”
“Did he find it? Got he much plunder?”
“He went, you heathen, to bring the Word of God!” Brigit half-rose, but sank back to her stool. After that outburst he’d burn the books…
He showed no sign of anger. “How dull, to fare with monks. Fish, bitter beer, and prayer. Did he find the land he sought?”
“Yes, he did,” snapped Brigit, “and brought back fruit and gems from the sinless folk who lived there.”
“Ah.” Halldor’s gaze was far away. “He found land to the West.” Again he flexed his fingers, and his smile was bitter. “Not for me to go there. But my son?… Best you go see to him.”
Wordless, Brigit snuffed the lamps and latched the scriptorium door.
In his invalid’s hut, Ranulf stared at the thatched roof. He spoke to Halldor, who translated: “He hates being lifted like an infant that he might take food and drink.”
“He must be improving indeed, if complaints are any sign,” said Brigit.
“But he cannot sit unsupported, and when I prop him up he falls to the right. He’s been learning to eat with his left hand.” As she spoke she checked the bedding. It must be changed again, and in this weather the blankets would never dry. Halldor stood silent for a time, then left the hut.
In a while she heard sawing and hammering.
She laundered the bedding on the shore and headed through twilight back to the scriptorium. Perhaps she could snatch some time by herself.
Perhaps if she stayed late, Halldor would be asleep.
This time, in penance, she took down a Gospel-book. She’d been lax in her devotions. Devotions indeed! And when had she time? She bent over the scripture, hoping to lose herself in the sacred words.
She’d read several chapters of John when a gust of chill air ruffled the pages and blew out the lamps. Brigit looked up. A figure blocked the door.
She flinched, then from the shoulders and height recognized Halldor.
“The hour grows late, and the storm will clear by dawn,” he told her.
“We’d best to bed.”
Wordless, she returned the book to its satchel and followed him.
Standing in the yellow lamplight inside the snug skin tent, Brigit tried to delay. “You told me you’d sailed to northern waters, and seen things such as those Brendan described?”
Halldor sat on the bed and removed his boots. “Indeed I have. Look at this leather.” He held forth one boot for her inspection. Once more his look went afar. “I might fare there again some day. It was north that I first sailed, in my trading days.” He grinned suddenly. “Their land is cold yonder, but not their women! Ah, that autumn reindeer-gathering when I guested among the Samek!”
Brigit cringed. Should she be surprised that Halldor had known many women, and remembered them with joy? Moreover, he had a wife and legitimate children.
Halldor set down his boots and began to remove his clothing. “Those were good times. But we are here and now.” Brigit sat beside him. Would he mention her to some future concubine? Perhaps by then she would be dead. She began to shiver. Halldor held her close, and she did not pull away from his warmth.
Halldor had predicted right: dawn came clear and brilliant. Brigit woke alone. The crews were already raiding, she knew, gathering the last goodness from the land. She rolled over on the bearskins and sneezed. The reflex made her gag. She sat up and felt dizzy. Weak from scanty meals, no doubt; but why did the thought of food repel her?
She’d fallen asleep naked. Now she looked down at her body, white against the furs. Blue veins traced across her swollen breasts—she had always been slight-figured. It cannot be. But her time was days overdue.
She’d counted on the bleeding to keep Halldor away, and it had not come.
Ah, it’s only worried I am, for no cause. She swung her legs from beneath the covers and reached for her garments. Her throat closed and her mouth watered. She took deep breaths. There. That was better. She ventured a weak smile. Did legend not have it that Saint Senan struck barren any woman who trod his island? She wanted to snuggle down amid the furs and sleep, but she must get on with the day. She pulled her shift over her head.
Flat and helpless, Ranulf just the same smiled at her. He spoke with care, trying Gaelic. “My father made a gift.” He gestured to one of his attendants and spat a few Norse words. The man propped him up and raised a sheepskin-covered board behind his back. Brigit marveled at the construction: the hinges were leather, the backboard formed a triangle with the braces which locked into each other, and the right side had a padded shelf for support. She bent closer. The heathen sign of the Hammer was graven into the wood.
“My father,” Ranulf said with pride, “built this yesterday.” He leaned back at an angle and did not fall.
So that is how he spent his rainy day. She brought Ranulf his food. He had a better appetite than she’d seen before.
After he was settled, Brigit left the hut. She’d meant to seek the scriptorium, but took, instead, the left-hand path toward the sacred well.
She felt better by far than when she’d first risen. The grass sprang vivid green b
eneath her feet. By daylight the pool was in no wise dark or foreboding. It shimmered back at the sky, and was so shallow she could touch bottom without wetting her elbow. The moss smelled rich, and the water trilled into the basin.
She sipped water and rinsed her face. “Holy Brigit, my namesake, help me. I meant to live and die a virgin. Let me not bear a child.” She closed her eyes to pray, but saw instead:
Lamplit gloom. A woman tossing on bloodstained straw. Her hair flew damp and tangled, and her face shone grey. She bit her lip to keep from screaming. Burnt herbs sharpened the air. A shadow figure raised the woman’s head and gave a drink, but she gagged. Her breath came shrill and rapid.
The shadow figure spoke. “The birthing’s gone wrong. Conaill will mourn his favorite slave. Naught can be done that I know of. A pity; she served us well.”
Brigit wept. Well had she chosen her life, and what had it availed? Did I choose from fear, or for love of God?
“There’s little left for taking in these parts,” Halldor remarked. Dark it was already; they’d been gone all day. He set down his eating-bowl.
“A pity, that you’ve stolen it so fast,” she said. “And driven the folk from their homes as well, so great your diligence!” A shadow fell across where she sat on the bed.
Halldor had risen to stand above her. He smelled of fire. “If your folk lack strength to defend themselves, it’s their fate.”
She wondered, briefly, if he would strike her. She did not care. But he stepped back.
“You know all this. Yet tonight—I’ve no wish to strike you unless I must.
What troubles you?”
If I do not tell him it may go away. “I’ve no way to get shriven, no way to attend Mass. The chapel here is desecrated, the monks and priests lie dead, and you keep me on this island as your slave!” She glared at him.
“Well do I tend your son, though you know I could have done him harm, but for my own needs you care not at all!”
Halldor frowned. “What would you have me do?”
“Well you know what I’d have you do. Leave me in peace!” She could not let him see her cry.
He looked her full in the face. “As you wish. We sail at dawn, to be away several days. You will stay with Ranulf and two of the wounded.” She retreated to the corner. He sat on the bed and drew off his boots, then looked at her in surprise. “You need not sleep on the floor. I’ve said I would not touch you tonight.”
She hesitated, then crept in beside him when he slept.
Dawn-birds screeched above the raucous shouts as men hauled their ships to deeper water. Brigit curled into the furs. They’d roust her forth soon, that Halldor might take his tent.
But when she woke again all was quiet. Halldor had left not only his son, but his campsite in her care. She rose, fighting nausea, and donned her outer clothing.
Wind whipped across the barren isle. Where dragonships had dotted the bay, the water gleamed empty. Where tents had sprawled on the green, only pegmarks and bits of offal remained. The great cooking fire was a smoking charcoal pit. Brigit turned and, for the first time, dared to look at the round tower.
It stood high as ever. They’d lit no fire, then, to make of it a chimney. Of course not, the books were safe. But she’d heard the screams of murdered monks. Now their unblest graves were lapped by river tides.
She walked through morning mist to the hut where Ranulf lay, near his two attendants. From their fuddled expressions they’d drunk deep the night before.
She was alone now with the three of them. Ranulf would be no problem, but the other two were of his band. They and he had tumbled her in the dirt countless times. While she had little Norse, they had less Gaelic.
She’d learned a few words, though. She stepped inside the hut and pointed to a bucket. “Water,” she said, “and firewood.” One of the men glowered but limped off to do her bidding. The other sat sullen in a corner. So they fear Halldor. She felt brief gratitude, and began Ranulf’s exercises. Perhaps, with her few words, she could tell him more of Christ.
Days of waiting passed, and still Brigit’s time did not come. Ever more the morning mist sickened her. She spent hours talking with Ranulf, trying to instruct him in the Faith. When not with him she stayed in the scriptorium, save when she crept late at night to Halldor’s empty tent.
Ranulf’s two friends remained sulky, but caused no trouble. He could raise his right arm now, move the toes on his right leg, and manage the slant-board by himself. Halldor made it for his son, Brigit thought, and ran her hand across the Hammer. Would Conaill had carved even a doll for me.
The bedding stank, and must be washed. Once on her way to the riverbank she looked at the abandoned chapel. She’d not gone there since Ranulf was moved. She set the soiled cloths into the river, weighted them with rocks, and stepped away from the shore.
The chapel was dank. Mushrooms sprouted on the untrod floor. Still the crucifix, black wood bearing the White Christ, glimmered above the altar. Brigit knelt, then picked it up and carried it forth. Ranulf made no comment as she set it above his bed. His friends, when they came in, looked afraid.
Daily Brigit worried more. Perhaps the legend granted sterility to Saint Senan’s tomb only, not his island? Although she slept there, or rather shivered all one rainy night, she had no sign. Too fretful to be still, she wandered the island. The round tower held the memory of blood. She went instead to the sacred well.
Daily as she fed or cleaned Ranulf, or moved his limbs, she would say, “I do this in the name of Christ,” and gesture at the crucifix. She taught him also, as part of his exercises, to make the Sign of the Cross.
When he cried out with pain she put the cross into his hands and pointed at the Sacred Wounds. “See, then, what Christ did for you?”
“I’ve seen wounded men,” said Ranulf. He handed the crucifix back.
Perhaps that was a beginning. Yet that same night, as Brigit lay in Halldor’s bed, in Halldor’s tent, she could not sleep. Almost she could imagine Halldor himself beside her—and almost she wished it were so. She rose and knelt until her knees ached and she trembled, then lay on the hard ground to sleep.
Next morning rain slashed the island and the river tossed grey-and-white waves. Bad weather for travel, Brigit thought. Halldor was due home today—but would he dare the Shannon in the storm? And why should she care for one who’d been out raiding her own land?
Still, during the day she stepped to the door of the hut or the scriptorium and looked upriver into greyness, until at last she saw the prow of the Sea Bear. Then she stepped indoors, ignoring the triumphant shouts as the men returned.
“Your father comes,” she told Ranulf. “I will go to the chapel.”
VII
WHEN THE KEEL OF HIS SHIP TOUCHED ground, Halldor sprang from the steering oar, forward across the benches, and overboard at the bow. His crew could draw her up and make her fast. They understood his need.
Water squelched chill in his shoes as he ran toward the monastery. Rain, harried by a loud wind, stung his cheeks.
He glimpsed Ranulf’s two companions, but forgot about them after he came into the hut. His son lived—sat upright against the backrest—had regained some weight—lifted his right arm in greeting, feebly but nonetheless lifted it!
“How have you fared?” they said into each other’s mouths. Then laughter whooped from the father.
He grasped Ranulf’s hand which had come alive again. That side of the face had too, was still sagging and sluggish, yet could help out in a smile…
or a wince, as pain caused a sharply indrawn breath. “I’m sorry,” Halldor said, and let go. The hand dropped to the blanket. “That was too hard for you, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve a long way ahead before I’m hale.” Ranulf’s voice was also weak, and his tongue dragged a bit. “Brigit warns me that belike I’ll never have my full strength back. But she thinks I will be able to get about and do enough of a man’s work to earn my keep.”
Halldor told himse
lf to be glad. Aloud he answered, “Well, remember the saying of Odin:
The lame go on horseback, the handless tend herds, The deaf are undaunted in war.
Better be blind than burnt on your pyre.
No deeds can a dead man do. After all, if everything goes as it should, we’ll be no more in viking. If you feel restless, come along on a trading voyage.”
At his words, it was as though dread touched Ranulf. “Odin—” he whispered. “The One-Eyed gives such a rede, but it’s he who sends battle-madness into men… I do not think—” his gaze sought the crucifix—“I do not think the White Christ is that fickle.”
“What do you mean?” said Halldor, taken aback. Through him stabbed the thought, He’s not even asked what happened these past days.
“Brigit and I,” said Ranulf unevenly, “we’ve begun talking. I’ve learned a few words of her speech, she more of ours—she has a quick wit—as she tended me or… often sat in here because I’d feel happier and mend faster if I wasn’t alone, and Bjarni and Svein haven’t the patience… She says her God healed—is healing me. She says she could have done naught without him.”
Halldor forced a shrug. “Any Christian will tell you that.”
“But it must be true! What else could it be? She’s cut no runes, seethed no witch-brew, called on no being save this. Though I wronged her woefully, yes, her and Christ both, I am helped—Why? They say Christ forgives those who come to him.”
“They say,” Halldor snapped.
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