Black Monastery Page 13

  They weren’t warriors, neither Frankish soldiers, nor his crew. All three wore peasant garb: poor dirty brown tunics and hose. They were locals, more villagers, but why were they attacking one of their own? The men had been talking and laughing, but at the sight of Asgrim, their grins disappeared and were replaced by confusion. All three stared at the naked sword blade in his hand. The rage in Alda’s face was replaced by fear, and Asgrim realized suddenly that she feared for him and for what these men would do to him. That was why she hadn’t screamed when they attacked her. She was trying to protect him.

  He exhaled, trying to stand as steady as he could. She was brave, this one, too brave to be abused by these dirt-eating shitbags.

  “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t really care,” he said, “but if you don’t let her go and leave, I’m going to kill all three of you.”

  The men stared at him in confusion, their faces blank. One mumbled something, and Asgrim thought he heard the word “Viking.” He scowled, trying to appear as threatening as he could, thankful for once for his frightening visage. Their eyes went from his sword to the bandages pinning his left arm to his chest, then to his face. He saw the fear in their eyes and knew what they were thinking: here was a warrior, armed with a long sword, who was more than a match for any three farmers. But as he stepped away from the doorway, he stumbled and swayed, only just catching himself before falling down.

  Gods damn it!

  Two of the men looked to the third, the one who had been trying to disrobe Alda. A tall handsome fellow with a trimmed beard and large ears, he was obviously the ringleader, because he began giving orders to the other two, watching Asgrim with uncertainty. Even without speaking Frankish, Asgrim understood the man’s intent as all three stepped away from Alda, letting her go as they drew knives and spread out around him.

  Asgrim closed his eyes and staggered backward. Seeing his chance, one of the men rushed forward—exactly as Asgrim had hoped. He pivoted on his back leg, moving out of the way of the man’s clumsy attack at the same time as he lashed out with his blade against the side of the man’s neck. The moment his sword made contact, he yanked it back, cutting deeply. The man’s shriek was cut off almost instantly as he fell forward, spraying blood from the lethal wound. But Asgrim, off balance now, collapsed forward onto his knees, his shoulder throbbing in agony, his vision going black. Another of the men rushed forward, but Asgrim managed to thrust out with Heart-Ripper, stabbing the sword point into his groin. It was a clumsy attack and would have failed had the man not practically thrown himself onto the weapon in his rush to get at Asgrim. Even though Asgrim skewered the man’s balls, he still collided into Asgrim, entangling them both and sending Asgrim to his back. He savagely twisted his blade deeper into the man. Blood drenched his sword hand, and the man began screaming and thrashing. Something popped in his shoulder, and the agony that ripped through him was far worse than before. Unable to hold on to his sword any longer, he let go of the weapon. With a yell of pure agony, he shoved the wounded man away with his good arm, disentangling himself.

  Asgrim lay on his back, gasping for air, his vision fading. The last man, the leader, scrambled forward and plopped down atop Asgrim, pinning his arms with his legs. His face was filled with rage as he leaned forward with his knife to cut Asgrim’s throat.

  So this would be his fate, to die at the hands of some dirty peasant, a man he would have cut open in a moment had he not been injured. The Nornar must have been laughing.

  Just for a moment, Asgrim felt the cold touch of steel at his throat. If the blade was sharp, he would barely feel the cut, just the gush of his blood pouring out. Then he saw Alda’s fingers yank back on the man’s hair, pulling his head back. The man’s eyes registered his surprise as Alda cut his throat open with a knife. Hot blood sprayed into Asgrim’s face, and the man fell away from him.

  Asgrim rolled over onto his uninjured side, gasping and heaving with the effort of breathing. The pain throbbed and pulsed in his shoulder, but he lived. He wouldn’t die today, after all.

  Fate.

  He closed his eyes and laughed through his agony.

  Alda helped him up and led him back into her hut, where she put him to bed again. He fell asleep in a moment, but this time, he didn’t remember his dreams.

  * * *

  Alda dragged the corpses of her brother-in-law and his friends into the woods and buried them, praying no one would ever find them. It took her the better part of a day, and when she finished packing the last of the dirt over the unmarked graves, she leaned against her shovel and wiped her arm against her sweaty forehead. It was late in the evening, already dark. She felt strangely empty of emotion, as if nothing that had happened was real. Certainly, she felt no pity or remorse for the deaths of the three men. They were worse than animals. They would have dishonored her, just as her brother-in-law had after Marellus had died. All three of them would have taken turns, and after… would they have left her alive when they were done? Or, fearing she might tell their wives, would they have killed her? Alda closed her eyes and shivered.

  She knew what was most likely.

  Asgrim had saved her life. And she herself had killed her brother-in-law. She was a murderer now. Would God forgive her sins? Perhaps if she confessed, but there was no priest in the village. The monks had filled that role, and now the monks were all dead.

  She whispered a short prayer, asking God for forgiveness. She then added a short prayer for the souls of the men she had just buried. Then she turned and walked back through the woods to her hut, carrying her shovel over her shoulder.

  What now? Would others come looking for the men, or would they assume the northmen had killed them? Would they think to come here and blame her? If they did, they would kill Asgrim and her, as well. He had saved her, but he was a Viking, the terror of good Christians everywhere. No one would forgive her for tending his wounds. They would kill him on the spot and then kill her, as well, for hiding him. But she had saved his life, making her responsible for him. And twice now, he had fought for her. It was all so convoluted, so complex. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t stay here anymore; she had no place among these people, not with her husband dead. Celsa had been her last connection with them, and now she was gone, as well. Had Alda had children, they would have bonded her more firmly with the villagers, but that path was gone. It had died with Marellus. The villagers wouldn’t accept her, not ever. She just wasn’t a member of their extended family. Without a husband to take her in, she was nothing more than a curiosity, a nonexistent person to be used and abused whenever they wanted.

  But if she had no place here among them, what then? On her own, she would get nowhere, but she would never survive the winter, not without help. How long before other men came to attack her—the lone woman living in the woods?

  Alda had put herself in grave danger by taking in Asgrim. Often, women from the village would come to see her, seeking help such as poultices, herbal teas, and other remedies she had learned from her father. In fact, one young woman was supposed to drop by within days, seeking a draught to help her conceive. Of course, with the northmen on the island, she almost certainly wouldn’t come now; the trip was far too dangerous. But if she were to arrive suddenly and see Asgrim, she would tell the others about him, for sure.

  Her hut was dark when she got there. Asgrim was likely still asleep, which was good. His shoulder would heal better with rest. She placed her shovel against the wall of her hut and slipped inside. Asgrim’s snores met her, making her smile. Marellus had snored much like that. She curled up on the floor with an old blanket. Despite her exhaustion, sleep was a long time coming. And when she did sleep, she relived the day’s attack again. Only this time, Asgrim wasn’t there to stop them.

  And the eyes of the men were all-black.

  Ten

  Alda’s Hut,

  August 5, 799,

  Morning

  The next day, Asgrim woke feeling more like himself. His shoulder still p
ained him, but the throbbing had mostly ceased. Alda wasn’t there. However, a cracked gourd filled with water sat on a small tree stump that served as her table, as well as an apple and some cold porridge in a bowl next to it.

  He swung his feet over the bed and stood, pleased to find his disorientation gone. Ravenous, he devoured the contents of the bowl, then licked it clean. He crunched into the apple, savoring its juices, wondering when the last time he had eaten fruit had been. His face and beard were now clean of blood, which was clearly Alda’s doing. Heart-Ripper sat in its scabbard next to the bed. He drew the weapon and was pleased to see the bright crucible steel had been cleaned. Blood rotted metal quickly if left unattended. He slid the blade back into its scabbard and then hung the weapon over his shoulder, its familiar weight comforting him immediately. Even at home, Danes did not go about unarmed; there were far too many blood feuds and too many enemies that could strike out from a hiding spot. And clearly, this island was far more dangerous than home.

  He stepped outside, looking for Alda. The sun beat down on him through the canopy of trees, and he shaded his eyes with his forearm. No one was about. She had removed the corpses and swept the ground, covering the blood spilled there.

  All around him, birds sang from their perches in the trees. As he finished his apple, he examined her home. The hut was less impressive from the outside than it had been from inside, which really wasn’t saying much. It was just a simple round hut made from wattle and daub, and clearly, it had seen better times. It needed repairs, desperately. It reminded Asgrim of communal hunting lodges back home, temporary structures that everyone used when they needed them. He chewed his bottom lip as he examined the hut’s threadbare walls. Maybe winters were much milder on the island, but she would never survive the cold in such a hut back home in Denmark. He suspected she hadn’t been there long, nor did he think she wished to be here. This was the home of an outcast, he knew. There was a story here, a sad one.

  Turning, he examined her garden. While the hut was sad, her garden was impressive. She obviously knew what she was doing. Carrots and other vegetables he recognized grew beside plants he had never seen before. Most were tall and healthy. Some looked delicious, but others looked bizarre. He ripped a long leaf from one on the strange-looking plants and gazed at it. No one grew such plants in Denmark.

  Dropping the leaf, he wondered where she had gone and why she was living here alone in the first place. And who had those men been? They were almost certainly peasants from the village. But why had they been attacking one of their own? Alda had obviously tried to cover up what had happened here. Did that mean more would come?

  Not far away, a stream gurgled, probably the same one where he had tried to hide from Harald and the other oath-breakers. A trail led through the woods, in the direction of the stream, and hitching his sword belt up around his shoulder, he followed it. After he’d walked for only a few minutes, the trail came out on top of a small rise. He heard the water below and stopped abruptly when he heard a woman singing in Frankish. Dropping down on one knee, he peered over the top of the rise, through the tall grass. Below, Alda stood to her thighs in the stream. His breath caught in his throat when he saw she was naked.

  She bathed herself in the water, using a cloth to scrub at her arms and hands. Her long wet hair hung over her shoulders, almost reaching the small of her back. His gaze drifted from her small breasts to the wet patch of red pubic hair between her legs, and he bit his lower lip, straining forward through the grass on the hilltop. She had to be near his age, but her body was lean and fit, without scars from childbirth. Freya had been a far more beautiful woman, yet she had never taken Asgrim’s breath away, not like this. His erection pushed against his inner thigh as he leaned closer. At that moment, a branch snapped beneath his knee, and Alda glanced up with alarm in her eyes. She saw him right away, locking eyes with him. Her eyes narrowed, and the fear that had been in her gaze disappeared and was replaced by a look of challenge. They stayed like that, frozen in place, for long moments, neither moving. She made no effort to cover herself and showed no sign that she was embarrassed. The back of his neck become hot, and Asgrim stood and turned away, stumbling back to Alda’s hut.

  Even on his wedding night to Freya, his erection hadn’t been like this, like petrified wood. He shook his head, trying to get the memory of the naked woman from his mind. What sort of a man spies on the woman who saved his life?

  But by the gods, he wanted her. He wanted her so badly.

  He sighed and pushed through the trees.

  * * *

  Two days later, Asgrim trailed Alda through the woods. He was breathing heavily, but unlike the day before, at least this time, he was able to keep up with her. They were checking snares she had set along a game trail, and already, Alda carried a small rabbit over her shoulder.

  Asgrim flexed the fingers of his left hand, then made a fist, happy there was no longer pain shooting through his arm. Thankfully, his shoulder had been dislocated, not broken. The tissue surrounding the shoulder joint was still tender, but he knew it was healing. When he checked his chain mail coat, he had noticed several of the rings over his left shoulder were badly dented; two had even been snapped in half. He had been exceptionally lucky. Most chain mail links weren’t strong enough to withstand a spear point; instead, they were designed to prevent cutting wounds from edged weapons, like swords and knives, not blunt trauma. The oath-breakers had almost had him. Thank the gods his luck had held out.

  Asgrim’s mood darkened. He had so many good reasons to pay back those traitorous, ship-stealing sons of whores. But that would come later. For now, he needed to get his strength back.

  And where were his ship and his men now? In the days following the mutiny, had Harald enough time to repair Sea Eel? Perhaps. If so, his ship and his men could already be gone—or dead by Frankish hands. And where did that leave Asgrim? Abandoned here, surrounded by enemies.

  If so, he would never make his way home again, not that far.

  He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch and paused to wipe sweat from his eyes. He needed to do something soon, before it was too late—if it wasn’t already.

  Ahead, Alda paused, as well, then turned and raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Asgrim nodded at her and patted his chest, wishing for the hundredth time in the last three days that he spoke her tongue. She got the message though and came back. Standing in front of him, she watched him. Then she put both hands on his shoulders and pushed him down on the forest floor. He put his back against a large tree trunk and sighed. She joined him, pulling her knees up to her chest and leaning against his uninjured shoulder. Heat rushed through Asgrim, and he felt an erection growing.

  She untied a waterskin hanging from her waist and handed it to him. The contents sloshed as he upended it into his mouth. Satiated, he handed it back to her, and she drank, as well. He watched her profile as she drank, the line of her throat, her deep blue eyes. She had covered her hair again with her linen cap, but several scarlet locks stuck out haphazardly. She smelled so good. He had been around only warriors for so long that he had forgotten what women smelled like: herbs, flowers, and clean flesh. He knew she had washed him, as well, when he had been feverish; he could feel his fresh-scrubbed skin. Back home, he had bathed once a week, like most other men. At sea, though, there was never enough water for washing, so the men shared the same washing water and made do. It had been weeks since his last bath.

  What a strange woman. She saves a Dane, the enemy of her people, brings him back to her hut, where she lives alone, without a guardian or any family, then she not only tends to his injuries—and damned well, as good as any skald could have done—but also bathes him.

  And what would his people have to say about a woman who lived alone in the woods and healed others?

  Witch.

  It began to rain, just light drops that were a welcome relief from the muggy heat.

  Damn what others thought. She had saved his life.

  The rain began t
o fall faster, and they glanced at one another. She said something he didn’t understand.

  “If you’re saying we should go back, then, I agree,” he said.

  She smiled; her eyes seemed to sparkle, and he couldn’t help but smile back. And when was the last time the hideous Asgrim Wood-Nose had smiled at anyone? He indicated the way they had come with a toss of his head, and she nodded.

  They were about to climb to their feet when Asgrim abruptly felt the same cold presence he had within the crypt and when the Frankish knight Cuthbert had found him hiding by the stream. The spirit was close by.

  She felt it too; he could see it in her expression. Her already pale skin drained of all color, and her blue eyes grew wide.

  He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down so they were hidden behind the tree trunk. He lay almost on top of her, covering her protectively. His heart pounded, and he had to force himself to control his breathing. Very carefully, he peered around the tree trunk. At first, he saw and heard nothing, but it was unnaturally quiet, and he was reminded of his dream, where the dead had spoken to him. The rain had soaked him entirely, washing away his sweat. He shivered. Beneath him, Alda trembled, as well.

  What was this damned Eastern spirit? He didn’t remember everything from his dream, but Freya had called it a djinn, claiming it was an entity of unspeakable malevolence. He believed her.

  Then he saw it, or rather he saw the Frankish knight, less than a hundred paces away. The Frank appeared suddenly among the trees, heading in another direction. Even from far away, Asgrim could see that the man looked even more cadaverous than he had before, as if his body were wearing out. The Frank abruptly stopped, pausing next to a giant mimosa tree, before turning and staring right where Asgrim and Alda hid. Asgrim drew his head back in sudden fear, hoping he hadn’t moved too quickly and given away their hiding place. He hadn’t been able to help himself. His terror had been too strong.