Black Monastery (16 page)

And then, just like that, as dreams do, his changed abruptly.

Now, he dreamed of Bjorn, not Bjorn the giant warrior, but Bjorn the little boy, not yet five, with loose locks of curly blond hair and bright blue eyes as he chased after his older brother through the woods behind their farm.

Annoyed, Asgrim waited for Bjorn to catch up. The adult Asgrim stood invisible, watching himself as a little boy waiting for his younger brother. He remembered this day perfectly, although he had not thought of it in decades. He had snuck out of the farmhouse early to hunt rabbit with his new bow, wanting to shoot something for his mother to put in a stew. Bjorn, ever hounding his footsteps, had seen him leaving the house and had chased after him. A flush of shame burned Asgrim’s skin as he remembered how he had treated his younger brother that day, becoming angry with him and chasing him away with harsh words.

“Wait, wait,” hollered Bjorn, stumbling over moss-covered rocks.

Asgrim frowned, annoyed with the little boy. He made too much noise, and he would scare the rabbits. Asgrim was ten, almost a man, really, far too old to play with little boys, but Bjorn never seemed to understand that. Always, he trailed after Asgrim, following him wherever he went, spying on him and his friends, and getting in the way. The young boy caught up to him with a huge, eager smile on his face, and Asgrim’s temper simmered again, as it had that day. He would spend his entire life looking after Bjorn, he knew. It wasn’t fair.

Asgrim shook his head. “No, Bjorn. Go home. You’re too little.”

Bjorn paused, his eyes reflecting his hurt. “No. I want to go with you. I’ll be good. I promise.”

The boy Asgrim’s anger flared, and the adult Asgrim remembered with mounting shame what came next. He would shove Bjorn, push him down, and yell at him, and Bjorn would stare up at him with eyes filled with tears of betrayal. Then Asgrim would slap him hard, and the little boy would run crying back to the farmhouse.

No. Not this dream. He didn’t want to remember this dream anymore. It was worse than being chased by an unknown foe.

Asgrim the boy advanced on his brother, getting ready to shove him. “Go home, Bjorn!”

Then Bjorn looked up at Asgrim with all-black eyes.

“Brother,” he said with Bjorn the man’s voice. “Help me. I’m damned.”

Asgrim bolted upright, suddenly awake, breathing wildly. His eyes darted about the darkened room, and several moments passed before he remembered where he was: the woman’s hut, Alda’s hut. A small fire still burned in the firepit, and sunlight poured through cracks in the wattle-and-daub walls. He was alone. Where had she gone?

A dull ache throbbed in his shoulder, and just for a moment, the darkened room seemed to spin and wobble. He lay back again, closing his eyes, and waited for his disorientation to pass. But then, from just outside the hut, he heard the sound of flesh striking flesh, followed by the laughter of men. His eyes flashed open again, and his pulse quickened as adrenaline coursed through his blood. Had Harald and the others found him? If so, Asgrim would soon be dead. He was far too weak to defend himself.

He heard a woman’s voice, pleading in Frankish, then more laughter. It was Alda.

Weakly, he stood up, setting his bare feet upon the rush-covered dirt floor of the hut before staggering unsteadily toward his sword, which lay nearby, atop his chain mail coat. As a sudden wave of nausea gripped him, he had to reach out to the wall and steady himself. He heard Alda pleading again, followed by more harsh laughter. Gritting his teeth, he focused on his weapon and staggered toward it. His legs didn’t move properly, and he suddenly pitched forward, falling against the wall where his gear had been stacked. Pain lanced through his shoulder and back, and he almost cried out. Gasping and heaving with the effort, Asgrim’s fingers closed on the hilt of
Heart-Ripper,
and he yanked the weapon free of its sheath.

He heard the sound of an open hand striking flesh again outside. Forcing himself to move, Asgrim staggered toward the door, his sword in hand. His left arm and shoulder were bandaged. His arm was held tightly in place across his chest, but at least he could still move his sword arm, not that he could do much with it. When a man fought, he fought with his entire body, not just the arm holding the weapon.

Panting, he paused at the door, trying to catch his breath and focus. He was still too badly hurt to fight, but he had no choice. So be it. His fate was already written by the
Nornar
anyhow, and he could do nothing to change it. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed it open before staggering out into the bright, blinding sunlight.

Three men surrounded Alda. Two of the men held her arms, and the third stood in front of her, pulling at her ripped dress. Rage distorted her features, and she struggled against them, trying futilely to kick out at the one in front, but her efforts just seemed to encourage them. Just for a moment, his mind flashed back to the woods, where his crew had been about to take her. What kind of life did this woman live? Where were her relatives, the men who were supposed to protect her honor? And who in the name of the gods were these men?

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 pained 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.