Black Monastery (17 page)

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 to 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.

His feeling of dread increased. He could hear his own heart pounding. Slowly, he reached up to his shoulder, where he had slung his weapon, and gripped the pommel of
Heart-Ripper.
As he began to draw the weapon from its elaborately carved scabbard of leather and sealskin, Alda’s breath caught in her throat. She reached out and placed her hand over his and shook her head. Her eyes were begging; the message was clear. He closed his eyes and nodded, then slid the weapon back in.

They stayed like that for some time, lying against one another, shivering and wet, their hearts pounding in sync. Then the evil presence just disappeared, gone in a moment, as if it had never been there, and they exhaled in relief. Asgrim peered around the tree trunk again, but saw nothing. The spirit had gone. The rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and the sun beamed down upon them, warming them again.

They lay curled up together, sharing heat and relief. Before long, he realized his erection had grown again and was now as stiff as a sword blade. There was no way she couldn’t help but feel it pressing against her. His face flushed with heat, he began to rise, to pull away, but then she grabbed him and pushed him back against the ground, onto his back, and straddled him. Putting both hands on either side of his scarred face, she bent over and kissed him deeply, hungrily, as if she needed to devour him. They were both panting, and his need was unstoppable. His hands grabbed at her, pulling her so hard against him that his erection felt as if it would burst. She yanked his breeches down and cupped him, stroking him. He moaned loudly, not caring if the spirit was still around.

His emotions surged within him, and his eyes watered. Since the day of his injury, no woman had ever demonstrated the slightest bit of longing for him. Freya had come to their marriage bed in tears and as seldom as possible. Every other woman who had lain with him had done so for money. Each had closed her eyes and suffered through the act. But this woman, this Frankish peasant, wanted him, hungered for him.

And he needed her, as well.

Grabbing her dress, he yanked it up past her hips. She was naked, hot, and wet against him, and he slipped into her, gasping and marveling at how good—no
perfect
—the penetration felt. This is where he needed to be all the time, he realized, inside her, thrusting against her, again and again, and—

He cried out in sudden ecstasy.

She collapsed against him, panting and crying, her ivory skin flushing. The act was so fast because he had been so hungry. It had been so long that he felt like a young boy again.

They rushed back to her hut, where they undressed one another and made love again, this time slower, their pleasure growing in intensity until they both cried out in joy. They were voracious in their need for one another, as if they would have starved without the other’s touch.

* * *

Asgrim drifted through his large manor house in Hedeby. His hands were covered in fresh blood, but he couldn’t understand why. He wasn’t injured, nor was he wearing armor. Instead, he wore his finest clothing, as if he were expecting important guests. Then, as though for the first time, he heard the loud, boisterous singing coming from the mead hall. There was a party—no, a celebration.

His.

Asgrim forgot the blood on his hands and strolled into the mead hall. A fire blazed in the central hearth, and men and women sat about on stools and benches, drinking beer and filling the large smoky room with song and laughter. Engaged in some important debate, Bjorn and Gorm sat together near the central firepit. Bjorn’s argument required him to gesticulate broadly with his hands as he spoke, spilling his beer. On the table at which they sat were several wooden pitchers of beer. Feeling a surge of warmth and contentment, Asgrim walked over to join them.

Gorm nodded up at him in greeting. “Captain.”

Bjorn smiled broadly and shoved a half-empty pitcher of beer at his older brother. “Come, drink with us. Celebrate your luck.”

His luck? What luck?

Then he remembered. He had just been chosen to lead a large raid on the land of the Irish. Twenty ships would sail under his command, more than had ever sailed together in one raid from Hedeby. In fact, men and ships would come from as far away as Trondheim just to join the massive attack. Unlike previous raids, where they hit swiftly from the sea and then sailed away again just as quickly, this time, they were going to move inland and capture entire villages and towns. Asgrim was going to lead a Danish army to pillage and burn to their heart’s content. And if the Irish mongrels didn’t like it, they would send those dogs scurrying with their tails between their legs.

He took the beer from Bjorn and drank deeply, letting some of it pour over his chin and soak his trimmed beard. He dropped onto a stool in front of Bjorn and Gorm and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing away some of the blood.