Éire’s Captive Moon (22 page)

“But his eyes!” Els asserted, stepping forward and thrusting his chest out in his most imposing manner. “I’ve seen them. They look to have been attacked by evil spirits!”

The men all made signs against evil, crossing fingers or spitting over their shoulders. Charis sniffed in disgust. In doing so, she was made more aware of the odor of fear among the men. They believed her to have hurt someone.

Such a hurt was punishable by fines or by like treatment here.

But I am only a slave here. Bran is only a slave. Surely they won’t bring us before the lovsigemann.

“Lord Els,” Charis said, her voice respectful because to be otherwise might be dangerous right now. “I say again that I did not cause him permanent damage. I had an herb in my hands when he tried to strike me and the herb caused him the damage as it flew from my fingers.”

“There! You see! She did have something to do with it. She did hurt him! She’s put out his eyes!” The cries rose from various men in the group. “Find out what it was and do the same to her!”

Charis raised her hands and, strangely, all the men were silenced, save Arknell. “You have heard the men, Eir,” he began to say.

“It was only an herb!” she protested. “Thyme! He has an unlucky reaction to it, but truly, my lords, it was just thyme.”

The men took up cries again, some saying that she should still have thyme in her own eyes, and others saying that Bran should be held to account for concerning warriors in a personal matter. Still other opinions varied from dropping the business to waiting a week to see if Bran truly had been permanently damaged. This would mean that his owner would be recompensed for his value.

“We’ll take her to Agnarr,” Arknell decided, hauling her against him and turning to face the rest of the men. “He will decide.”

The wind picked up and clouds pushed across the sky as they left the village in search of Agnarr. As trainer of the young men, he had them out running to build up their endurance. The cold day would mean nothing with bodies hot from running, Charis had heard him say to his mother and brothers only that morning. So the group, Arknell and Charis at their head, went out in search of the young men.

As they passed through the village, Charis could feel the stares of the adults and the frank curiosity of the children. Arknell was not dragging her, precisely, but he had instructed her to keep her hands away from her herbs and not to talk as they went in search of Agnarr, and such a large procession had to garner some attention.

The word “witch” was being passed around as she was herded along. Charis sighed, but she was also a little worried. Out here, no one understood her people. Her only “husband” was a man who had killed her men, and there was no one else to speak for her.

They kept moving, out the wooden gates, to a dried-mud path. It was cracked in places, smooth along the edges, where heavy feet had not yet trampled. Little grew here at this time. It was becoming too cold and the plants were all asleep under the earth, to wait for spring’s breath to waken them.

Arknell stopped as the path gave way to worn earth and dying grasses. The green and brown expanse was flattened in a rough way to the right, toward the hills. “They went this way,” Arknell decided, and the group of men traveled, following the trail of the running warriors-in-training. The trail led them over the nearest two hills, past the shepherd slaves trying to give the sheep as much a chance to feed here on the earth as possible before they were brought down to wait out the winter. Sunlight fell in ever-shrinking patches on the ground as they followed the trail until they saw the young warriors and their leader, apparently catching their breath.

“Agnarr!” Els called, impatient.

Arknell hushed him with a gesture of his free hand. Charis remained silent.

Agnarr beckoned them all down to where he waited with his warriors. Charis stumbled down the slope, but Arknell didn’t seem to care. His whole attention was focused on his brother, who was standing, legs apart, arms crossed in front of his massive chest, and scowling up at the approaching band of men.

Charis waited for Agnarr to start yelling. It did not happen. Instead, he waited for the entire group to reach the small valley at the foot of the hill. He watched her face all the while, an inscrutable expression on his own.

“Well?” he asked. Her, not Arknell. “What have you done?”

Charis opened her mouth, but Arknell clapped his free hand over it. If she had not been surrounded by so many angry and fearful men, Charis would have bitten him.

Agnarr transferred his attention to his brother. “Well?” An abrupt gesture indicated Charis herself, but his clear blue eyes were no longer chilling her.

Arknell brought her forward, pushing her toward Agnarr. “She cursed Elsdottir’s slave, brother. She shouted at him in their tongue and made his eyes swell and water, and it is feared he has permanently lost the use of his eyes.”

Charis was expecting Agnarr to put their fears to rest. Did he himself not sleep with her, night after night, to no ill effect? Had she not cooked for him? Had she ever hurt him?

She had more cause to kill the Northman who had killed her men than she had cause to curse Bran, even if she believed in such things as curses.

“That slave has come to me with such tales,” Agnarr finally said. “I did not heed him then.”

Els stepped up, righteous indignation bristling from his mustache. “She is your slave, Agnarr. What will you do? My daughter—your future wife—demands recompense.”

Agnarr crossed his arms again. His warriors-in-training made a half-circle behind him, watching the proceedings with unveiled interest. Charis saw that, but her primary focus was Agnarr. He held her life in his hands here, she thought. Or at least her physical well-being. What if their confusing laws forced him to give her, Charis, to his betrothed?

Charis would run, though the snow would be blowing by nightfall. She could taste it in the air. But nothing would make her stay with Magda Elsdottir unless she was also with Agnarr, who had—thus far—protected her.

Cowan was trudging along just behind Lord Tuirgeis. A chill wind was blowing from the north and he bundled his cloak more tightly about himself. That and the walking were warming him.

Tuirgeis was keeping a keen eye on the countryside. “Do you see it, Kingson?” he asked, pointing to the northeast. “There. That dark shadow on the land?”

Cowan stopped and followed the
vikingr’s
hand. “
Ja
, I see it.” He squinted. “An army on the move?” A mass of darkness, with the scarce light from heaven glinting off weapons and helms, moved for Cowan’s attention. Dirt was moving, too, in a cloud low to the ground. A sure indicator of an army on the march.

Tuirgeis stroked his dark beard. “
Ja
. We need to hurry back to Balestrand.”

“I’m doing my best, lord.”

They continued to move toward the
fjørd
-size village, but now, Tuirgeis motioned him to walk alongside. Cowan complied.

“Tell me, Kingson. Why did you not run when we were on Orkney, near the Green Isle?”

Cowan felt a shiver in his guts that had nothing to do with the cold air. “I believe, lord, that my God wants me to stay with you for the present.”

“For the present?” Tuirgeis’s voice contained a smile, and Cowan felt safe to continue.

“Yes.”

“This god of yours, does he talk to you then?”

Surprised and a bit unprepared, Cowan stumbled over an answer. “I talk to him, lord.”

“Does he have a name, this god?”

Cowan wondered if Tuirgeis were mocking him, but decided he had to say something. The
vikingr
could never say that the information had been slung at him without permission. “In our holy writings, he is called Jehovah Jirah, the Great I Am, or simply God.”

“All these names for one god? Our Odin is the All-Father, the One-Eyed.” Tuirgeis seemed to be thinking on it as they walked for a few more paces. “So does this Jirah god speak to you to tell you not to run from the one who owns you? Why has he not rescued you?”

That very same question had bothered Cowan considerably, but he tried to answer. “Well, lord, my God had one son, and his name was Jesu. Jesu came to Earth as a baby to be a servant to God’s people. I thought that maybe he wanted me to be a servant, too.”
At least for now,
he reminded himself. “So I am here.”

Tuirgeis eyed him as they continued to walk and then, suddenly, he stopped. “We are apparently closer to Agnarr Halvardson than I had thought. There he is. Good. He is training the warriors.”

Cowan blinked at the sudden change of subject matter and also at the surprise he got from seeing Charis there among the warriors. She was at the very center of what seemed to be a parted circle of men. For him, she all but glowed in the muted overcast light of the afternoon.

“Hail, Agnarr!” Tuirgeis called, spreading his hands.

Cowan resumed his usual spot behind his lord, shifting the pack on his back as he went downhill. He tried to catch Charis’s eye, but she was preoccupied by the blond-braided man who seemed to be standing in judgment upon her.

By the saints, what has she done now?
Cowan wondered, shaking his head when he reached the flat ground once more. Agnarr and Tuirgeis had greeted one another formally, though, and were talking. Cowan opted to pay attention to them and talk to Charis later. Perhaps he could walk with her on the way home. Tuirgeis would allow it, certainly.

The blond leader motioned to the warriors to be silent. “What brings you overland, Tuirgeis? You know you have port in Balestrand when you need it.”

Tuirgeis nodded. “I thank you, yes. My cousin told me that last winter, and I plan on staying on again this winter.” He looked back over where Cowan could see a long track from where the warriors had run to this location. “Snow is coming. And so is Vigaldr.”

“But what about the witch?” demanded an old man. Cowan didn’t remember his name. “Magda wants restitution for her storyteller!”

Cowan finally caught Charis’s eye. They were calling her a witch again? Cowan’s muscles tensed instinctively, though he didn’t know why. “What did she do?” he heard himself asking.

Tuirgeis cut him a swift glance, but nodded. “Yes, what did your Moonbeam Healer do?” he asked with a wry smile.

Agnarr flickered a look to Charis and shook his head abruptly. “She is said to have cursed another slave and permanently damaged his eyes.”

“I did not!” the healer shouted. “It was thyme!”

Cowan started a bit, but only because she had used the Gaelic word for the herb, and it made him shudder involuntarily. He was extremely unlucky with thyme. That gave him an idea. “Lord Tuirgeis? May I say something?”

His master’s mouth curved in a slight smile. “Yes, since you asked. What is it, Kingson?” Cowan turned to Charis. “What did you say to him?” he asked her in their native tongue.

She told him, and he was pleased to see some hope return to her face. It had looked so strained just moments before. “But it wasn’t what I said that made his face burn and weal up, Cowan,” she concluded. “These men think I have some sort of power, but it was just that that . . . 
monk
 . . . had an unfortunate reaction to the thyme.”

“Well, Kingson?” Tuirgeis prompted.

Cowan shook his head a little and took a deep breath. He had been staring at Charis and trying to think, and all he had thought of was something completely apart from her current problem.

However, he knew how to help. “I think I can show you that the damage to the monk’s eyes is not permanent,” he told Tuirgeis in Latin, since it was one they could speak in privately among the others. “But it will mean incurring damage to myself. Do I have permission?”

Tuirgeis lifted one dark brow. “Yes, but do it fast. We have to get to the village and get it prepared for battle.”

“I wouldn’t ask except that I don’t want a fellow Éirelander to suffer needlessly, Lord Tuirgeis,” Cowan explained as humbly as he could. Inside, he was both relieved to be able to help and reluctant to do so.

This was going to hurt.

“Lord Agnarr,” Cowan said, turning to the impatient
vikingr
. “The words your
trell
, Eir, spoke were not a curse. They called down no power, but merely said that Bran would be far from home when he died.” The men nodded; death was something to be wished for, especially far from home in a worthy battle.