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CHAPTER X

We bore Erling to my house on a shield (not his own—that was smashed) while some of the other men reburied Thorolf with his head at his hip.

Two men had to hold Erling still as we carried him. He thrashed about and cried, "Father!" or "Jesus!" or "No, no!"

Ragna arrived from Somme about the time we got him into my box-bed. No one had told her her son was hurt; no one needed to. She sent everyone out but me.

She leaned into the bed and began pulling off his brynje. "Lie still, my son, your mother's here. All is well. It is good that courage is passed along in the blood," she sighed. "I think few women could bear what we heroes' mothers must."

Erling had another fit then, and she held his shoulders and spoke soothing words, and he grew calmer at last, but he did not know us. He babbled to himself, and his eyes rolled.

"I should not have buried Smith's-Bane with Thorolf," she said as she continued stripping him. "A blade turned against kin is unlucky, and borne by a walker-again it can be venomous."

"He's very strong," I said. "And there's no serious bleeding."

"There is a wound though. Here—do you see? Near the heart. That it bleeds not is the unhealthiest thing of all. When did you ever see a wound this size—three fingers wide—that did not bleed? Don't say it; I will. Only on a corpse. This is a deadly hurt, a fey sore. Hardly or never is a wound like this healed."

"There must be some medicine—"

"Oh aye. Battlefield herb. Little Hero. A paste of stinging nettle. We can get them and try them, but they won't be enough for this. We need help from the gods, and will the gods help my Erling?"

I had no reply to that.

"What of your god, priest? Does he heal the sick?"

"It's said He does. For great saints. I'm not a great saint."

"What good are you, god-man?"

I slumped on the bench. "God knows," I said.

I could not forget my terror in the night. It had been like a long fall; it had been like slow smothering. There was a wound near my heart too—having been mastered so utterly by fear, would I ever master myself again? Something had broken inside me. Would it heal?

Someone came in the door. I looked up to see Ulvig, the red-haired wife of Soti. She carried a goatskin bag. "I have herbs and runes of healing," she said.

Ragna flew at her. "Out! Out! Get away from my son, you witch!" She bore the woman out the door and told the bullyboys, "Don't let her near the house! Take her bag and burn it unopened! Do it now!"

"Don't stare at me," she said when she came back. "I'd be glad of Ulvig's skill were it honest. She's been a help to me often. But in this we are not allies. She would kill my Erling for the gods' sake. Her herbs would be nearly right, but only nearly. Her runes would be cut just on the edge of wrong. Only a master would know the difference. But they would sicken my son. I know Ulvig too well.

"I have none to lean on but you, god-man. My gods and spirits are of no help here. So do your magic. Go hungry, and pray, and sing over your holy meal. Light candles. Do you want to ward your only protector? Do you want to show all Jaeder the power of your god? Then save my son. Because I promise you, if he dies there will be none to avenge you when you die, and you will surely die."

I had not broken my fast. I did not break it in the days that followed, days of impassioned, craven pleading to a God I had denied, broken only by spells when I lost my senses and fell on the stones of the church floor for hours at a time.

Later that first day I woke to find Halla giving me water, holding my head in her lap like a child's. I crawled to the altar and prayed when I was refreshed, and she knelt beside me and kept me company, nor left me except to fetch more water.

I prayed all the prayers I knew. I opened the psalter and went through it from beginning to end, then began again at the first page. The colors of the illuminations shimmered before my eyes, and the misshapen people who dwelt in them seemed to walk about and speak like living men.

I forgot how to count the days.

I don't know when it was Halla said to me, "You must eat, Father, or you die."

I took a sip of water and went back to my prayers without answering. To look on her beauty would be a kind of food, and I refused it.

God, all-knowing and craftier than any man, had found the hook to draw me back to Him. The hook was fear, cold as a January night. No, more than fear. Cowardice. The whining cowardice of a dog too much beaten.

God did not care for my love. All He asked was that I bow my neck like a defeated soldier, that He might put His foot on it.

"Salvum me fac, Deus. . . ."

"Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul. 

I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing; I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me. 

I am weary of my crying; my throat is dried; mine eyes fail while I wait for my God. . . ." 

I thought one of the patriarchs in the illuminations in my psalter looked wonderfully like my old abbot. He had the same face, and the same stooped back, and when he walked about in his painted rectangle, he had the same stiff shamble.

He said to me, "It must be true that the mercy of the Almighty is boundless, for here you are, still above ground, while better men and women are in Hell. I know not why they send me to you a second time, except that such menial errands are salutary for a soul in Purgatory. But what good it can do a child of perdition like you I cannot guess.

"Nevertheless, I bear you a message, which you will doubtless misconstrue, making your last state worse than your first, and filling your cup of iniquity to the brim.

"Here is the message I bring—if you wish your foreign lord to live, do as I tell you. . . ."

 

When I came to my senses I found that I'd fallen asleep on my knees, the psalter on the stones in front of me. It was dark in the church.

I tried to stand, but could not raise myself. A hand took my arm and helped me up. I looked into Halla's eyes, hollow with hunger and sorrow. My leg bones felt as if they'd been sharpened at the ends.

Turning to go out, I was amazed to see the church full of people. There were thralls, and free men and women, and several men of the bodyguard. They all looked at me as at some monster.

I tottered out between them, supported by Halla, scattering blessings out of habit. The night air felt like a cold bath when we got outside. We went slowly toward my house.

A tall man approached us as we went. He wore a dark cloak and a dark hat.

"There are other ways," he said.

"You come late with them," I mumbled.

"Not to save the Squinter's son. You don't need him. I can make you great in this land. You will do wonders, and speak oracles. Men will fear you. Women will not refuse you. Remember, you're a fraud. How long do you think he'll defend you when he learns the truth?"

"He's the best man I've ever known. I'll not betray him."

"Suppose I offered you this girl at your arm? Would you do me a favor for her? I don't ask you to raise your hand to him; only let him be a little longer."

"You talk like a madman. They deserve each other. It's good to see them side by side, the brave and the fair. It makes me feel there's justice in the world."

"What if I offered you another girl? A girl called Maeve? I could find her for you, and bring her to you—nothing easier. Your friend has had a good life. He's done great deeds. Men will sing of him for generations. Could you not trade a little time of his—how long do warriors live after all—for some good years for your sister? To loose her bonds and lift the yoke from her shoulders? Soon she'll look like an old woman, bent and gray, living as she is now."

I groaned. "You speak to the wrong man," I said. "If I were free, or brave, I might strike hands with you on that bargain, but I'm a slave and a coward, and I fear the God of Abraham."

Then we were at the door of my house, and the man was gone.

"How is he?" I croaked to Erling's mother, who sat by the bed.

"He moves not at all. He doesn't even struggle. Little is left."

"One thing remains," I said. Lightheaded, leaning, I bent and poked my thumb in a soapstone lamp that hung from a spiked sconce in one of the bed pillars. With the oil I marked a cross on Erling's brow and on his breast.

"In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, come out of him," I said. "You know who I mean."

Erling went into a gagging fit, and a great black beetle scuttled out of his mouth and tried to run away across his shoulder. I reached my hand out and grasped it before I knew what I'd done. It made high, screeching sounds and waved its many legs.

"Enough of you," I said. I held the thing over the lamp flame. It screamed high and loud enough to hurt my ears, and it bit at me, but I held it there until it was a taper of blue flame. The pain seared my nerves from fingertip to heart, but I heeded it not. In a few moments all that was left was a smudge of black on my fingers and a smell something like burnt hoof.

"He sleeps the healing sleep. It is well," said Erling's mother.

I sank onto my bench. "Halla," I said, "that man who met us as we came—do you think he could have been—"

"Man? I saw no man. You spoke as if answering someone, but there was no one there, and I couldn't understand your words."

"That's right," I said, wrapping my cloak about me and lying down. "I hadn't even marked it. Odd that he should speak Irish. . . ."

 

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Framed


Title: The Year of the Warrior
Author: Lars Walker
ISBN: 0-671-57861-8
Copyright: © 2000 by Lars Walker
Publisher: Baen Books