by Harper Fox
Cai jumped. He tried to smooth the reflex away but knew he failed. He didn’t look up—plunged his hands into the stream again and watched smilingly as the water wove patterns through his fingers. “How would you know? You were off with Wilfrid.”
“The view is good from those hills. A handsome soldier with his cassock hitched up and a spade in his hand… A much finer sight than the goats.”
“I should hope so. But I notice they fascinate you, whenever there’s work involving mud, blood or innards to be done.”
“Abbot Cai, you’re a false-tongued excuse for a Christian.”
A shadow fell over the water. Still Cai didn’t look. It had become a complex pleasure to deny himself the sight of his lover until the last instant. He didn’t want to see too soon. He didn’t want Fen to know the changes seeing wrought in him each time—the heat, the helpless flush. And Fen was right—he was a liar. There wasn’t a single task the Viking had evaded since their return from the sea. He had built walls, helped unblock the channels that ran from the latrine, turned his hand to the dozens of jobs where his strength and persistence had been needed.
Fara was coming to life again. All the daily work that had fallen into abeyance after the raids, set aside through grief or lack of manpower… It wasn’t so hard, Cai had discovered, to see where men should go and send them there. With Fen at his side, he had even been able to do it, overcoming the shame of giving orders to his friends. He had told Aelfric—dispassionately, standing in the abbot’s study while the old man looked at him like a snake—that the monks of Fara would come to prayer when they could. That prayer in a field or a ditch was as good as—better than, maybe—prayer in a church, under God’s clear skies.
Aelfric had conceded. The brethren had gone willingly to their work, their new leader amongst them, as embroiled as they were in the labour and mud. Cai didn’t know how Fen’s presence had made these things possible, but he felt the Viking’s power like his own, like sunlight. They had seldom worked together over the last two weeks. Fen could administrate a task as well as carry it out, and had gone without Cai’s request to the field where the new dormitory hall was rising, or tumbled drystone walls being repaired. To Cai, their separation had been essential, and Fen hadn’t questioned it. They were leading by example, and Cai knew—as Leof had known, as even broadminded Theo had taught—that to live as a monk in this church of Christ, a man ought to be chaste.
They had barely touched one another. Had spent their days apart, their nights in the communal hall. But Fen was here now. “Yes,” Cai said softly, looking at him at last. “I am a very poor Christian indeed.”
“How did your mother ox fare?”
“Very messily. The twin was a surprise. Would you like to see them?”
They made their way quietly back down the track to the barn, pushing aside the long stalks of hypericum as they passed. St. John’s wort, Danan called the plant, the power of the ancient sun god disguised behind the name. As if the thought had summoned her, there she was—far off on the seaward slope, moving like a ghost through the moonlight. This was a fine night for gathering herbs, she had taught—full moon, and the midsummer tides of the earth at their height. The oil from the hypericum leaves made a tonic that eased men’s griefs, caused the sun to shine within them and disperse their sadness. She had a basket on her arm. The moon lit up her cloud of white hair like a halo. Cai wondered how Addy was, and if the old woman had lately brought him mead, threading the legendary tunnels beneath the sea or sailing the night air on her broom. Then Fen’s shoulder brushed his, and all thoughts beyond the moment deserted him.
He’d left a lantern burning in the barn, hung safely from a rafter while he worked. The ox dam had taken hours about her labour, finally depositing one slithery bundle into the straw, the second one coming so fast after it had almost dropped into Cai’s hands. Now the pair were on their feet, their eyes wide in the lamplight, their matching expressions of astonishment so absolute that Cai began to laugh. “There they are. One of each. The bull looks a bit like Eyulf.”
“Don’t wish that on him.” Smiling, Fen went to look them over. Neither they nor their mother flinched at his approach. His touch was careful, almost tender, as he felt the little limbs, brushed drying afterbirth out of the silky coats. Cai was surprised. Fen had liked Eldra, but she was a war machine. His pleasure in these domestic young was unforeseeable, so far a cry from the man who had wanted to slay Addy that Cai struggled to fit the two images together in his mind. You don’t know him, his fading sense of self-preservation warned him. Knowing should come before love.
But it was too late for that now.
Fen looked up. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Tired, maybe.”
“They’re fine little beasts. Shouldn’t she be up and feeding them?”
“Aye, that she should, the lazy old girl.” Cai slapped the ox dam’s rump. She turned her placid head in his direction but lay still, chomping serenely. “She thinks she’s earned a rest. Come on, your ladyship. Hup!”
Fen took hold of one great curving horn. “You heard him, Dagsauga. On your feet.” Immediately the beast gave a snort, spread her hooves on the packed-earth floor and lurched upright. Her calves needed no second invitation, wobbling over on uncertain legs, bumping bony brows against her udder.
“All right. What magic word was that?”
“Just her name. All female oxen are called Dagsauga in my country, or Smjőrbolli.” He paused as if struggling for the Latin words, then said in Cai’s own language, “Daisy. Buttercup.”
Cai gave a snort of laughter. “Viking raiders call their oxen Buttercup?”
“No. Viking farmers. We only raid in season, and then we tend our homes and crops, just as you do. So that takes care of the little heifer. What are you naming the bull?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. He’s just a farm beast—he’ll go to market when he’s weaned.”
“Still, you should name him. It—”
“Yes, I know. It brings down the spirit on him. Well, we’ll call him Yarrow, then, if that isn’t too ordinary.”
“No. Very suitable.” Fen gave Dagsauga an encouraging pat. Then he rested his hands on his hips and looked around him into the barn’s golden shadows. “It’s late. Will you be missed in church? Or the dormitory hall?”
Why are you asking? The words burned on Cai’s tongue. He had kept his distance. Yes, he and Fen had been busy, but there had been times, solitudes. Fen had made no move. It was one thing, Cai supposed, to seize a man after a storm, or on a wild island with no one to care for but the gulls. “No. I told Aelfric I’d be out here all night, making sure the calves are safe. And you?”
“I told him I was going out to hunt.”
Cai swallowed. They both still deferred to Aelfric, paid lip service to his authority, and so kept within the terms of their uneasy truce. He wasn’t here now, and the night—for both of them—was secured. “Hadn’t you better get on with it, then?”
Fen raised one finely marked brow. “With what?”
“With your hunt. While the moon is still high.”
“Caius…”
It was low and soft, a plea not to be teased further. Cai surrendered, letting go a breath. “Sorry. I thought maybe we had to be shipwrecked first.”
“Everything’s changed here. You’ve been busy. I didn’t wish to…disturb your balance.”
“My balance?” Cai chuckled. “What happened to the man who knocked me onto my arse in the dunes?”
“Still here.”
“And offered to do to me things I was stupid enough to refuse?”
“Still offering.”
The barn was large, extending off behind Dagsauga’s stall into deep, fragrant spaces. The year’s first cut of hay was loosely piled and drying all around, muffling footsteps to silence. Cai unhooked the lantern from the overhead beam. He held it ahead of him and concentrated on that, on following his own light. Lupine shadows leapt and crouched all round him—so
me his own, others cast by the man moving noiselessly behind him, and soon Cai couldn’t tell which was which, and fear clashed with the arousal mounting inside him. Why was he afraid? He could handle himself—handle Fen if he had to. He’d done it before. Their very first meeting had been a fight, and Cai had won.
He would lose against the man restored to health. The conviction of that made every tiny hair on his shoulders and spine rise, as if Fen were already touching him, brushing his palms down his naked back.
In the barn’s furthest reach, he eased the lantern into a niche in the stonework. Then he turned. Fen was standing a few feet away from him, waiting. A cassock was as impractical for hunting as for delivering cattle, but for Aelfric’s sake he and Cai had conscientiously worn them, traveller’s and raider’s clothing folded away out of sight, since their return. Either Fen was getting used to his or had found one that fitted him better. He wore it with an insouciance that was anything but holy. He was beautiful.
Cai cleared his throat, which seemed suddenly full of golden motes of dust from the hay. He said, dryly, “What are you waiting for?”
“Did it ever occur to you, Abbot Cai—these things I could do to you, these things you want and fear so much…?”
No use in denial. “What about them?”
“They are things that you could do to me.”
Cai’s lips parted. He felt all expression drain from his face, and suspected that he looked about as bright as Yarrow, and twice as astonished. Fen was holding out a hand to him. Cai ignored it. He closed his eyes—strode blind and bruising-hard into his arms.
The freedom offered was all Cai had needed. Spectral thoughts about greater or lesser men, comparative physical strength, evaporated in Fen’s heat as they landed in the hay. Cai wasn’t sure who had knocked who onto his arse this time, and it didn’t matter—he clutched Fen’s shoulders, rolled luxuriantly with him, letting the pent-up wildness surge and surge. Fen gave it back to him, thrusting to meet each wave. The heavy cassock fabric caught and restrained them, but even the friction of that was good, a sweet torture Fen brought to an end by hauling up Cai’s hem and crushing their bodies together, flesh to engorged flesh. Too hot a day for the linen-strip undergarment—Cai’s shaft plunged straight between Fen’s thighs, the place where lean muscle would grind hard enough to bring him over in a second.
“No!” Cai gasped. “Not like that. Do them to me—the things you said.”
Fen went still. Their struggle had left Cai on top, and Fen gazed at him, hands securely spread and holding his backside. The flickering lamplight met the amber fires in Fen’s eyes. “Your choice.”
“Yes.” Cai didn’t know how this creature had come to be waiting beneath him—this barely tamed man, not a bit of his wildness abated, letting him decide. It felt like embracing a storm. “This time, you show me. Fuck me.”
Fen’s pupils widened. He took Cai in for a long moment more, as if assessing him—for strength, intention, what his flesh, bone and muscle would withstand. Then he pushed up, rolling him powerfully down onto his back. “I want you stripped,” he growled. “I want to see every inch of you. Now.”
Now the cassock fabric was unbearable, a hot, tight skin. Cai sat up far enough for Fen to start ripping it off him, and they fought over girdle, sleeves, the tussle of getting the thing off over his head. Immediately Cai seized Fen’s robe to return the favour, but Fen stopped him, hand locking hard round his wrist. “In a second. Gods, Caius—let me look at you.”
Cai propped himself on his arms. He bore the inspection as best he could, although blood seemed to rise and burn beneath his skin wherever Fen’s gaze focussed. He wished he could see himself through those firelight eyes, see whatever it was that was making sweat sheen on Fen’s brow, in the hollow of his throat. All he knew of himself was that he was ordinary—hair rumpled, bits of hay caught in it, his body just the stocky, tough framework that had carried him about his business for so long in a difficult world. He was scarred. The hair that marked his chest and a midline down his stomach was black and wiry, an inheritance from Broc. But Fen was running his fingers over the old injuries, that dark line. His face was rapt.
Cai shivered. “You’ve seen it before, you know.”
“Yes. Down at the rock pools, when you decided to wash me. But I was sick then. I couldn’t appreciate it all.”
“It’s not so much. Just a hill farmer.”
“You have no idea.”
Cai released a groan. He tipped back his head and shut his eyes. Fen continued a fingertip caress down across Cai’s navel. He bypassed Cai’s shaft with a brush of his knuckles. Cai gasped in frustration, but Fen reached deeper, closing a short-lived grasp on his balls, then pushing up between his buttocks, one finger finding target.
“God!” Cai managed, with an emphasis that startled them both. “Yes. There.”
“Very tight. Not your first, am I?”
“No, but it’s been a long time.” He writhed, trying to find the beautiful touch again. “I know it’ll hurt,” he added stoically, to prove that he wasn’t afraid. “I won’t mind it. Go on.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
“How can you not? It’s not like with a woman. And Benedict’s cell was next to mine. Oslaf sometimes sounded as if he was dying.”
Fen quirked a smile. He leaned forwards and kissed Cai’s throat, then the sides of his neck, all the while rubbing at the entrance to his body, until Cai thought his heart would tear out through his ribs. “You don’t think Benedict and Oslaf found ways to ease such…dreadful suffering?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it. I…”
“Be quiet. Here, my unimaginative doctor. Look.”
Fen let go of him long enough to reach into his cassock’s side pouch. He withdrew a glimmering bottle Cai instantly recognised. “That’s the wheat oil and rosehip I get Hengist to make up for me for winter, to cure coughs and chest ailments. It lubricates… Oh.”
Fen made a valiant effort not to laugh at him. His hair had grown back, long enough for a bright bronze curtain to shield his face as he turned aside, uncapping the bottle. “I took the liberty of stopping by your supply cabinets on my way out here. And I made no assumptions, before you get your back up, you stiff-necked Celt. But the moon was full—the night so warm—and I knew you were out here alone.”
He was pouring the oil into one palm. Cai’s protest about the raid on his supplies died unspoken. The next time the touch came at his body’s entrance, it was warm and slick and he had no resistance to it, the tight ring of muscle convulsing but not rejecting the inward slide. The first pang of broaching over, the push was delicious, as if Fen were reaching for some stray fragment of heaven—the golden fruit that had suddenly grown deep in Cai’s guts, perhaps, pulsating just in front of Fen’s reaching fingers. “There. Ah, there!”
“Yes. I know about there.”
Cai gave a sobbing chuckle. “Not your first, either, then.”
“No. Many fine brother warriors. None of them anything like you.”
“And your people don’t mind it?”
“No. Not any more than yours do, outside of mad enclaves like this. It’s expected, among men who travel without women, although…” He leaned forwards and kissed Cai, lingeringly, tongue shoving deep in time with his fingers. “Although Sigurd was fretting that I’d never get him heirs.”
It was the first time he had said his lord’s name without bitterness, and Cai, although he could barely speak, tried to attend him. “Your brother, though—”
“Ah, yes. Gunnar has done it for both of us, time and time over, the women willing or not. But men fall fast among the Torleik, and Sigurd likes a brood growing up around him, of good blood and ready to replace us. Now—before you die of this, my beautiful monk—kneel for me. Up on your hands and knees. Now.”
Cai couldn’t have done it except at those soft-voiced commands. His limbs had turned to water, desire washing strength out of him. He grunted in protest as Fen withdrew hi
s fingers. The emptiness inside was unbearable, his cock so stiff against his belly that one touch would have finished him. Fen was sitting back, stripping off his cassock, and Cai closed his eyes to that in case it had the same effect. Awkwardly he scrambled onto his knees. He would die if Fen kept him waiting, die of shame at being so ready, laid so open.
“Fen,” he rasped, a dream coming back to him—the dream of the wolf from the sea. “Fen, for God’s sake, fuck me now.”
The wolf had turned into a man. This man, whose advent had been written into Cai’s dreams, his very blood, before he’d ever seen him. Crying out, Cai lowered his brow to his wrists, his hands clenching and unclenching in the hay. The wait ended instantly. Fen’s thighs pressed to his. The oil’s warm musk filled his nostrils, and he knew without looking that Fen was rubbing his shaft with it. Fen’s hands closed on his hips, holding him still.
The push of that great cock inside him burned the touch of Fen’s fingers to an ashen memory. The mounting pressure would destroy him. He felt with anguished detail the gape of his arsehole to accommodate the head, and he stifled a yell as his muscles clamped down afterwards, a reflex of shutdown and repulsion. “No! Stop. I can’t.”
Fen went still. He released Cai’s hips and put his arms around his waist, the hold at once so powerful and so tender that tears blurred Cai’s vision. He kissed a hot track between Cai’s shoulder blades, up the back of his neck. “Pain?”
“No. Just…too much. Too much inside me.”
“I will stop. If you are sure.”
“No, I’m bloody not.” It came out on a sob. The only thing worse than this overwhelming pressure would be the loss of it, the emptiness of that. Fen had sounded breathless, his voice ragged. “Am I hurting you?”
“The muscles inside you are strong. And you’re fighting me.”
“I’m not. I want you. I…”
Fen took hold of his cock. His grip was hard. Shocks of pleasure went through Cai, undoing the iron lock of his arse around the penetration. More oil came, Fen releasing his embrace long enough to pour it over his shaft where it was holding Cai open. His fingers pushed gently against the ring of strained flesh, rubbing the oil in. Fen said something in his own language, deep and rough, and once more Cai almost understood it, the words following Fen’s touch, the fullness inside which suddenly was not unbearable but essential, perfect, the one thing that Cai had to have.