Anselm’s doom-laden expression deepened. “Sin, Brother Abbot. Of the flesh. Congress between a novice and a lay servant of the Abbey and, most heinous of all, blasphemy.”
Cuillin was astonished. “Brother, these are most serious charges. Whom do they concern?”
“The novice Signy, Brother.”
Cuillin closed his eyes. It seemed he had been waiting for this day, with dread, for years. “And with whom was this sin committed?” he asked. There could be only one answer.
“Bear, Lord Abbot.”
The weight of the silence that followed was tangible. It oppressed them both.
“And the blasphemy?”
Anselm struggled the words out. “A crucifix. The man carved it for her, a present, she said. He used his own face as the model of our Lord’s. I would have brought it to you, but I did not like to touch so profane an object.”
“His own face?” Cuillin blanched. Christ with a scarred face. A horror, demonic. He waved dismissal. “The girl is to go to the chapel and stay there. Send Gunnhilde. Our sister must watch that the girl does not run away.” He could not bring himself to say the name of the sinner.
Anselm crossed himself. “It shall be done.” He hesitated. “Before God, I feel responsible.”
Cuillin’s eyes were bleak. “And so you are. She, that . . . Pagan”—he mouthed the word as if it were a curse—“was in your care.”
Miserably, the monk bowed his head. The Abbot was right. Anselm knew that his flesh was very weak and that the penance he deserved would be severe—he dreaded that—but he did not dare imagine what might happen to Signy. He cared about the child still, and that was double suffering.
The door closed softly.
Cuillin knelt at the prie-dieu. Despairing, he asked, “Why, Lord, did you send us the heathen children? They have brought nothing but upset and confusion to this holy place and to your servant. Tell me what to do, I beg.” He sank his face in his hands. Sometimes, in darkness, there was a voice of comfort to be heard, but now there was only silence. Had he been deserted, like Christ, in his own hour of trial?
So, he was alone. And he still had Solwaer to contend with.
It was deep night within the church, but the world outside was close to dawn, close to the time of Matins. Signy was cold. And terrified. And furious.
Barefoot and alone, she knelt on the hard floor just as she had done through the night. Her postulant’s habit had been taken away, and she was clothed in the tunic she’d found in her parents’ house. Sleeveless, it was no barrier to the frigid air, and she was shamed by its color, remembering how shocked Gunnhilde had been when she’d first seen it. The tunic was also very short on her now, leaving her knees and calves naked.
It had hurt her, very much, that Gunnhilde had disrobed her. Terrified of being shunned, Signy had pleaded with the nun, begged her to leave the habit even if the veil was taken.
But human feeling was a snare of the Devil, this Gunnhilde now truly understood. Too many times she had defended the girl, to the great cost of her community.
And so, Signy ceased to struggle as she was stripped—veil, habit, shift, rope belt, even her sandals were removed, until the novice no longer existed. In her place was a bareheaded savage dressed in red, the color of dried blood, a visible outsider—a Pagan. And this was what the Findnar community would see at Matins this morning. Gunnhilde, deaf to her pleas, had even taken the crucifix and the little lead box. Signy would never see either again.
She heard a rooster crow—night was ending, and it could not be long now. She’d endured the penance meted out by Cuillin but, exhausted and weakened without food, without water, she did not know why. Obedience? That had been one of her vows, and she had accepted it, said the words that bound her gladly, hoping she would please the great and powerful God to whom she had promised herself. In the same spirit, she’d worn the black habit, since that was what He demanded in return for all the rewards she would be given after this life of suffering was ended.
Abbot Cuillin’s words echoed in her head. Was it only yesterday she’d lain prostrate before him in front of this same altar? He had said, coldly, that humiliation of the earthly body led the penitent, even such a sinner as she, to God.
In the cold and dark, as she’d gone over his words again and again, Signy had begun to understand something—the truth that lay behind the pious statements.
The Abbot wanted to break her, not for God or for the good of her soul, but because she frightened him. She always had. She’d been born a Pagan and a woman; he did not know how to control her.
“Don’t do this, Signy, do not let him win.” He was so close, warm breath touched the nape of her neck. Bear. A dark column above her, his face a lighter blur, but she could smell him. Warm, of the earth, of his animals, not the sour, cold reek of the monks in their unwashed wool.
“You must not speak to me, Bear. You must not use my name, for I have given it to God.”
“But it is your name, your clan name, called out by your blood father when you were born so that all in your family would know and acknowledge you. These people are not your family or even your clan. What family treats a daughter as they have done?”
Signy was proud, but she was close to breaking. It was true, her parents would ache to see her so crushed.
“Come with me. Now. We can leave together, just as we did all those years ago. I’ve built a coracle; it’s small, but it was made for us, you and me, and they don’t know about it.”
Was it so easy, then, to run away?
One of his hands found hers. Signy allowed him to help her stand, but the blood fizzed in her legs after all the time kneeling. It was agony. If he had not held her up, she would have fallen.
“Signy!”
Gunnhilde was standing in the doorway that led to the robing room. She had a full habit draped across her arms: Signy’s clothes.
Bear grabbed Signy’s wrist. He pulled her toward the west door, the door that led out of the church.
“Wait!” Gunnhilde hobbled after the pair. She was frantic. “I am to help you dress, Sister. Our Abbot has decided he will not further scandalize the community. This is a great mercy, an act of compassion.” She held the robes forward with shaking hands. “But if you go with this man, you will prove his worst suspicions true. You will be outcast from our community.”
Signy’s vision blurred, she swayed.
Bear pulled her against his chest as she crumpled. “Do not listen.”
Gunnhilde gasped. “How could you have done this, Bear? After all the kindness of the past.”
“Kindness?” Bear laughed. A harsh bray. He shouted at Gunnhilde, shouted at the altar. “You people with your dying God and your stunted lives. Holy? All you see is filth. This is my woman, bound by blood, hers and mine—and ours.” His eyes lanced Signy’s. He was implacable. “Tell her.”
The world spun. Signy did not raise her head. “I will not speak of such things, Bear. I cannot.”
Taking her by the shoulders, Bear said urgently. “Real people do speak of such things. Tell the old woman.”
Gunnhilde did not know what to do. Very soon the community would enter the church; they might even have heard the shouting, though, mercifully, the walls were very thick. “Signy? Dearest daughter—”
“I am not your daughter.” The girl spoke in a whisper; she raised her head. “Bear is right. We are bound by blood—the blood of our daughter.”
Gunnhilde wailed. She clamped Signy’s habit to her chest. “Have you forgotten all your vows?”
Bear loomed over the old woman. “Not the ones that count.”
“What is this? What is this noise?”
Gunnhilde gasped. She darted to Signy. “Kneel. Please!”
“No!” Bear wrenched Signy away.
The Abbot had entered the church. “Sister Gunnhilde?” Cuillin gaped. Shock. Anger came later.
The monk wheeled quickly and bowed to his guest, trying to block the man’s view and that of his
attendants. He gestured toward the east door.
“Forgive me, Lord Solwaer. Perhaps it will be best if you return to the refectory. We can pray together a little later.”
Lord was a courtesy title. If he was seeking conversion for himself and his people—the professed reason for his visit—then Solwaer could be very important to the future of the Abbey. A Christian community on the mainland would help keep Findnar safe, and it would also be a source of wealth, for tithes, in return for spiritual oversight, were always welcome. Of course, Cuillin, having heard Solwaer’s self-gilded history, knew that his guest was an opportunist and most likely a liar—a formerly footloose rover who by energy and ruthlessness now dominated a part of the mainland coast. But God called all kinds and conditions of men to His service; perhaps this near brigand could be made a faithful servant of the Church through Cuillin’s teaching. A powerful thought.
Solwaer—tough, broad, and the shrewd survivor of a hard life that had already lasted far longer than was deserved—shook his head at the invitation to leave the church. An amiable smile split that brown face. “Abbot, I seek to know more of your ways and the ways of your God. Perhaps I should observe how you rule this island in His name, for you have much to teach me, I think.”
There are some men whom it is hard to deny, and Solwaer was one.
Cuillin frowned. To argue would be to diminish his authority; so be it. Breathing hard, he strode the full length of the nave and, placing his hand on the altar, he glared at the trio before him.
Bear held the Abbot’s gaze, eyes wide and empty.
“Novice Mistress, explain what has happened here.” With effort, Cuillin spoke quite softly. Bear he ignored. To tell the truth, the gathering rage emanating from the larger, younger man intimidated the Abbot.
Solwaer observed this will-battle with interest.
Trying to force Signy to her knees, Gunnhilde quavered. “Abbot Cuillin, my erring sister has—”
Bear exploded past the old woman and took the altar steps in a leap. He shoved his face into Cuillin’s. “You do not own Signy, Monk. She comes with me.”
The Abbot picked up the altar cross in both hands. It was heavy, but he held it high, skinny arms twitching with effort. “You are a demon, a curse to this place, and always have been. The novice you speak of has given herself to Christ—you have no rights here.”
Solwaer pointed to Bear, and four of his followers leapt; the youth was brought down in a heaving melee.
“Bear!” Signy struggled from Gunnhilde’s grasp, but the old woman grabbed her tunic.
The sound of cloth as it rips is very loud in a nearly empty space, and Gunnhilde wailed as the fabric tore; as it fell from Signy’s shoulders, the girl’s chest was exposed.
Shocked silence was filled by a man’s laughter.
It was Solwaer.
Clapping, he strolled forward. “Truly, Abbot, I do not know when I was last so well entertained.” He stood over the huddled novice. Perhaps he was trying to assist with the tunic, but Signy knocked his hands away, sobbing.
Solwaer gazed at her benevolently. “It seems, Abbot, that you have troubles with your young people just as I do.”
The girl crouched on the floor, cradled by Gunnhilde.
Solwaer sighed. “It’s the same everywhere, isn’t it? How to keep girls from misbehaving when ungelded bucks sniff around.”
Bear, pinioned, growled and spat. Part of his tunic now served as a gag.
Cuillin gathered what rags of composure remained to him. “You have shamed us all!” he bellowed at Signy. “And you . . .” He hissed at Bear, tried to stare him down—at least the girl was crying, that was something—“you are banished from this place and—”
Too late, Gunnhilde saw Bear heave his captors aside and grasp the candle stand beside the altar.
Signy screamed as they both saw the long spike connect with the side of the Abbot’s head. Perhaps the tallow lessened the blow, but Cuillin was still swept sideways and down the altar steps. His head hit the floor as he rolled away, the sound between a pop and a thock.
Solwaer jumped forward and grabbed Bear, the knife in his fist pressed against the young man’s windpipe—so hard that a fat, swelling thread of blood appeared.
As Bear struggled, he dropped the candle stand. It fell beside the prostrate body of the Abbot with an outrageous crash just as the door behind creaked open and the community streamed in half-asleep. The first of the monks nearly fell as they tried to avoid Gunnhilde and Signy, kneeling in their path.
Solwaer’s men swarmed over Bear as their leader stood back, knife in hand. “Sister, I shall rid you of the Demon—tell the Abbot, when he wakes—but I shall return and will be delighted to receive more instruction then.”
“Bear!” Signy’s long wail was swallowed as the west door closed behind Solwaer’s back.
Pandemonium broke out in the church. How could God permit such things to be?
For Bear, the journey from the island to Portsol—the old settlement had a new name now, one that increased the Chieftain’s standing in the scattered settlements of the western shore—was passed in a pain-fog. He floated in and out of consciousness, in and out, and heard bits of what was said. “Not worth a ransom, is he?” and “He’ll be gelded. Too much fight in this one.” And “. . . goes there, empty-handed, comes back with a free slave. That’s Solwaer. Monks better count their fingers next time.”
Bear drifted on the laughter. He remembered things from long ago. He remembered the sound and feel of a keel driven up on the shingle of Signy’s clan settlement. He remembered, too, the wooden trackway from the beach to the houses.
This time he was dragged because he could not walk; he still left a trail of blood. Some things don’t change.
Bear opened blackened eyes. The round huts were gone. Now, banked around the base of the great cliff, there were many buildings, some made of stone. Some huts had even begun to straggle away from the main settlement, as if to escape before they were noticed.
And, jutting into the dangerous, narrow channel, was the greatest change of all. Cutting out from the land, a long arm of black rock rose above the water. Solwaer was indeed a powerful man if he could cause such things to be. Many slaves had dragged those stones into place. Bear closed his eyes. He would not become one of them.
“Here.” They pushed him through a low door, and he collapsed. Falling, falling down. He knew nothing more than blank dark.
It was evening. Far away, someone was screaming at him, taunting. Bear woke thirsty, his belly griped and hollow. No food for a very long time, that was it.
The voice howled insults as it called him from the dark. Filth, Monks’ whore. Something hit him, slicing and vicious, across the shoulders. A whip thong, it bit hard, gouged flesh to the bone.
Bellowing, Bear leapt up and struck out blindly, but the whip caught him again. Across the face, his damaged face. That horror destroyed any ability Bear might have had to think.
Solwaer’s foolish servant had not thought to find a berserker in the hut, and soon he lay dying, one eye gouged from his head. When the man did not return, several others were sent, but howls from inside the prison slowed their approach. It was only the final scream of their companion that made them rush the door. It took all four to hold the captive and still they could not pry him away from the corpse until he had pounded Whip Man’s head into a mush of blood and brains.
He woke quickly this time, came back from wherever their blows had sent him, and shook his head to clear blood dripping into his eyes. He would stay awake, first, and then, he would remain alive.
Bear sat up. Pulled by two sinewy slaves, the cart he sat in was jolting down a narrow street that stank of shit. People of the settlement pressed back against the house walls as they passed. Solwaer ruled with fear, it seemed. But the blood had stopped, and Bear could see their destination if he blinked hard. There was a clear space among the huts, and men stood in groups, some holding torches that flared and guttered. They were w
aiting for something. For someone. Him.
The cart rocked and stopped in front of a hall. Constructed from fir logs and the same black rock as the breakwater, it was, at best, functional. Bear remembered Signy’s home. The carcass of that first building existed here, but it had been swamped by this ugly structure. But ugly is powerful.
Bear was comforted by that thought. He looked down at his fingers—bound so tightly they were turning blue; there was blood beneath his nails. He’d killed a stranger with nothing more than these hands. Cuillin had been right to fear him. The Abbot had sensed what Bear had not known for so long. He understood himself in a new way now. He was dangerous.
A spear nudged between the slats of the cart. It pricked Bear cautiously between the shoulder blades, a goad. From a safe distance, men taunted him with drawn swords. They were taking no chances. “Up!”
Solwaer’s men did not know Bear understood a good part of their language. Many of the words they used were Signy’s local dialect, and this was an advantage Bear would guard as long as he could.
“Up!” The word was bellowed, but one of the guards gestured also, waving his sword arm toward the sky. “Up, slave. Lump. Stupid ox!” The man’s voice said he was nervous.
Bear nearly smiled. Never presume your enemy is stupid. He stood, as if he had just understood. The cart rocked. He was pleased to see how much bigger he was than Solwaer’s men; living on Findnar had been hard, but he’d stolen food for years and gathered a lot more from the cliffs, the sea, and the meadows; he’d eaten better than the monks and was taller than any of them, and so it was here. His escort edged back farther when they saw the true size of Solwaer’s new slave.
Bear raised his bound arms. He did his best to look amiable and dull-witted, but his escort saw a demonic giant with the face of a bloodied monster. The biggest of Solwaer’s men gestured and pointed. “In there.”
Bear was happy to hear the quaver in his voice.
Inside, the hall was dim with smoke. Torches flared and spat burning resin around the perimeter, but for all the flame and crackle, light fought to penetrate gloom. Hanging from tie beams in the roof were wheels with oil lamps of red clay on the rims. These fared little better. The one bright glow came from the fire pit, and it was toward this that Bear was prodded. Women drew back into the shadows, clutching children as he passed, and men muttered. Bear saw fear in their eyes.
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