The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  ‘Sorry?’ Cellim pressed raising his voice, ‘You’re sorry?’ It is your sin that brought this foul fortune on us! Your fault that thieves came in the night and that Father Caddock was hurt! The Strictures says, “The Base Born lamb will bring shame on his father’s house.” You have brought shame and Heaven’s ill favor on ours!’

  Vanis sat stunned. He had never seen the monk so angry, and he had made him angry often.

  ‘I’m sure you are sorry now. A good beating will do that,’ said the prior. ‘But you’re not badly injured, so it is your soul I am worried about. Only last night we were attacked by robbers and now we are invaded by sin. What have we done to curry such disfavor from Heaven?’

  ‘The sin is mine.’ Vanis admitted, ‘but surely my actions cannot be blamed for what happened last night.’

  ‘Cannot be blamed?’ Cellim demanded, animated now. ‘Cannot be blamed? Surely only a fool bastard would not know his own mess if he stepped in it! The Prophet tells us, “He who sins will cause ill to his kin though he suffer none himself.” How could you know what harm you’ve done?’

  ‘Thank you Brother Cellim,’ the prior sighed tiredly. Perhaps you can remind the other novices in the morning classes what the prophet has said, to make sure they do nothing untoward themselves.’

  Cellim nodded, still scowling and stomped out of the room. When he was gone, Vanis looked at prior Algwyn and then the floor.

  ‘The thieves had nothing to do with me. Surely it can’t be my fault.’

  ‘Can it not then?’ The prior raised an eyebrow and looked at Father Haendric. The priest blinked, looked at Vanis and then back to the prior. Something had just passed between them.

  ‘The girl is clearly easy with her favors,’ Haendric added. ‘She may have kept company with passing vagabonds or other visitors to the town. She was working as a helper at the inn kept by her uncle and could have met all manner of rogues and knaves. What if you’d told her of the silver kept in the chapel?’

  ‘I’d never do such a thing, Father. We didn’t discuss it at all.’

  Prior Algwyn examined Vanis with his cold, disapproving eyes, searching for a lie. He seemed satisfied and turned back to Haendric.

  ‘People will say it was to be expected of an illegitimate boy, that we should never have taken him in.’

  ‘I may be a bastard, but I’m as good as any of the monks here!’ He snapped.

  ‘Is that right?’ The prior turned on him angrily, not used to being challenged by novices. ‘Do you think you can compare yourself with these learned brothers, who have given their lives to the faith and toiled hard for our commune, while you were off rutting with the village strumpet? Really boy, you have an imagination, you do!’

  Haendric intervened then, his voice tired. ‘Vanis, wait outside please. Prior Algwyn and I must discuss what is to be done with you.’

  Vanis was angry, but knew that defending himself any more was pointless. The sin after all was his to bear. Nobody had made him sleep with the woman. He stood, eyes downcast and made for the door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again and closed the door behind him.

  Algwyn stood, walked to the adjoining antechamber and came back with a simple carafe of wine and two plain cups. As the prior poured the mulled wine that had been warming on his mantelpiece Haendric mused that he had always been frugal, as the cups demonstrated, and quick of temper. He had also always disapproved of the boy’s heritage, noting that a bastard would be trouble someday.

  ‘Perhaps your education of the boy has been too liberal?’ The prior suggested.

  ‘I have never taught him anything other than proper catechism,’ Haendric answered, still surprised at the youth’s challenge and wondering if it had been a good idea to call on him to answer for himself.

  ‘But you let him read freely, heathens and all.’

  ‘As you’ve done for me.’

  ‘It’s not for me to decide what you read, Father. But you should be careful what you put in front of these youths; their minds are less well-formed.’

  ‘He is the only one who reads from my collections.’ Haendric assured him.

  ‘And fine good that’s done him,’ Algwyn snorted. ‘I always told you a bastard…’

  ‘…Will come to no good?’ Haendric cut him off. ‘I know, and we’ve been over this before.’ The prior was not a cruel man, but he believed that common bastards belonged among the lay brothers, if anywhere, but not among the clergy. It had been a favor to Haendric to take this one in.

  The priest slumped in his chair. ‘Don’t tell me you believe his sin caused the theft.’

  ‘Of course not,’ the prior answered, ‘but as you said, who knows who else the girl has be cavorting with. In any case, the brothers and half the village will blame the lad for bringing ill fortune upon us and it’s best he hears that. I expected he’d see it that way too.’

  ‘As we would?’ Haendric pressed.

  ‘We’re different. But they’re not,’ Algwyn sighed. He sipped from his cup and looked out of the window. ‘He has to go.’

  That stabbed at Haendric’s stomach. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He could have protested, he could have claimed the boy’s studies were not complete, he could have promised to reform him, but he knew there was no use and he wouldn’t be saying anything new.

  Haendric could see it was difficult for Algwyn to find the words. ‘The villagers will expect it, some will demand it. The Chapel will recommend it. I know you’re fond of the boy...’

  ‘He always was difficult to control,’ Haendric conceded. ‘He came to us too late.’

  ‘He will take ten lashes and become a lay brother. He can till the fields at Wellstone, up the coast past Northwatch. There is a wagon leaving under escort soon with victuals, and a pair of monks traveling there for the winter. They’ll leave him when they return in spring, of course.’

  The priest was grateful to see his friend had at least thought this through, but he was despondent all the same.

  I’m sorry,’ Algwyn added, ‘but he cannot bring us any more attention.’

  Haendric knew that was the greater concern, and released a deep, mournful sigh of resignation. ‘How long then?’

  ‘A week tomorrow. Things are getting worse in the capital. We mustn’t let them have any excuse to come knocking.’

  After an afternoon of tough negotiation, Haendric had no more words. It would fall upon him to prepare Vanis for the road. He wished he had more than a week to do it, but then the lad had already proven to be more a man of the world than he’d let on.

  He stepped out of the chamber and found the novice standing a few paces down the hall.

  ‘Come along, lad,’ he said.

  Seven

  Night fell on the woods, still and cold, with a mist settled on the fields beyond. Algas peered out from between the bushes. The sound of dogs had grown more distant and the torches had faded beyond hillocks and into dales. Either the search had ended for the night or the southlander soldiers had found other stragglers to pursue. He was left alone with the chirping of insects, probably among the last to perish before the winter came.

  His brother had been one of the first to die. Gormir had fallen under the hooves of enemy chargers fighting at the front, bold and defiant as ever, cutting down opponents and rejoicing in the thrill of battle. But there had been too many, an army, and far more organized than the Northmen had seen before. A good number of local militia had fought in the southlander ranks, but there had also been lines of uniformed, mail-clad soldiers who knew how to fight. The cavalry, those armored nobles leading with lance and plate on large horses bred for war had crashed into the raiders’ shield wall and scattered men about. It had been a massacre, and Gormir had embraced his fate as a warrior should. They would meet again in the mead hall of the gods.

  His cousin Gerwulf had somehow managed to escape to one of the ships with perhaps two dozen men or more, to row away from the beach as the survivors had fled afoot. The southlander ar
my had pursued and harried the survivors, killing those who refused to surrender, or who had kept running. Those who gave in had been rounded up – Algas had seen several small groups surrounded by the enemy throw down their weapons, but he would not.

  So he had run, and with the swift and the lucky he had reached the woodland to the north and kept on running. There was usually safety in numbers but some of the men were too slow and he reasoned that the horsemen were less likely to go chasing after a man on his own so he’d told everyone to split up. He had discarded his shield for speed but kept his sword and a hand axe, now his only surety against capture or death and he did not feel all that sure.

  He was looking for the stars but low cloud made it difficult. He could navigate better at sea: the tides, the movement of birds, fish and seals, driftwood, the current and even just the feel of the wind. But there was no wind this night. It was strange country. They had rarely put ashore more than a few days and usually turned captured towns into camps while they rounded up plunder and captives from the nearby villages. He wanted to continue north along the coast, find his way to a ship and to the Shorhan Isles where the Normar had made their fort, but as he got deeper into the woods, he tracked further away from the shore.

  Only the day before Algas had looked to an illustrious future. He’d had a strong sword arm, loyal men, a brother who had promised to win them a kingdom and lavish them with gold, silver, land and women. Now he couldn’t even make a campfire, for that would surely alert pursuers. He was alone, cold, hungry and lost. So he wandered these empty woods in the chill night, suddenly fearful of the creatures that might lurk within – dwarfs or goblins, the spirits that walk in the darkness and pull a man down to the netherworld and trick the unwary wanderer out of his very soul.

  His boot snapped a branch and startled something, a deer or boar, and a shape crashed through the branches as it fled into the darkness. He knew how to make snares to catch food, but would not dare leave any trace that pursuers would find in the morning. In any case he was not minded to wait all night for an animal to wander into a trap, nor could he spare the time to skin a beast or risk the light and smoke of a cooking fire. He would have to find fruit and berries in the morning, a hard thing in unfamiliar woods in the autumn, or steal from some farm or hovel.

  Coming near the edge of the woods again, he found what he was looking for. A small cottage, with an outhouse, little fields and a kitchen garden, a pen for livestock and a chicken coop, sat in a quiet dale. He had hoped to see the coast beyond but past the cottage there were more trees and in the distance a low hill where he could make out a few more homes. Perhaps the sea was just beyond, or perhaps he had come too far inland. He’d had no choice if he wanted to stay in the protective darkness of the forest.

  The cottage was set apart from its village, dark where some of the other houses showed firelight, and very still with no smoke drifting from the vent in the thatch roof. Algas edged his way closer, careful of every step. The occupants had to be asleep for there was no sign from the cottage. It was well-kept, with earthen walls and shuttered windows, a cover for the smoke vent in the roof and a barrel to collect rainwater outside. He thought it could probably house a small family at most, being no more than a few paces from end to end.

  A house like this almost never yielded coins or valuable goods. At best there might be women or children who could be sold. He would not be searching for either this night and wondered if he ever would again. Though it was quite likely there might be broth or porridge left to cool in a pot to be warmed again for breakfast, he would not be going inside at all. If he wanted food, Algas of Shorha would have to find what he could out of doors.

  The chicken coop was no more than a wooden shelter propped up at an angle over a few nests, much like those he might find in the garden of any small farmhouse. As he neared he fantasized briefly about snapping the neck of one of the birds, but realized he would never have the time or means to skin and cook it, and reasoned, wisely he thought, that if the birds were to make any noise over stolen eggs, they would surely make more when he tried to catch one.

  The coop was empty when he looked inside. Perhaps the birds were in the house or perhaps they didn’t have any at all. There were no eggs or straw. This late in the year it was unlikely any hens would be laying anyway. He looked quietly around and found no sign of any animals. He started quietly toward the kitchen garden, where he hoped he might find radishes or carrots.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The voice startled Algas and he sprung to his feet, whipped around and drew his sword. A man stood there, older but not so elderly, of medium height. He could not see much more in the darkness. The man wore patched, threadbare clothing – a shirt, thick tunic and a cap, and was not armed.

  ‘A thief?’ The man pressed. ‘I have nothing to steal. Not even hens, you can see for yourself.’

  ‘I was hungry.’ Algas said, aware his northern accent might betray him, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘A big, strapping lad like you?’ The old man asked. ‘Well so am I. Though if it’s ale you want, the tavern is closed. That’s why I came home.’ And he turned and walked around the house, stopped at the corner and poked his head around and said, ‘Well come inside then.’

  Algas followed the man cautiously to the door, saw him open it inwards and they entered the darkened cottage. With the door wide open, he could see it had an earthen floor with a small stone hearth in the center. There was a stand with a cooking pot hanging above it. Around the sides was a raised stone platform several inches high. On this floor, directly opposite the door was a wooden cot, a small table and a single chair stood in the corner to the right and to the left a small chest and several baskets were stacked haphazardly.

  ‘Sit,’ the man told him.’

  The man surely lived alone, lived simply and had few possessions, but was not as poor as some villagers, who kept whole families in run-down hovels with no furniture at all save bedrolls and cookware. The house was no doubt provided by a landlord. That lord would have men, horses and dogs and could well be involved in the search for fugitives already. The Northman squatted down, but remained on guard with his back against the door and blade across his lap.

  The villager squatted and began to apply flint and tinder to the kindling in the hearth and blew on the smoke and flames as the fire slowly took hold. They both watched the fire as it grew and the old man took the ladle in the pot and began to stir.

  ‘I’ve bread and pottage, enough for the two of us.’ He looked at the sword which lay across the warrior’s lap. ‘You’ll not need that in here. I’m just an old tinker.’

  ‘I’ll kill you if you raise the cry.’ Algas warned flatly. He knew that half the countryside was looking for him and his men, and that he would be hanged as soon as they caught him, if not tormented for information first.

  The old man watched the young raider’s eyes intently for a moment. His face was deeply lined and tanned from a lifetime of toil out of doors.

  ‘When I was younger I fought in the east, one of my lord’s men at arms. We were proud, we were young and strong and I wore a mail shirt and a sword and the Lifetree on my breast like Knights of the Chalice. Many of us died in that rancid land; men and horses dying of thirst and hunger. I was wounded…in my, well, down there.’ He nodded at his own crotch.

  Algas stifled a winced for such wound was the most humiliating of fates. Better to die with sword in hand than to never take pleasure of a woman or father any sons.

  ‘So you took no wife?’

  ‘I had hoped to when I came home, but what good was I? But that’s not what I wanted to tell you.’ He took a sip from the pot and went on.

  ‘After that battle, the battle of Buq Tala it was called, many of us were routed and fled, I am not proud to say, but we all have to fight another day, don’t we?’

  Algas understood what he was saying but chose to remain silent, for he was already wrestling with his actions that day. He had alw
ays believed it was glory to die in battle, cowardice to turn and flee. But when his own time had come he and so many others had not even thought about it. They had run like hares, and like hares, had done only what their own feet commanded them to. It was almost as if there had been no choice. This seemed to be what the old man was telling him, though his command of the Southlander tongue was new and the old man’s accent thicker than at first he had thought.

  The old man reached to a wrapped cloth on the raised stone floor and uncovered some wheels of flatbread. ‘So I wandered the desert, the dry riverbeds and the rocky hills. There was no water to be found and nothing to eat but one large lizard I caught and cooked. I was tired, thin, and so thirsty and was sure with the pain I must die soon. I was sleeping under the shade of a tree behind some rocks when a goatherd came upon me. He took me to his tent, and gave me water. It was the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. His wife fed me, and his children played with me, and he called upon a local healer to tend my wound. I stayed there months, learned some of their words. Enough to help me understand why he would help me, an enemy; an invader.’

  The Northman was beginning to understand and listened on.

  ‘He told me that their holy martyr Khalim, their most revered holy man who was murdered a thousand years ago, preached we must show compassion and love for our enemies, even as he was betrayed and cut down my foemen. Our own priests teach us the same, “Take into your home he who has wronged you; feed and dress him and treat him with kindness and send him away your friend.” That’s from the Strictures.’

  This was why the southlanders were weak, all this bleating about loving your enemies. He would never take in a foeman or shelter one, for that would be more than any bastard who fought his people deserved. The old man must be losing his mind after living so long. Probably for lack of a woman’s thighs about his waist. He changed the subject.

  ‘You can read?’ Algas asked, though books didn’t interest him.