“So many duties, so little time,” murmured the Bard, gazing at the collapsed warriors. “The draugr must be laid to rest and grain delivered to the village—two tasks that pull us in opposite directions. In the middle lies Ethne. My heart cries out to rescue her, and yet the greater good demands that I wait. It’s only for a while, of course. I’m sure she’ll be all right if we provide her with supplies before we leave Bebba’s Town. Pangur Ban can keep an eye on her. …”
Jack had never heard the old man sound so uncertain, and it worried him.
“Promise me this, lad,” the Bard said. “If things don’t work out in Notland, you must return and rescue my daughter.”
“Of course I will,” said Jack, deeply moved. “You don’t need to ask.”
“I know,” the old man said, looking off into the darkness over the sea.
Chapter Twenty-one
ETHNE’S CELL
The Bard, Jack, and Thorgil returned to Din Guardi. King Brutus sulked charmingly because they had missed his party, but he soon forgot and planned another one. Each day the Bard and Jack went to the market square to sell their goods, while Thorgil was hired to train the king’s horses. “They’re shockingly behaved,” she complained. “All they do is roll on the grass and eat daisies.”
“Somewhat like their master,” the Bard remarked. With the money they made, Egil’s men bought grain and loaded it onto the ship.
Beelzebub’s Remedy Against Flies sold out because everyone was plagued by flies in the heat. The potions for locking and unlocking bowels were also popular, along with salves for rash, pinkeye, and the traveling itch. The Bard sat under a tree and people whispered their ailments to him. He would tell Jack which medicine to fetch.
Some folk whispered that they needed curses, and the Bard sent them packing. “Be off with you! I don’t deal in curses,” he shouted. “Go ask at the monastery. I’m told they have curses to spare.” He was still smarting over his reception by Father Severus.
They rode out to meet Pangur Ban in the evenings. Ethne was slightly more cheerful, the cat reported. She liked the flowers the Bard sent her. She had begun to sing again. She could almost, but not quite, touch a ray of sunlight that came through the chapel door and landed beneath her narrow window. Jack’s heart burned with indignation at her imprisonment even though it had been her choice.
When everything else had been sold, the Bard thrust aside his pride, and he and Jack approached Father Severus again. “I don’t have time for your foolishness,” the abbot said angrily. “I’ve got someone who’s come down with flying venom in my infirmary. We had to burn his house to keep it from spreading.”
“This won’t take long,” the Bard said. “I have a selection of Brother Aiden’s inks to sell.” He placed a basket on the floor.
The abbot had signaled a hefty monk to remove the intruders, but at the mention of Brother Aiden he sent the man away. “Is that the ink they used on the Holy Isle?”
“The same,” said the Bard. “Rose red, heavenly blue, leaf green, the yellow of morning sun. It is as though you looked through a stained-glass window.”
Jack smiled, remembering the window in the monastery storeroom. It had been small, made up of fragments of the original on the Holy Isle, but even those shone with a glory not altogether of this world.
“No one ever made finer colors than Brother Aiden,” said Father Severus. “I’d pay handsomely if he were willing to part with the formula.”
“Let me tell you a story,” the Bard said. “Aiden, like all Picts, holds the secret to making heather ale.”
“I’ve tasted it,” the abbot said. “If you were burning in Hell, one drop would soothe your entire body.”
“A Scottish king captured one of Aiden’s ancestors and threatened to kill him. But he promised a hoard of gold and the hand of his daughter if the man would reveal the recipe for heather ale. The man preferred to die. That’s the resistance you’re up against if you want to learn how Aiden mixes ink.”
Father Severus sighed. “What outrageous price do you demand?”
The Bard named a sum and added, “I want to see my daughter.”
The abbot laughed. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Ethne chose her penance willingly and her immortal soul depends on it. No male speaks to her, not even me.”
“I’m her father!”
“A mere accident,” said Father Severus. “A year ago you didn’t even know she existed.”
“But I do now!” The two men faced each other, and Jack felt a thrum of power from the Bard’s staff. Equally, he sensed a cold wall of resistance from the abbot. Where had he encountered that force before? Was it when he saw the powers of the living world dash themselves against the walls of Din Guardi? Was it Unlife he felt?
“Thorgil could visit her,” Jack said before the confrontation could come to blows. Both men turned to look at him. “She could check on Ethne’s welfare.”
“It’s true,” the abbot said unwillingly. “Thorgil isn’t a male, though you’d have to look twice to prove it.”
The Bard nodded. “Very well, Thorgil can take my place, but with these conditions: The bricks sealing up my daughter’s cell must be replaced by a door. I don’t want Ethne trapped should there be an earthquake or a fire. I also insist that you store jugs of water in her room in case of an emergency.”
“The door must remain locked at all times,” bargained Father Severus, “and I alone shall keep the key. I want no misguided rescue attempts. Also, Thorgil must come unarmed and in women’s clothes.” The abbot smiled and Jack’s heart sank. He had yet to see the shield maiden unarmed or in a dress.
The two men shook hands, and it seemed to Jack that the Bard winced when Father Severus touched him.
“I swear,” fumed the old man as they rode to Din Guardi, “I’ll come back and wipe the smile off that pompous ass’s face. If I wasn’t so worried about the draugr, I’d do it right now. But with Thorgil’s help, Ethne’s existence should at least be bearable until either I or Skakki return to free her.”
Either? thought Jack, depressed. Why not both? It seemed the Bard wasn’t all that confident about returning from Notland. The boy puzzled over the change in Father Severus’s behavior. The man had always been inflexible and grim, but there had been a real core of kindness in him. He’d rescued the child Aiden and taken him to the Holy Isle. He’d cared for Jack, Pega, and Thorgil in the dungeons of Elfland. What had happened to him?
Jack braced himself for a fight with Thorgil about the dress, but she surprised him. “It’s a good trick,” she said, “like the time Thor put on a dress and pretended to be Freya. He went right up to the gate of Jotunheim. ‘Oo, let me in, you big strong Jotuns,’ he said. ‘I think you’re all so cute!’ Of course, once he was inside, he beat the snot out of them. How we used to laugh when Olaf told that tale!”
“I know you did,” said Jack, thinking, All Northmen are crazy.
The next morning Thorgil, dressed in the finest robes King Brutus could supply, set forth on a white palfrey to visit the daughter of the Queen of Elfland. She wore a long, green dress and sky blue tunic. Around her waist hung a belt decorated with gold coins, and on her head was a white veil. Brutus had found her a diadem of amethysts for her brow. She could use only one hand, but she rode as well as any warrior with two. Horses instinctively obeyed Thorgil.
Jack and a pair of knights rode by her side, for it would have been dangerous for a lady to set forth in such finery without protection. “I hope you don’t have a knife concealed somewhere,” Jack said, knowing the shield maiden’s habits.
“Why on earth would you imagine such a thing?” cooed Thorgil. “Besides, none of those monks is going to search me.”
“Just don’t do anything awful.”
They came to the monastery and Father Severus observed Thorgil suspiciously. “You’ve changed a lot,” he said.
“Haven’t I?” warbled Thorgil. Jack closed his eyes and waited for a sarcastic follow-up, but she held o
ut her arms to him instead. He helped her dismount.
“Don’t think I trust you,” the abbot said. “I’ve seen what your kind do. You’re not visiting Ethne alone, and if you try anything stupid, I have a dozen monks around here who used to be murderous felons.” He clapped his hands and a grimlooking nun appeared. It was the first time Jack had seen a nun, though he’d certainly heard about them. She was a great, strapping woman who could have wrestled an ox to the ground. Jack noticed a large scar on the palm of her hand. She had been subjected to a trial by ordeal.
“Sister Wulfhilda will escort you, Thorgil. She has the key to the door.”
“Why, thank you, Sister Wulfhilda,” the shield maiden said sweetly. Lifting the corner of her gown as elegantly as any lady of King Brutus’s court, she followed the nun into the chapel. Jack and the knights were forced to remain in the courtyard.
They waited. And waited. Father Severus went off to discipline a few monks for gluttony. He returned, glanced irritably into the chapel, and excused himself for prayers. The bell clanged for lunch. Father Severus hurried back to invite Jack and the others to join him.
Jack remembered the dining hall vividly and looked forward to a feast, but the menu had changed drastically since the year before. Gone were the juicy slices of ham, the roast capons, the oysters nestling on beds of lettuce. Now they were served barley bread mixed with ashes, to remind the monks of mortality, as well as nettle soup and cider that was well on its way to becoming vinegar. Each man was allotted a tiny hard-boiled egg, except those who were being disciplined for gluttony. They sat in a mournful row, following every bite with their eyes.
Father Severus spoke at length about the reforms he had made at St. Filian’s. “The monks attend prayers seven times a day, and the rest of the time they work. Every afternoon I counsel them on obedience. Wherever they walk, their heads must be bowed and their eyes cast down. They must be content with the most menial treatment. They must admit they are inferior and of less value than the vermin crawling upon a dog’s belly. Also, laughter is forbidden.”
Jack stifled a laugh of his own. How could anyone feel lighthearted after being told he was lower than a louse crawling on a dog’s belly? “Doesn’t fasting weaken you?” he said, looking at the line of mournful monks.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Father Severus. “I’ve gone a month on seaweed and water alone. Those men’s bodies may be lean, but their souls are as fit as greyhounds. Or soon will be,” he said.
Jack dipped his bread into the nettle soup to make it soft enough to chew. “I’m curious about Sister Wulfhilda’s hand. Did she undergo a trial by ordeal?” he asked.
“You always were an observant lad,” the abbot said, not entirely pleased. “Wulfhilda fixed her husband a dish of forest mushrooms, and he died. She was accused of poisoning him.”
“It could have been an accident.”
“That’s why we have trials by ordeal, to sort accidents from evil,” said Father Severus. “I ordered the iron heated— using the large-size metal bar because of the seriousness of the charge—and Wulfhilda carried it the required nine steps.”
“You ordered it?” Jack said, horrified.
“You can’t think Brutus did,” said Father Severus. “That sorry excuse for a king couldn’t discipline a puppy for piddling on his foot.”
“But—” Jack was about to say, But you aren’t king when he remembered the Bard had said that Father Severus was the ruler in all but name. “It was so cruel.”
The abbot laughed cheerlessly. Apparently, laughter wasn’t forbidden for him. “Murder is cruel. Some of these monks are felons of the worst order, pardoned by the grace of God. If I relaxed my hold over them, they’d be at one another’s throats in no time. As it happens, Wulfhilda’s hand didn’t fester and she was proven innocent. I admitted her as a nun because she had nowhere else to go.”
And perhaps she could no longer earn a living, Jack thought. He’d become aware of the restrictions such an injury caused from watching Thorgil. You couldn’t milk a cow or sew. You couldn’t spin thread, shuck peas, or braid hair. Much of what you did became slower and clumsier. It seemed insane that an innocent person had to maim herself just to prove she’d picked the wrong mushroom in the woods.
When they returned to the chapel, Jack saw Thorgil and Sister Wulfhilda laughing and talking in the distance. The abbot’s eyes narrowed, but by the time he got closer, all laughter had stopped. The nun’s head was bowed and her eyes were respectfully fixed on the ground. Thorgil perched on a bench, swinging her foot.
Father Severus produced a bag of silver from his sleeve and handed it to Jack. “You may tell Dragon Tongue I’ve fulfilled his conditions. Now he must fulfill mine. He must never ask to see Ethne again. Give me the key to her door, Sister Wulfhilda, and when you return to the convent, tell Sister Hedwigga to give you six strokes with the light cane. You know why.” With that, he turned and strode away.
“Pig,” said Thorgil under her breath. “You come with us, Wulfie. You’ll have much more fun.”
The nun shook her head. “I couldn’t go off with Northmen, not after what they did to the Holy Isle. But I’ll keep an eye on Ethne for you.”
The knights brought out Thorgil’s palfrey. The shield maiden rode away from the monastery looking as dignified as a court lady, until they reached the top of the hill. Then she hitched up her skirts and screamed, “Go for it!” The palfrey broke into a gallop and thundered down the other side. Jack had all he could do to keep up with her. The knights on their larger horses almost collided with the trees, but Thorgil zigged and zagged through them with ease. She pulled up at a crossroad where one road led to town and the other to Din Guardi. A noisy stream flowed along one side.
“Oh, Freya! What an awful place!” she cried, and then she screamed at the top of her lungs, making the palfrey dance sideways with alarm. “There! I feel better.” She leaped to the ground. “You can’t imagine how bad it is, Jack. Ethne’s body is crawling with lice, and her hair looks like a bramble bush. She’s so thin, I didn’t even recognize her. Her skin is covered in sores. I know I’m not the cleanest person around, but I would never, ever, allow myself to get into such a state. And she thinks it’s good for her soul!”
“Perhaps it is. She has to try harder than the rest of us,” Jack said.
“I don’t know what it takes to make a soul, but I’m sure it’s not providing a free lunch for lice,” Thorgil said passionately. “And Wulfie! Do you know what they did to her?”
“I heard about the trial by ordeal,” said Jack.
“The monastery confiscated her husband’s land, and when she was proven innocent, they didn’t give it back. I’m so glad we pillaged the Holy Isle.”
“Be quiet,” Jack said, glancing at the knights, but they were busy sharing a skin of wine by the stream. “The Holy Isle wasn’t like St. Filian’s,” he said in a low voice. “They were gentle folk who helped all who came to them. St. Filian’s was always stocked with renegades who were hardly better than pirates.”
“I know,” Thorgil said. “Brother Aiden is so decent, he makes even me feel sorry for burning the place down.” She took off her shoes and cooled her feet in the rushing stream. “What I don’t understand is why Father Severus is so changed.”
“The Bard says that power has corrupted him,” said Jack.
“Wulfie says he goes out during the dark of the moon,” the shield maiden said. “He walks in the forest, and when he returns, he locks himself in his cell and flogs himself with a whip.”
Jack went cold. He remembered the Bugaboo’s mother speaking about the Man in the Moon. He’s one of the old gods, she said. He’s doomed to ride the night sky alone, and being with him is like being lost on an endless sea with no star to guide you. He visits the green world only during the dark of the moon, and his conversation is both cheerless and disturbing. It was the Man in the Moon who had made an ally of Unlife.
But Father Severus didn’t believe in the old gods.
He would surely ignore any voices he heard on his walks.
“Not only that, someone died in the infirmary and Father Severus ordered the monk who cared for him flogged. That’s his cure for everything.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it. We’d better go on to Din Guardi,” Jack said.
The Bard was sitting in the Swan Room, writing on a wax-coated tablet of wood with a metal stylus. It was a method Brother Aiden had shown him for organizing tasks. When the Bard had finished the list of chores, he smoothed out the wax so he could make another list.
King Brutus had been correct. The walls and curtains of the Swan Room were so white, the old man’s robes almost disappeared against them. Only his ruddy face and hands were clearly visible. He looked up expectantly.
“It’s as bad as you thought,” Thorgil told him. “Filthy, depressing, and dark. But Ethne still refuses to leave. I was able to smuggle everything in.”
“Smuggle?” said Jack.
The shield maiden grinned. “You’d be surprised by how much you can hide under a skirt—packets of dried meat, cheeses, the rest of Pega’s special scones, a knife, a small mirror, a comb. With all the buckets of water Ethne has stored at the back of her cell, she could withstand a siege. The nun Wulfhilda has promised to check up on her.”
“Excellent work!” the Bard complimented her. “Ethne may not want to leave now, but by the time we return from Notland, she’ll be ready. And if we don’t survive Notland, Skakki has promised to free her. I don’t think Father Severus will enjoy how he does it, and I don’t much care.”