provisions his unpredictable father had also packed in among the swords. Some of his sickness and grief had receded. His imagination pounced forwards to how it would feel to bring a Briton’s broadsword slicing down onto a Viking’s hairy skull.
“Tell Broccus I’m grateful,” he said. “Very.” It struck him that Broc had picked out for him a lad with fair hair and eyes as close to blue as the stock of the inland strongholds ever showed. He shivered. “Be sure and tell him I wasn’t dissatisfied with you. I can’t take anyone back with me, and…I’m done with that kind of thing. That’s all.”
He shook the reins. The pony danced around, making the harness jingle. Cai had only driven a handful of times, Broc cursing him and bawling out instructions, but he found his balance easily, measuring tension on the reins where they ran through the loops. The boy stepped out of the way, and he drove the chariot sharply forwards, lifting his face to meet the wind.
A mile north of Fara, Oslaf appeared, blue around the lips from desperate running. As soon as Cai saw him, he set the warhorse to a gallop. He’d instructed Benedict as well as he could in the care of the injured men, but knew he shouldn’t have left them. Nothing—not even life—had seemed so important as getting to Broc and acquiring the instruments of death. He drove the chariot on to meet Oslaf, reining in hard when he approached the panting monk. “Here,” he called, reaching down. “Get in. Tell me as we drive.”
“No.” Oslaf lurched at the movement of the unfamiliar vehicle, grabbed the rail and hung on. “At least… Slow down. I saw you coming home, and Ben said I should get to you and warn you…”
“Is Cedric worse? John?”
“No. They’re healing. Take this side track, Cai. Stay out of sight of Fara for now.”
“Why?”
“Follow round so you’ll come in at the foot of the cliff. What is this devil’s contraption?”
“It’s my father’s, which amounts to the same thing. What’s wrong?”
“We have a new abbot.”
Cai steadied the pony, who’d enjoyed her wild dash over the moors and was skittering impatiently in the confines of the lane. He calculated the time it took for a message to reach even the nearest of the brother monasteries. “How? No one can have heard about Theo yet.”
“They haven’t. This man was dispatched from the south weeks ago to replace him. His name is Aelfric. He’s…” Oslaf relinquished his grip to gesture with one hand, clearly lost for words. “Just don’t let him see you come in, not with this rig. And…” He glanced incredulously into the baskets. “And an arsenal. Caius…”
“We have to defend ourselves.”
“He won’t let you. He says the raid was a punishment from God.”
Cai almost dropped the reins. “He says what ?”
“Because we don’t obey Rule. Because Theo was wicked and heretical. He wants his body taken out of the crypt and—”
The lane was very narrow. Broc’s chariots had been designed for close combat, though, and his horses could turn on a sestertius. The mare swung obediently at Cai’s shout and tug on her left rein. The chariot lumbered round, almost tipping Oslaf off the side. “Cai, what are you doing?”
“Going home. The fast way. Where is this idiot from?”
“Canterbury. He has other men with him, senior clerics. Please turn round again. You can’t just…”
“Oslaf, be silent. And hang on.”
The scene before him was dreamlike. Urging the pony on, Cai struggled to make sense of it. He had been fighting for his grasp on reality all the way down the coastal plain, memories overlaying themselves onto his bleak present moment. He’d driven hard past the place where he’d first seen Leof on his journey home from trading, averted his eyes from the dunes where they’d lain down. Now it was as if time had slipped, doubled back on itself with incomprehensible changes. Men were congregated, motionless but for the
“Tell Broccus I’m grateful,” he said. “Very.” It struck him that Broc had picked out for him a lad with fair hair and eyes as close to blue as the stock of the inland strongholds ever showed. He shivered. “Be sure and tell him I wasn’t dissatisfied with you. I can’t take anyone back with me, and…I’m done with that kind of thing. That’s all.”
He shook the reins. The pony danced around, making the harness jingle. Cai had only driven a handful of times, Broc cursing him and bawling out instructions, but he found his balance easily, measuring tension on the reins where they ran through the loops. The boy stepped out of the way, and he drove the chariot sharply forwards, lifting his face to meet the wind.
A mile north of Fara, Oslaf appeared, blue around the lips from desperate running. As soon as Cai saw him, he set the warhorse to a gallop. He’d instructed Benedict as well as he could in the care of the injured men, but knew he shouldn’t have left them. Nothing—not even life—had seemed so important as getting to Broc and acquiring the instruments of death. He drove the chariot on to meet Oslaf, reining in hard when he approached the panting monk. “Here,” he called, reaching down. “Get in. Tell me as we drive.”
“No.” Oslaf lurched at the movement of the unfamiliar vehicle, grabbed the rail and hung on. “At least… Slow down. I saw you coming home, and Ben said I should get to you and warn you…”
“Is Cedric worse? John?”
“No. They’re healing. Take this side track, Cai. Stay out of sight of Fara for now.”
“Why?”
“Follow round so you’ll come in at the foot of the cliff. What is this devil’s contraption?”
“It’s my father’s, which amounts to the same thing. What’s wrong?”
“We have a new abbot.”
Cai steadied the pony, who’d enjoyed her wild dash over the moors and was skittering impatiently in the confines of the lane. He calculated the time it took for a message to reach even the nearest of the brother monasteries. “How? No one can have heard about Theo yet.”
“They haven’t. This man was dispatched from the south weeks ago to replace him. His name is Aelfric. He’s…” Oslaf relinquished his grip to gesture with one hand, clearly lost for words. “Just don’t let him see you come in, not with this rig. And…” He glanced incredulously into the baskets. “And an arsenal. Caius…”
“We have to defend ourselves.”
“He won’t let you. He says the raid was a punishment from God.”
Cai almost dropped the reins. “He says what ?”
“Because we don’t obey Rule. Because Theo was wicked and heretical. He wants his body taken out of the crypt and—”
The lane was very narrow. Broc’s chariots had been designed for close combat, though, and his horses could turn on a sestertius. The mare swung obediently at Cai’s shout and tug on her left rein. The chariot lumbered round, almost tipping Oslaf off the side. “Cai, what are you doing?”
“Going home. The fast way. Where is this idiot from?”
“Canterbury. He has other men with him, senior clerics. Please turn round again. You can’t just…”
“Oslaf, be silent. And hang on.”
The scene before him was dreamlike. Urging the pony on, Cai struggled to make sense of it. He had been fighting for his grasp on reality all the way down the coastal plain, memories overlaying themselves onto his bleak present moment. He’d driven hard past the place where he’d first seen Leof on his journey home from trading, averted his eyes from the dunes where they’d lain down. Now it was as if time had slipped, doubled back on itself with incomprehensible changes. Men were congregated, motionless but for the
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