they’d enjoyed since the Danes first invaded were now gone. So much for faith. So much for tolerance. “What are you saying?”
“The best thing you can do, my child, is leave York. Take these books with you.” He offered them back.
“You haven’t learned of my fate yet.” She stared at the stone floor, ashamed. “I’ve been claimed by a Norwegian captain under Prince Ivarr’s command.”
He coughed, then grasped her arm. “Did he…”
“No,” she answered, looking up. “I told him I’d rather die.”
The priest’s cheeks turned red. “These heathens are an abomination—Cain’s offspring—scattered to the four corners of the earth after God cursed his murdering soul.”
“No matter who their forefather is,” she observed, “I’m afraid my fate is sealed. These blessed texts will be no safer with me. Please,” she pleaded, “keep them.”
He refused, pushing the books into her hands. “Sometimes blessings come from what appear to be misfortunes. Keep these, Silvia. Hide them amongst your personal effects. Don’t read them until the Lord has revealed the appropriate time. Swear on everything holy, promise me you’ll abide by what I say.” The monk’s green eyes widened.
She felt a prick of fear. “I swear.”
“There’s still time for me to take your confession.”
She hugged the scrolls to her chest. Confession? In the middle of a bloody war? Not a physical battle, but the one raging inside her heart. Hatred and doubt—dark thoughts of death. How could she declare these sins?
“Kneel, child.”
Reluctant to do so, she slowly prostrated herself. “What do you want me to say, Father?”
He stared down at her. “Your heart is burdened. Don’t fear God’s retribution.”
“When the beast kissed me, I felt something…” she blurted.
Father Andrew rested his chin on his fist. “Continue.”
“A sensation I’ve never known. And then I kicked him between the legs—wishing him dead. Begging to take my own life.”
“All perfectly natural reactions to the shock you’ve suffered.”
“Priest,” a voice echoed from somewhere in the nave.
“Ivarr’s men.” He held his finger to his mouth. “You must follow the hallway to the cloister and exit through the back door. Do not stop for anyone. Go.” He helped her climb to her feet. “Remember what I told you. God does not abandon the innocent.”
Silvia started for the heavy, wood door that opened into the corridor. She’d snuck into the monastery many times as a girl, only to be greeted by the men who’d grown to love her as a favorite pet. They’d gone as far as to feed her sweet bread and warm milk before they pretended to chastise her and sent her home.
“Father?” she called over her shoulder.
Andrew smiled.
“I’ll never forget you.”
“Aye,” he said. “Go with God.”
*
Konal trudged toward the cottage, carrying the coarse bag containing Ulf’s severed head. The bloodthirsty wench would get her payment. And he’d collect his. He’d gone too long and come too far to let her win. He kicked the door open and then walked to the hearth. He dropped the sack on the table, knocking mud off his boots. He’d drank too much ale—eaten too much meat—and killed a man because that man coveted the woman he hadn’t bedded yet.
“Silvia,” he yelled, staring at the stairs.
“Milord?”
“Come and see what I’ve brought you from Prince Ivarr’s feast.”
Her door creaked open. “I’m not hungry.”
“Do you think I brought you scraps from his table?”
“I care little for anything you have to offer.”
“Downstairs. Now .”
She didn’t come quietly, her slippered feet echoing nearly as loud as his boots on the hard floor. “Why have you summoned me?” She gasped at the bloodstained bag. “What have you done?”
Konal plopped down in the nearest chair and then propped his feet on the table. “The proof you demanded.” He gestured toward the sack.
She covered her mouth with
“The best thing you can do, my child, is leave York. Take these books with you.” He offered them back.
“You haven’t learned of my fate yet.” She stared at the stone floor, ashamed. “I’ve been claimed by a Norwegian captain under Prince Ivarr’s command.”
He coughed, then grasped her arm. “Did he…”
“No,” she answered, looking up. “I told him I’d rather die.”
The priest’s cheeks turned red. “These heathens are an abomination—Cain’s offspring—scattered to the four corners of the earth after God cursed his murdering soul.”
“No matter who their forefather is,” she observed, “I’m afraid my fate is sealed. These blessed texts will be no safer with me. Please,” she pleaded, “keep them.”
He refused, pushing the books into her hands. “Sometimes blessings come from what appear to be misfortunes. Keep these, Silvia. Hide them amongst your personal effects. Don’t read them until the Lord has revealed the appropriate time. Swear on everything holy, promise me you’ll abide by what I say.” The monk’s green eyes widened.
She felt a prick of fear. “I swear.”
“There’s still time for me to take your confession.”
She hugged the scrolls to her chest. Confession? In the middle of a bloody war? Not a physical battle, but the one raging inside her heart. Hatred and doubt—dark thoughts of death. How could she declare these sins?
“Kneel, child.”
Reluctant to do so, she slowly prostrated herself. “What do you want me to say, Father?”
He stared down at her. “Your heart is burdened. Don’t fear God’s retribution.”
“When the beast kissed me, I felt something…” she blurted.
Father Andrew rested his chin on his fist. “Continue.”
“A sensation I’ve never known. And then I kicked him between the legs—wishing him dead. Begging to take my own life.”
“All perfectly natural reactions to the shock you’ve suffered.”
“Priest,” a voice echoed from somewhere in the nave.
“Ivarr’s men.” He held his finger to his mouth. “You must follow the hallway to the cloister and exit through the back door. Do not stop for anyone. Go.” He helped her climb to her feet. “Remember what I told you. God does not abandon the innocent.”
Silvia started for the heavy, wood door that opened into the corridor. She’d snuck into the monastery many times as a girl, only to be greeted by the men who’d grown to love her as a favorite pet. They’d gone as far as to feed her sweet bread and warm milk before they pretended to chastise her and sent her home.
“Father?” she called over her shoulder.
Andrew smiled.
“I’ll never forget you.”
“Aye,” he said. “Go with God.”
*
Konal trudged toward the cottage, carrying the coarse bag containing Ulf’s severed head. The bloodthirsty wench would get her payment. And he’d collect his. He’d gone too long and come too far to let her win. He kicked the door open and then walked to the hearth. He dropped the sack on the table, knocking mud off his boots. He’d drank too much ale—eaten too much meat—and killed a man because that man coveted the woman he hadn’t bedded yet.
“Silvia,” he yelled, staring at the stairs.
“Milord?”
“Come and see what I’ve brought you from Prince Ivarr’s feast.”
Her door creaked open. “I’m not hungry.”
“Do you think I brought you scraps from his table?”
“I care little for anything you have to offer.”
“Downstairs. Now .”
She didn’t come quietly, her slippered feet echoing nearly as loud as his boots on the hard floor. “Why have you summoned me?” She gasped at the bloodstained bag. “What have you done?”
Konal plopped down in the nearest chair and then propped his feet on the table. “The proof you demanded.” He gestured toward the sack.
She covered her mouth with
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