The Miracle Thief Page 19

  Behind me, there went up a bellow.

  At that great shout, I turned, but I was too late. One of the Danes had already grabbed me by the collar of my tunic. Now he pressed the tip of his knife to my throat.

  As I clawed at his hand, the man in the red tunic put his own hand to the knife, seeming to offer himself in my place.

  Everyone else had followed, and now they circled around us. My eyes found the monk. “What does he want?”

  “He’s the one who thinks you a huldra. He wants to cut out your tongue so you can’t sing and seduce them all away into the forest.”

  I shut my mouth, clenching my jaw.

  The monk spoke for a moment in a quiet, even tone to the Dane who was holding me. With a malevolent look, the pagan put his knife away, and the man with the red tunic let out a great breath.

  But if I had thought the Dane done with me, I was mistaken. He went around behind me and then began to pat the length of my spine.

  Fearing for my life, I stood there, trembling.

  The Dane grunted and then spoke.

  “Your back is not hollow.” The young monk spoke the words as if some great judgment had been made, but I did not know if that was good news or bad.

  The Dane returned to stand in front of me and then drew his knife again.

  I dropped to my knees, hands clasped to my chest, closing my eyes for fear of what might happen next.

  Someone grasped my shoulder.

  I flinched.

  “Rise.” It was the monk. “He wants only to see if you have a tail.”

  A…tail? I gave my head a jerking shake, and then, clasping his extended hand, I stood.

  The heathen circled me once more, and I felt a sudden breeze as the hem of my tunic was lifted. He said something and lifted my skirts higher.

  The others laughed as the man in red protested.

  Though the Dane snarled at him, nothing more was said to me, and I felt my skirts drop back into place.

  The monk shrugged. “You have no tail; therefore, you are not a huldra.”

  Now the other Dane approached, barking words at the man who held the knife.

  The monk frowned. “He says you might still be a dwarf.”

  “I am not a dwarf.”

  “She’s just a girl!” Though he seemed to be defending me, the man in the red tunic looked more frightful than all of the Danes put together; his black hair was in wild disarray, and his eyes were as raw and as red as his garments.

  The Dane who thought me a dwarf came close, giving me a sidelong glance. He murmured something to the monk as he put a hand to my face.

  “He says if you are truly just a girl, then you’re a comely one.”

  The heathen grasped me by the chin and swept my hair from my face, and then he forced me to look into his eyes. He said something to one of the others, and was soon given a cloth onto which he spit. He used it to scrub at my face. When he was done, he stared at me as a smile slowly spread across his face.

  The man in the red tunic laid a hand on the Dane’s arm. “She said she was a pilgrim.” When the Dane did nothing, he directed his words toward the monk. Outrage colored his voice. “Pilgrims are to be protected, not molested!”

  The Dane grabbed me by the hair as he said something to the monk.

  I gasped from the sudden pain.

  “He asks to whom you belong.”

  I answered what was true. “I belong to no one but myself.”

  The older cleric’s lips twisted. “You call yourself a pilgrim, but you have no letter. And now you claim to have no lord. Everyone has a lord. If you claim none, you must have run from one.”

  “I did not.”

  The monk relayed my words, and the Dane replied.

  “He says it does not matter. He will be your lord now, and you will be his bed-slave.” The Dane’s hand slid from my face down beneath my mantle to the collar of my tunic. As I twisted from him, he pulled me toward him. I wrenched away; he jerked me back. The motion tore my collar, and as he pulled at me, the tunic ripped, leaving my undertunic exposed.

  I had been able, through all of the tumult, to keep my useless hand hidden, but now I struck out with it, trying to push him away as I used my good hand to gather the edges of my torn garment.

  The man dropped his hold on me and staggered back with a gasp. As he pointed to my hand, the others began to mutter. Even the monk stepped away from me as he translated.

  “You are a dwarf! You have only three fingers on that hand.”

  “I was born this way.” I appealed to the older cleric, but he too fell back from me. My tunic was useless, torn beyond redemption. No matter what I tried, which way I turned, my undergarments were made plain for all to see. I dropped to the ground and bent over my knees, trying to keep myself hidden within my mantle.

  The man with the red tunic stripped off his own mantle and dropped it atop me. “She’s nothing but a girl. And if she’s a pilgrim, she has as much right to travel to the abbey unmolested as you or I.”

  As I pulled his mantle down and around me, I glanced up to see his hand, white-knuckled, gripping his knife.

  The Dane saw it too, but he laughed. And then he spit into the dirt near my face and said something in a scoffing tone.

  The monk helped me to standing. “He says he does not want you now, but they cannot release you. You might go back to your troll-father and put a curse on us.”

  The Dane came close and murmured something into my ear.

  I flinched.

  The monk translated his words. “He wants to apologize. He did not realize who you were. And he promises they will let you go once they’ve gained the abbey.”

  There was some discussion between several of the Danes, and then the one wearing the helmet broke from the others and addressed the monk.

  The monk passed his message to me. “He asks: ‘Do you still claim to be a girl?’”

  “I am a girl.”

  The Dane had been watching me intently. Now he sprang forward and sliced my good hand with his knife. The man in the red tunic pushed at him as I gasped, clasping my hand to my chest. But the Dane dodged and lunged toward me, grabbing my wounded hand. Seizing it, he squeezed.

  I screamed.

  When blood bubbled forth, he held it high as he called out to the others.

  As I reclaimed it, crying out from the pain, the monk stepped closer to examine it. “Your blood is not black. You’re not a dwarf.”

  Oh, how it stung! I cradled it against my breast. “I was born this way. It’s why I journey to the abbey. To pray for healing.”

  One of the Danes gave a shout, and the others followed him, leaving me for their horses. The clerics broke from me as well. As the man in the red tunic wrapped a strip of cloth about my hand, it was clear they all meant to ride away, leaving me there in the wood.

  “Are you…are you going too?”

  He looked up from my hand, his red-rimmed eyes awash with apology. “I must. I’m sorry. When you reach the village, stay. There should be someone there who can care for your hand.”

  “But I can’t. I can’t stay.”

  He stepped back from me. “I must go.” The sun had almost disappeared behind the mountains, and out in the wood somewhere, a wolf howled.

  Another answered back.

  “I have to reach the abbey!”

  His mouth moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he only bowed and then went to mount his horse.

  As they rode, I sprang toward them. “Do not leave me here! I’ll do anything.” I had to reach the abbey. And if they left me alone on this lonely road, then the wolves would find me again, and I did not know what they would do to me this time.

  The Dane wearing the helmet lifted a hand and consulted the monk. Then he stopped his horse and said something to the man who h
ad once claimed me for his slave. That man nodded, and the chieftain called out to the monk once more.

  The monk rode from his place at the back of the column toward me. “The man who first claimed you will take you as his slave. When they have returned to Neustria, he will sell you. If you promise to hide your hand until the sale has been completed, then at least then he will get something for his trouble.”

  I would enslave myself to anyone who was going to the abbey. And if Saint Catherine were pleased with me, then perhaps she could intervene to have this misfortune removed from me as well. I nodded my agreement.

  At my nod, the man who had claimed me pitched a parcel over to me. It was wrapped in a hide and secured with leather thongs.

  “He says to carry that.”

  Though it was heavy and though both my hands were now useless, I gathered it to my breast as the others laughed at me.

  The man in the red tunic rode over and leaned down to take it from me, but the Dane took up his spear and threw it in our direction. It landed with a vibrating twang.

  The man backed his horse away from me.

  In spite of the throbbing of my wounded hand, I clasped the parcel more firmly, using the pressure to keep my mantle from slipping to reveal my immodesty. As they moved out toward the road, I prayed my feet would last the journey. I must have walked several dozen paces, following along behind them, before the world began to crumple at the edges and dissolve into a bright white haze of nothingness. And then, I knew no more.

  ***

  When I woke, I was no longer alone. I was no longer cold, and I was no longer walking.

  “When is the last time you ate?”

  I might have started at the voice that whispered in my ear, but the words were spoken in the accent of the man with the red tunic. By the light of the moon, I saw I was riding nestled into the crook of his arm. “Two days. Or three.”

  He gave me some bread to eat.

  At some point during that long night, we passed a city as church bells rang. It could have been the midnight office or matins, for all I knew. A Dane rode close, hand on his knife until we were well by. The village had been set in a valley between mountains. After we passed it, we began to climb in earnest. The gentle lurching of the horse and the rhythmic clop-clop of its steps sent me into a stupor of sorts, but always I woke as my chin dropped to my chest.

  As dawn glimmered, brightening the night sky, the Danes parted from the road and led us to a depression in the land, where they dismounted and began to set up a camp.

  The man in the red tunic slid from the horse and then reached up a hand for me.

  When my skirts lifted up during my descent, he averted his eyes. He was not like the others. He did not stare at me like the Danes, nor did he avoid my gaze like the clerics.

  “I am grateful to you and your horse. I am Anna from Autun.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted, though the gaze from those red-rimmed eyes was sad. “I am Godric of Wessex.”

  I did not know where Wessex was, but of one thing I was certain. “You are not a Frank.”

  “I am Saxon.” He was regarding me with hooded, watchful eyes.

  Saxons were nearly as bad as Danes. My mother had told me Charlemagne had slain many thousands of them during the wars.

  “I am from Britain, a land bedeviled and beset by Danes like those.” He nodded toward the group of them.

  I did not know where Britain was, but if his words were true, they made no sense. “So, you are not one of them?”

  “One of the Danes?” He threw a glance at them. “No.”

  “You are with the monk, then?”

  “No. I’m going to the abbey, like you. And at this time of year, it’s better to go in numbers than to go alone.”

  “If you are not of them, and you do not approve of them, then why do you travel with them?”

  “I have my own reasons for inquiring of Saint Catherine.”

  “You do not wear the pilgrim’s hat. And you do not have the pilgrim’s scrip.”

  “No, but then neither do you.”

  I did not. Without the warmth of his chest and the support of his arms, the cold slipped through my tunic and seeped through my skin down into my bones. It was markedly colder at these heights. The chill of the air stung my nostrils. Leaves had frozen into clumps where they had fallen, and frost dusted the branches of the trees, where it sparkled with the sun’s rising.

  The Danes passed around a costrel and filled their cups with it. One started some sort of song, and the others joined in. The older cleric looked on with a sour face. Behind me, Godric from Wessex unpacked his horse. When he finished, he came to stand beside me. “They will stop singing soon. Though there are few travelers so late in the year, they seem not to want their presence known. As soon as the sun fully rises, they will sleep. And so should you.” He gestured toward a bed of blackened, frost-bent ferns.

  I lay down on the ferns, my mantle tight about me, but I could not bring myself to close my eyes.

  Godric sat down beside me, one leg drawn up in front of him, an arm looped about his knee. “I never sleep, so have no fear. I will not let them harm you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  I woke with a cry and the sensation of being stabbed in the chest.

  As I flailed, Godric fell back onto his heels. “I am sorry, I was just—” He held up a…a needle?

  My eyes contracted with pain as they took in the day’s light. Dazed from the sudden abandonment of slumber, I put my hand to the place where I had been stabbed. It was above my flattened bosom at the place where my tunic had been torn. I collected the torn edges with my bandaged hand and held them tight beneath my chin.

  “I was trying to repair it. I did not think you could do it with your…” His gaze dropped toward the hem of my right sleeve. The fabric had slipped, exposing my bad hand. The skin had gone blue from the cold. Resisting the urge to warm it with my breath, I folded it in on itself, pulling it back up into my sleeve. Over in the glade beyond us, the Danes were snoring.

  “…I did not think you could…that you would be able to…”

  I released my hold on the tunic, and then fingered the fibers that had sprung free about the torn edges of my collar. “No.” I could not repair it. In fact, I could do nothing that needed doing.

  “Do you wish that I continue?” He held up the needle once more.

  I nodded.

  He blinked hard, bringing water to his reddened eyes. Then he reached toward my neck and took up the two pieces of rent material, folding them together. His breath brushed my skin.

  Trembling, I turned my eyes from his work.

  He pressed the fabric down and pushed the needle through it. It slipped, scratching into my skin once more.

  I pressed my lips together.

  He took a deep breath and then blinked hard once more. “I am not used to such fine work.”

  I turned my head away again, burying my chin in my shoulder and closing my eyes against the tears that had begun to leak from them.

  “Truly, I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.”

  He had not hurt me. He was the first person, in a very long time, who had been kind to me. The first person since my mother had died who had taken care of me. Who had touched me with the intent of offering aid instead of guile. I would have stopped my tears if I could have, but the more I tried, the more I trembled.

  At last he finished, knotting the thread, and then, lowering his head to my chest, he took it between his teeth and broke it off, though not before my cheek was brushed by his soft and wildly curling hair.

  My tunic hung strangely from my neck now. I put a hand to his work. The stitches were long and uneven. But though clumsily done, they would probably hold. “Thank you, Godric of Wessex.”

  His gaze had dropped from me toward the sleeping Danes, but at my words, it s
wung back.

  I was trembling still.

  He unfastened his mantle and put it about my shoulders.

  I moved to give it back, but he stayed me, placing his hand on mine. “You need it more than I.”

  It was a generous thought, but the weather made it impractical. His fingers had been frigid as he had worked at my tunic. “I think, perhaps…can we not share it?” I sat upon the ferns once more, and then opened out one side.

  He stared down at it for a moment, and then he glanced off toward the Danes again.

  “Please.” It was not right that I should benefit from the mantle he had brought for his own warmth and comfort.

  He sat beside me, back straight, gaze fixed upon the Danes, keeping a distance between us. I did not blame him. Others who had seen my hand had kept themselves farther away than he. Securing my end of the mantle around my arm, I drew my knees up beneath my tunic. Resting my cheek atop them, I turned my head away from him. I had just closed my eyes when he spoke.

  “Do you truly have no one?”

  I opened my eyes and looked off into the wood. There was no end to it. It seemed to go on and on forever. I had not known a forest would be that way. “I was a child alone, and my mother has just died.” But I did not fear the wood now. Not the way I had, back when I had been alone, fleeing from the wolves.

  “But what of your father?”

  “He is long dead.”

  “There is no one who would claim you?”

  “With my hand?” Not even my father had wanted to claim me. “I belong to no one. No one wanted me.”

  He was silent for some time. Tired of staring at the trees, I had let my eyes flutter shut, and I had almost found sleep, when he spoke once more.

  “I will not let them hurt you.”

  Though he whispered the words, he had such a sure way of speaking. I turned my head, laying my other cheek atop my knees so I could see him. “Thank you.”

  I saw his gaze stray from the Danes toward me. It lingered on my hair, my eyes, my nose, and by then my eyelids had grown too heavy to stay open, and my arms began to twitch with sleep. As I slipped from wakefulness to slumber, I wondered where exactly Britain was. And why he had chosen to leave it behind.