From her seat at the hearth of St. Anne’s Monastery, Alynn the Dauntless could hear three or four conversations going on in two different languages. She wasn’t following any of them—she was too tired. Her daughter Elspeth was nursing herself to sleep, and there was nothing Alynn wanted to do more than fall asleep along with her. There was something about having Elspeth snuggled up against her, warm and drowsy, that filled Alynn with the sort of peace and comfort that inevitably brings sleep along with it.
Nevertheless, she stayed awake and tried to listen to everything around her. But she did close her eyes. She could listen better that way.
The men were closest to her, sitting and standing around her at the hearth. There was the voice of her father Rowan, his Irish lilt rising and falling like waves on a gentle night. Then there was Lukas, the monk who spoke with a scholar’s vocabulary and a Highland brogue. Then there was a laugh, and Alynn’s husband Drostan said something in Norse. This incited another round of laughter from everyone except for Rowan, who was stubbornly refusing to learn the language.
Elspeth gave a mighty squirm; Alynn opened her eyes to look at her. Elspeth was half-asleep, but still eating contentedly like the wee piglet she was. Alynn smiled and stroked her daughter’s fiery red hair. She’d gotten her hair from her father, but her eyes—a stunning celestial blue, even when they were glazed over with sleepiness—she’d gotten from her mother. Mostly, at least. Alynn’s eyes were a greenish-blue, but perhaps Elspeth would grow into hers.
There was another round of laughter. This time, it came from the kitchen, where the women were making the final preparations for that night’s feast. Part of Alynn felt bad for not helping. But, she reasoned, her mother Caitriona and Valdis the hired girl could handle everything. They were both better cooks than she was.
And besides, this was Elspeth’s party. A celebration of her first tooth, which was hardly visible in her lower jaw. Alynn’s Irish mind didn’t quite understand the Norse tradition, but any excuse for a party was welcome. All Alynn knew was that she was free to devote all of her attention to her daughter—nothing out of the ordinary, of course. Elspeth loved nothing more than getting attention, and she would scream for it quite loudly when necessary. But for the moment, she was peaceful. Alynn touched her finger to Elspeth’s palm and smiled contentedly as her daughter grasped her with a powerful fist.
The sweet child—her eyes were half-closed now. Her eyelids drooped until her lashes almost touched her cheek, then fluttered open, then drooped again…was she sleeping? Alynn hoped she was….
A sudden noise turned every head in the monastery. Elspeth started crying.
Sighing, Alynn opened her mouth to yell at whoever had woken her daughter, but her admonitions quickly died on her lips. Her brother Tarin, red-faced and sweating, flew through the front door.
“Da! Lukas! There’s somethin’ in the woods!” he cried out. “It bit Brett! He’s hurt!”
Brett landed on the threshold as if he’d jumped over the two small steps that led into St. Anne’s Monastery. Tarin slammed and barred the door behind them. The women were out of the kitchen, the men rose from the hearth, everyone was talking and Elspeth was screaming.
The boys were quickly led to the hearth. Brett was all but shoved into a seat next to the fire as Lukas slit his bloodstained sleeve from elbow to wrist. Caitriona, meanwhile, was checking Tarin over for injuries.
Words flew like arrows. Cries of “What happened?” and “Who did this?” and “Were you followed?” rang out in both Norse and Gaelic, with the occasional “I’m grand, Mum! Leave me be!” thrown in by Tarin. Finally, Lukas’s voice rose above the clamor.
“Excuse us—pardon—Rowan, if ye wouldn’t mind stepping—och, Christe eleision. Will everyone please stop yelling and stand back? We need room to think, thank ye, now someone go fetch us some bloodwort and bandages. Tarin, are ye hurt?”
“I’m grand,” said Tarin. He didn’t look grand. He was still panting, and his face was as red as his sweat-damp hair. But when Lukas took a ring of keys from his belt, Tarin reached out a trembling hand and took them.
“Good. Thank God,” Lukas said. “Bloodwort and bandages, and there ought to be some strong ale on the top shelf. Hurry up.”
Tarin scampered down a dim hallway, keys jingling loudly in his hands. In the meanwhile, Lukas took the hem of his frock-like scapular and wiped some of the blood away from Brett’s wound.
Thnx!