“This looks like a knife wound,” said Lukas, using Brett’s native Norse. “Assuming Tarin didn’t stab you, what happened?”
“Something bit me.” Brett’s breath still came quickly. “I didn’t see it well. It was cloudy, there’s fog—and everything happened so fast—” He paused and wiped his brow. “It might have scratched me. Maybe with its claw or something. I couldn’t see all of it.”
“Well, it’s no bite,” said Lukas. “And if it were an animal, it would have left multiple claw marks. This is a single scratch. I still say it’s a knife wound.”
“Or a sword,” said Valdis as she offered Lukas a damp rag to finish cleaning Brett’s wound with.
“Then whoever did that is still out there,” said Drostan. He was gripping the back of Alynn’s chair. “Were you followed?”
Before Brett could answer, Caitriona gave a cry of “Oh, God!” and flew through the kitchen out the monastery’s back door. While she was gone, no one spoke. Even Elspeth’s wailing turned into a milder fussing. Tarin returned with bandages, ale, and a sack of dried herbs. He too refused to break the silence; he set everything on the stone floor as gingerly as possible, then sat quiet as a mouse next to the fireplace.
Caitriona returned with a two-year-old clutched to her chest. The little girl had no respect for the silence of the hearth; she was crying “No! Mammy! Go pay ow’side!” with the vehemence only a toddler can possess.
Finally, Caitriona said “Hush, Mercy!” in the same tone that had silenced everyone at the hearth. It worked on the toddler, but not as well; Mercy gave a mighty “Hmph!” and settled into a sulk.
“I’ll play outside with you tomorrow, my wee heart,” said Rowan. He took Caitriona and Mercy into his arms. “’Tis gettin’ late. ‘Tis almost time for dinner. Are you hungry?”
Mercy nodded and stuck two fingers in her mouth. Rowan smiled and kissed the faint blonde wisps of his daughter’s hair.
Caitriona and Mercy had been followed into the kitchen by Drostan’s father Leif. His greying auburn hair had been tousled by the wind, but his eyes were sharp, authoritative, and slightly worried. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“There’s somethin’ in the woods,” said Tarin. “It attacked Brett.”
“Something like a person?” Leif asked.
Brett looked at Tarin, who looked back with wide and innocent eyes. “We think it was a draugr,” said Brett. “It…didn’t have a face. It had hands, with long, bony fingers. And it didn’t walk upright. But I didn’t see much of it. It’s dark in the woods.”
“Its legs were black with the rot, and there was dead skin hangin’ off its arms,” said Tarin. “And there was blood all over it.”
“Dried blood,” said Brett. “It might have been mud.”
“Uncle Leif,” said Tarin, looking up with curiosity tempered by respect, “was there really a chief whose daughter got eaten by a draugr?”
Leif was silent for a moment, deep in thought. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide. “It was my sister,” he said. “Ragnhild. She was six years old. All we found was her frock, there was blood on it—”
Alynn’s breath caught in her chest, and she held onto Elspeth a bit tighter. Elspeth let out a squeak of discontentment before latching onto Alynn’s breast again and nursing greedily.
Lukas left Brett’s arm half-bandaged. Drawing his knife, he quickly looked out the narrow window next to the front door.
“It doesn’t seem ye were followed,” he said. “We’re safe in here. Will someone make sure that the back door is barred, please?”
Leif checked the back door, and Rowan forced a smile. “Well, Lynder, I’m sorry yer party had to end this way,” he said.
Alynn shook herself. “Och, don’t be. I mean—I’m just glad Tarin’s alright. And you too, Brett—Lukas is the best doctor on the island, you’ll be alright.”
Brett scoffed. “My sister’s a shieldmaiden. She used to practice on me. This is nothing.” He finished bandaging his own arm. “Lady Cait, can we eat now?”
“Yes. Of course.” Caitriona gave her toddler a quick kiss before setting her in Rowan’s arms.
“Keep some warm for me,” said Leif. “I’m going to look for this thing.”
Caitriona eyed him disdainfully as she dished up a plate of well-seasoned fish, fresh-caught that morning. “Leif, you’re daft.”
“Besides, Father, I’m the one who ought to be looking into things,” Drostan objected. He set a hand on the hilt of his sword. Alynn was beginning to wish she’d brought her own sword.
“That would make you daft too, wouldn’t it?” Leif asked. He grinned at Drostan and ruffled his flaming red hair. “It’s your daughter’s party. Stay and enjoy yourself. It’s probably just a drunkard.”
“Or a madman,” said Caitriona.
“Well, good thing we know who to send after those.” Leif directed his smile towards Alynn now, and she blushed. Leif nodded a quick goodbye to Lukas, Rowan, and the boys before drawing his sword and heading out the door.
“Bye, U’cle Lay!” called Mercy.
Leif smiled. “Bye, Mercy.”
Carefully, so as not to wake Elspeth, Alynn moved one hand so she could set it over Drostan’s. “What do you think it is, love?” she asked.
Drostan shook his head. “I should be going with him,” he said. “At least that way, I’d have some semblance of a clue as to what the devil’s going on.”
“Father’s right, though. ‘Tis yer daughter’s party. And besides, he’s got a sword. He’ll be alright.” Alynn turned her head as far as it could go to look up at Drostan; he smiled at her. Then, softly, he bent down to kiss Alynn’s head and stroke Elspeth’s soft, downy hair. Elspeth didn’t move; she must have been asleep.
“Why don’t you lay her down somewhere?” he asked. “It’s time to eat.”
“I know. I’m afraid she’ll wake if I set her down.”
“Och, she’s a sound sleeper. Just like her mum.”
A thousand other worries ran through Alynn’s mind. The monastery was huge; what if no one could hear her crying? Elspeth’s cradle at home hung from the rafters and was always swinging; what if Mercy’s old cradle was too uncomfortable? Alynn’s worries were absurd, she realized; Mercy had been born and raised in St. Anne’s Monastery, and she’d turned out fine. A bit spoiled, of course. No child could be born to parents as old as Rowan and Caitriona, and raised with an adoptive grandfather as doting as Lukas, and not be spoiled. But at least she was healthy.
Eventually, though, the smell of the well-seasoned fish won Alynn over. She went to a nearby bedroom and carefully set Elspeth in the wooden cradle kept in the corner, praying she wouldn’t wake. She didn’t. Alynn didn’t leave right away, even though the merry clattering of forks and plates and glasses of small ale was calling her to the dinner table. She stayed to look at her daughter.
She was beautiful.