Caladbohlg Chapter VII: Day of Sorrow

Yep it's that day

Time passed by endlessly for a a number of days, with Bradán having nothing to do save wait, and eat everyday. He eventually in his boredom took to exploring every inch of Dúntaobh.

He knew that the terms had been considered, only for them to be replied to, with the arrival of a single man. A slave of Magni’s who was allowed through the gates, then let out again, after he had visited with Sihtric for a few hours.

Wild rumours abounded over what was being discussed behind the Jarl’s closed doors, some said he planned to trade everyone’s lives to save his own, others that Magni was out for blood. The gossip-mill here was as energetic as that of the Cloister, with a thousand different possibilities circulating about, each one more wild than the last, about what could happen.

“I highly doubt that,” Murchad snorted irreverently, over a breakfast of horse-bread and cheese bought with some of his family’s earnings, he spoke of a collection of rumours, ones that suggested Sihtric was on the verge of burning down the town in Magni’s name.

“Aye more likely, it is simply a matter of semantics now,” Gladis agreed with a nod of approval to her man. “Sihtric has already lost; it is only a matter of on what terms at this point in time.”

Bradán knew that under other circumstances he would likely have disagreed with the couple in favour of one of the rumours had it not been for the fact that he had already, been privy to some of the negotiations. The only thing other than the apprehension caused by being in a town under siege that, made him uncomfortable, was that Lyr was still absent. A few days before, he would have vehemently denied ever being worried about him, but now he was not so certain.

Seeing the number of axes, javelins and swords in Dúntaobh, he felt his hackles rise along with his certainty that he had seen the last of the old man. The thought of Lyr being in danger was to usher forth feelings of despair and guilt, so that he had spent more than one night tossing and turning.

“Bradán, Bradán,” One of Gladis’ daughter whom he still forgot the name of spoke up to the boy who jerked a little only to glance up distractedly. “I think one of the girls of one of the Vikings would like to speak to you.”

The short girl pointed to one side, with Bradán following her finger to stare as Anóra stood on the edge of the small area occupied by the family, who had taken him under their collective wing on condition that he run errands or pray for their continued good fortune.

Startled by the girl’s expectant look, Bradán climbed up to his feet curious, yet unsure of what it could be that she could possibly want from him, “Is there something you need from me, Anóra? Is your father still in pain?”

Anóra shook her head a little, only to toy with a strand of hair when she replied, “Nay, he is better thanks to you and brother Lyr, but um, he wishes to thank you himself.”

“Now?” Bradán asked surprised by this request and a little unhappy with it, normally he would have loved to spend time with a girl as pretty as Anóra. But he was hungry and had yet to bite into his cheese or his bread, “Oh, alright.”

“Would you prefer not to visit at all?” She demanded crossly, with the monk immediately aware that he had made a huge mistake by sounding put off.

“Nay, nay it’s just I am rather hungry,” he admitted embarrassed only to wave for her to bad the way to her home. “But food can wait.”

“Oh,” Anóra said surprised then amused she began to giggle a little only to lead him towards one of the long houses. Seeing how Bradán, was staring at it in amazement, having never been inside one before, she was to smirk at his eagerness. “It is really no different than any house, if that is what you are so excited about.”

Bradán shrugged unhappy at the fact that he was so easy to read, Anóra hurried in with the monk almost smiling once he was inside the longhouse. Beds lined the sides, tables here and there; clothes on the ground or on the beds made of hay and covered in furs, altars to their gods. It truly, was no different in some ways from any other house’s interior he had seen. What added to this experience though was the knowledge that, most monks would have avoided such a place, or would have forbidden him, from going inside of it. The knowledge that he was doing something forbidden and courageous simply added to the experience.

Sitting by one of the beds, seated on a wooden chair that looked to be half the man’s size, was Anóra’s father with a bored look on his face, as he chewed on a hunk of meat with his formerly dislocated arm. He nearly threw the meat down when he noticed their arrival a pleased look entered his bright blue eyes, at the sight of Bradán.

“Ah, there you are, hurry it up lad,” He called out to Bradán who was startled by the boisterousness of his greeting.

“You wished to speak to me?”

“Nay, I merely wished to see a man wear a dress for the first time.” He mocked with a loud laugh, his words made the boy colour in embarrassment.

“It is not a dress!” He protested annoyed by the jest at his expense.

“Daddy, remember what mother would have said.” Anóra scolded but it was a weak attempt, to rein him in, due to the smirk on her lips.

“I know, I know, lad you are certainly as fierce as Thor, when pushed.” The older man replied with a quiet snicker, “Which is quite high praise for he wore, dresses too.”

“Who?” Bradán asked confused by the mention of the name which sounded so foreign to his ears.

“Thor, god of thunder, ne’er you mind that though, as Anóra doubtlessly said or implied, I wished to thank you for helping me, just as I would have thanked your friend, were he here.” Anóra’s father stated dryly, “Thorvan never forgets a favour done to him.”

“Oh, uh it was our duty,” Bradán replied somewhat uncertainly, the taste of the word ‘duty’ felt foreign in his mouth, it was one that he had often heard bandied about usually against him.

“Bah, I know all about the duty of you monks, and will say this; a debt is a debt. Honour is honour. And while your life is one of self-denial, mine is not. I would repay the compassion you have shown me, name a single token I can give, and it is yours.”

Bradán hesitated. He was caught between his desire to stand up to Thorvan for his slurs against him, and the monkhood, and his eagerness to accept some sort of gift. As he was no better than any other boy, his age at heart after all. Trapped between his pride and greed, Bradán could have stayed there forever divided betwixt his desires. Had his eyes not fallen upon the series of wooden statuettes that were lined up along the surface of the small wooden table before Thorvan. It was not that they were the most eye-catching thing in the building. He supposed, what he needed then, was to avoid Thorvan’s bright eyes, which seemed to be trying to peer straight into Bradán’s very soul.

They were strange little things, all of them peculiar looking, each more so than the last, with one of them one-eyed with what appeared to be a miniature spear. Another with one hand, and a sword held in the singular hand, or a heavily necklaced and bejewelled woman with a sword of her own, along with a crown on her long-haired head.

Seeing where his gaze had landed upon the two dozen or so statues, Anóra glanced over at her father, and then slyly back to Bradán. “You like them?”

Caught by surprise at the unexpected question, Bradán finally tore his eyes away from the table, with all the statues on it, to look at the girl in confusion. Certainly they were well-carved he supposed, in a crude way if one compared it to the statue around his own neck. “I suppose,” He mumbled back.

“Perfect, papa what would you say to giving Bradán, here one of your statues?” Anóra suggested cheerfully as she pointed at them, to the uncertainty of both men.

“What? Why would I do that, when he is likely to burn it?” Thorvan questioned hoarsely, a hint of horror in his voice.

Mystified by his reaction over what had seemed to Bradán to be no more than wooden ornaments, he glanced over at Anóra in bewilderment. “Why would I burn it?”

Anóra glanced at her father before she answered his question. “Because he carved them, papa is a woodcarver and hunter, which is why each of the statues of the Æsir, mean more to him than all of the wealth in Amadan.”

There was a falseness to her words, Bradán did not know where amongst them it was, only that she was hiding something.

“Lad, if you swear to me, to protect the gift my daughter is prepared to offer to you, with your life, then and only then shall I give it to you.” Thorvan agreed, the solemnity of his tone, almost enough to excite Bradán.

All he knew then was that he did not trust their words, either way he supposed he was no longer keen to have their company, if they were going to try to cheat their way out of their debt to Lyr, and him.

“I swear it,” Bradán swore immediately, more to appease Thorvan, than out of any real desire for the statues.

“Swear it upon Ziu’s sword.” Thorvan prompted at once, earning himself a shocked look from the monk who had hitherto now, not known that the Norsman knew anything about the Holy Quirinian faith, seeing his shock, Thorvan smirked at him. “My late wife was an Ériu-woman, of your faith.”

“And she did not mind you worshipping other gods, than those of our faith?” Bradán queried suspiciously, not the least bit at ease by this confession about a mixed marriage across, two warring faiths such as the Nordic one, and his own.

“She minded at first, but once she came to know me, or realized I was here to stay, she learnt to o’erlook such a minor concern.” Thorvan explained with a lazy shrug, before he plucked one of the statues from the table, in order to hand it shakily to his daughter. Inadvertently, showing just how little recovered he truly was, from his injuries he was. “Ne’er you mind that, Anóra if you could offer to Bradán, Oðinn.”