Caladbohlg Chapter VIII: Loss & Torment

Time passed by endlessly for 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.”

“Very well, here you are, and know that the Allfathir shall guard you so long as you hold his statue close.” Anóra said to him with great solemnity and coyness, as she gave the boy her most winning smile. She placed the small slice of wood in his hand, only to wrap his hand in her own.

Bradán felt his cheeks redden at this gesture, a flame of some sort shot up from his gut to his cheeks, as his hand and spine seemed to heat up. Bowing his head, he was to reply with a quiet nod of thanks, he turned away as much to leave, as it was to hide his scarlet face.

“I shall walk with you, Bradán.” Anóra assured him, much to his horror as the very last thing he wanted then, was for her to notice his reaction to her.

“Fine,” He assented reluctantly, more to remain polite than for any other reason.

Once outside of the longhouse, Bradán could see that the suns had begun to dip, as the clouds had in turn begun to cover them. Many of the inhabitants of Dúntaobh, were still bustling about almost without a single concern for the future.

To his left, he heard Anóra gasp. Tearing his gaze, from the Dwarves to look at her, he then followed her gaze to the small group of wounded still at the center of the village (most had either been patched up, died or simply moved elsewhere).

Unable to immediately find the cause for Anóra’s gasp, he felt a stab of irritation towards her that is until he noticed someone headed towards them. It was a Northman of about Anóra’s age. Noteworthy for his short moustache, he was tall, and well-formed, with blond hair and of a tanned if sunny disposition, with long hair and cheery, bright cerulean eyes. He was dressed in a leather tunic thrown over his chest, trousers of the same dark colour and material, with a large dark cloak thrown over his shoulders. He immediately pricked Bradán’s envy, for the way everyone seemed to regard him, with open warmth and for how he appeared to be the very image of the wandering warrior, which was exactly what the adventure-hungry Bradán wished to be himself.

“It is Haldor Sihtricsson, how do I appear? I do hope my hair is not mussed,” The excited Anóra asked Bradán in a rush, her voice barely more than a whisper.

At the sound of ‘Sihtricsson’ Bradán realized, thanks in large part to the naming conventions of the Norse, that this man must be one of Sihtric’s many sons.

“Awful,” He told the girl, a petty person by nature, easily swayed by envy or moved to be mean-spirited when possessed by the green-eyed monster that had ruined many a men and women. He suddenly resented her presence, there.

If he was mildly annoyed, or resentful it paled in comparison to the look he received for his cruel remark about her hair, not that he had much time to be intimidated by her. The son of the Jarl gave Bradán an apologetic look, before he gave her a warm smile.

“Anora, I believe?” He asked in a clear voice.

“Anóra,” She corrected immediately, with a vaguely embarrassed voice at how quickly she had corrected him. Just as a wave of amusement shot through Bradán’s heart, followed by guilt and pity for how Haldor had forgotten her name.

“Ah my apologies, I would hate to be rude to so beautiful a lady, but what I have to say is for Bradán’s ears only, as it concerns his friend, and my father.” Haldor said as lightly as possible. His compliment to her beauty visibly pleased Anóra who turned bright red, smiled to herself before she nodded a bit, and with a reassuring look to Bradán turned to head back thither to her father.

She was no fool; Bradán knew just by the look she had shot him, evidently she had caught on that something was amiss even if she did not utter a word. Haldor who had caught the look, studied her with a curious set of eyes, before he shifted his attention back to Bradán, as he ran a hand through his long-locks.

“Um, Brother Bradán as you well know your friend Lyr, I believe his name was, has not returned from the enemy camp, which is why, after having received some terms from Magni, we have decided to send you, with our latest terms of surrender. We are sending you along with a hostage, as a gesture of good faith.” Haldor explained with obvious reluctance. He then patted Bradán, on one of his shoulders, in what was intended to be a gesture of sympathy.

“What? Why?” Bradán croaked his throat suddenly as parched and dry, as a desert, no longer hungry he gaped at the shame-faced man before him.

“Because you uh, are not one of us, and it was felt that you are replaceable, in particular since you are a monk, and my uncle has no toleration for monks. I am sorry lad.” Haldor muttered, the young monk did not believe him in the slightest.

“Because of my faith?” Bradán hissed at the Viking, ready to call him every name he could imagine, but Haldor came prepared for such a reaction.

“Yes, and no, your faith does not have any reason for why my father, agreed to send you out there, and if it did, some of us still hope that you will survive, this ordeal.” Haldor explained only to sigh in defeat, when he saw that his arguments, had had no effect upon the boy. The young man, then reached up to the pendant around his bulky neck, in order to turn it over, to reveal the image of the goddess growing, from the ground. “I myself, follow both the faith of my mother, and that of my father, just as Magni does, and my father also even though it angers my uncle.”

Bradán now stared for reasons completely different from before, “Is that permitted?”

“Not by the Temple, or certain close-minded men such as my uncle but why should it not be? It is my decision?” Haldor said with a slight shrug, as he let go of the pendant around his neck.

“But what of the anger of the gods? I was taught that to worship those of different faiths was a sin.” Bradán asked stunned by this discovery that he had always been taught was not simply impossible, but was highly offensive in the eyes of the gods.

“I doubt it, I am quite sure that they have far better things to do than be offended by mere mortals, seeking to appease them all.” Haldor stated proudly. “What difference does all of this make? It is not you and you alone who is to be thrown outside the town walls.”

A small grin which brought out a startling resemblance to a tomcat, appeared on Haldor’s face, it was a thing full of resignation, of self-depreciation, with his eyes even more full of those two emotions. “I am to go with you, as a hostage and collateral to maintain my father’s obedience.”

This confession was the greatest act of reassurance the youth could have asked for even as he was filled with pity for him. Bradán wondered if Haldor had had a choice, or if this fate had been thrust upon him, just as it was upon Bradán, himself. Haldor’s plight was very real, yet it was not for Bradán to involve himself too much in, given that he might soon be dead.

“I will let you say, your farewells before we depart, I imagine you will have several to say,” the polite young man stated not unkindly.

“Nay,” Bradán retorted to the baffled Northman.

Hurrying off to go see to the Dwarves, who glanced at him in a not so unfriendly manner, while many of the monks where he came from despised them, believing them to all be monsters almost as bad as Tigrun. In the few days since Lyr had befriended them, they had shown themselves to be of a far better character than most of the monks ever could be.

Bradán without a second thought pulled out his money-pouch, in order to count out his coins. Silver of this quantity and quality, was a fortune to any peasant, while it could be used to buy his freedom, he doubted very much that the besiegers would really price two monks at more than even five or six silver coins.

“Here take this, as thanks for all that you have done for me.” Bradán told her solemnly, he counted out and handed over the coins.

Gladis was dumbfounded at the sight of so much wealth, as a Dwarf she loved all such beautiful things such as silver.

“How, in the name of all the gods did you acquire so much wealth?” Murchad asked as he picked up one of the coins, from his wife’s palm, to examine it more closely, a look of fascinated awe on his face as he did so.

“They belonged to Lyr, now I have to go, so best of luck,” Bradán said, having never before questioned yet now he had a bad feeling about how he had done so.

Gladis tore her gaze from the coins, snatched the one in her husband’s grasp, with her free hand and tried to press them back into Bradán’s hand. “Nay, we could not possibly accept such a gift. You keep it lad, you will need it to bribe those louts outside these walls.”

“Why is that?” Murchad had asked when she first began to speak only to pout in disappointment, “I mean, of course not.”
“I do not need them, you keep them.” Bradán said to her, as he backed away as though the silver coins were newly cast and still hot enough to burn his skin.

He turned away to run back to Haldor, who gave him a curious if still surprised look, only to shake his head, with another small smile of his. “And I thought my father, had a habit of making goodbyes short.”

“Can we go now?” Bradán enquired impatiently, only to glance behind him at the Dwarves who had begun to consider then reluctantly, divided the silver between them, with Gladis shooting him a worried look.

“Oh, very well,” Haldor muttered with visible reluctance, he moved forward thither towards the town gate, which was still lowered.

It was then that it struck Bradán that Haldor may have hoped to extend their farewells, to thereby put off their departure. It was a striking notion, to imagine a Northman afraid given their reputation as sailors and raiders. Bradán knew the truth for he could see it in how Haldor’s eyes darted everywhere, how he seemed to hesitate before the guards in charge of raising the gate. Ríonal or Eibhlin would have known what to say, while Muirgel would have sung to him, to make him feel better, but Bradán was not any of them.

“They cannot hurt you,” He said somewhat awkwardly, acutely aware then, how ridiculous it was for him to reassure the much larger, older Haldor.

“What?” Haldor asked having not heard him speak.

“I said that you have nothing to worry about, you will not be harmed because of who your father is.” Bradán told him once more, this time with more confidence than before.

“You sound very sure of yourself,” Haldor commented wryly only to burst out into open laughter to the bewilderment, of the young boy. “I am the warrior, and the elder between us, it should be I offering assurances, yet here I am, accepting reassurance from a child.”

“I am no child,” Bradán grumbled.

“Oh, my apologies then, how foolish of me not to see you for the elder, you truly are.” Haldor said with more than a little amount of mockery, for some reason it did not strike Bradán as ill-natured, so genuinely did the Norseman speak.

“I am not old either,” He grunted appalled by the thought of being old, yes he was excited to be one or two years older but to be old frightened him as it meant that he would no longer be dependent upon the favours or mercies of others.

Haldor grinned back at him, visibly amused by the lad’s words, but this grin soon vanished as the gates were raised and the camp outside the gates appeared before them. The camp was merely several dozen campfires, with many small fur covered tents and one large one, a few banners all over the place, and next to the large tent. They were simple in terms of designs, with simple flowers, animal heads or instruments, in the case of one banner, which looked to be a lyre, on a red background. Haldor paled the closer they came to the camp, with the town gates firmly closed behind them with a bang.

“What do you know of Magni?” Haldor asked him with a surreptitious glance to the lad who shrugged.

“I only know that after he was defeated in battle by the Bóruma, that he married his daughter wherefore he became his vassal. I also know that he was not, at Cluain Giorria when the old King died.” Bradán retorted with another look all over the Norse encampment, where many of the men and women there, eyed them scornfully.

When he noticed how Haldor chose to ignore them, their hoots, howls and sneers. He tried to follow his example by hurrying after the older male. The Northman appeared to almost be grieving Bradán suddenly wished he could have asked him why, he looked so sad.

The two arrived before the largest of the encampment’s tents, with the nearest guard sitting before a fire roasting a hunk of meat, on a spit over it. He was to glance up at them, with a sly yet pitiless gleam in his eyes, as he licked some sauce off his left thumb. “Stop, who are you two?”

“We are here to pay our respects to Magni, and to lay my father’s terms at thy master’s feet.” Haldor informed the guard in a brusque if proud voice.

The sly sneer was wiped from the seated man’s face, no doubt because of the way in which Haldor had addressed him. The kindly Northman was to turn away from the grey-haired man in order to step into the tent with a contemptuous shake of his head.

“Oy, you cannot do that, not until you have been called for,” he yelled after them.

“As though such a thing matters to me,” Haldor snorted with what Bradán suspected was false bravado considering how full of fear he had previously shown himself to be.

The inside of the tent was barely lit, with only one or two candles burning, one on a small table near the entrance and the other on the table to the rear of the tent. There were three chairs around the aforementioned table, with the bed-linen and fur for said bed just a short distance from the table, and to its left. Standing around a series of ropes tied to something to the right of the inside of the tent. Much of these ropes were blocked, from view due to the dozen or so men and because of how covered in shadows, the interior of the tent was.

Bradán bored of his examinations of the interior, of the make-shift ‘building’, and puzzled by what it was that had the Norsemen so preoccupied. He came to a short distance behind Haldor, only to realize with a frown of disappointment that even when on his tippy-toes, his view of the spectacle was worsened now that, Haldor stood between him and it. Not that he had much time for such considerations, before one of the dozen men took notice of Haldor, only to give him a puzzled look.

“Uncle Magni, do you not recognize me?” Haldor queried hopefully, with an apprehensive look in his eyes again, ignoring the curious gaze of Bradán.

Bradán was confused not that this seemed to matter to either Haldor, or Magni. Rather than the thick-beard, of most Nordic warriors, he was clean-shaven, with thin lips, sad deep-set green eyes, and a tall muscular build.

The melancholic look on his face disappeared in a flash of light as joy split his face, as he stepped up to stand next to the boy, with an almost incredulous gleam in his eyes, his hands coming to rest upon Haldor’s shoulders. “Haldor? By Oðinn, you’ve changed! You’ve grown so much my boy! But what in the Allfather’s name are you doing here?”

“I am here to hand myself over to you, as a hostage as you requested from my father,” Haldor said with a small smile of his own to the older man, who had just pulled him into an embrace, during which he slapped him on the back. Only for him to stiffen, at Haldor’s words and pull away to stare him in the eye with an anxious look of his own now.

“You, lad? No, n-no, I requ- I had hoped for one of your brothers, maybe the little one, from that new Ériu-woman of your father’s.” Magni stuttered in a shaky voice with even shakier breathing as his eyes began to moisten with unshed tears while his hands, began to tremble. “Lad, had I known that that weasel of a father of yours would send you, I would never have asked for one of his sons’, to be my hostage. And for that I- well, and for what may happen I beg for your forgiveness.”

“What do you mean, uncle?” Haldor questioned his brows knitting together, in worry as he studied his foster-uncle’s face carefully, for clues of what had him so rattled. “What is wrong?”