Conqueror

XXI

The sun wheeled across the sky. Still Gudrid stood alone, on the headland that led to the causeway to the mainland.

She had stood here as the raid had unfolded, as people fled and died, as fires blossomed like flowers, and as the patient sea had fallen back, exposing the fine sandy spine of the causeway. All this time she had been alone. The two men, Leif and Bjorn, assigned to accompany her by her father, had quickly run off, convinced that the others were stealing their share of the loot.

In the event people did escape the island, but by boat, in tiny fishing craft laden with families. Gudrid couldn't have stopped them if she tried. They would take news of the attack, and terror would seep like poison into the mainland. But nobody tried to cross the causeway she guarded.

Not until the end of the day.

A monk came walking alone along the headland towards the causeway. Alone and unarmed. He hesitated when he saw Gudrid. Then he came on again, his steps heavy, for he had no choice. Gudrid hoisted her heavy axe on her shoulder, ready to swing, as her father had taught her. But could she kill – even if it meant that otherwise she would be killed herself?

The monk stopped ten paces away. He was slim, his face young, his tonsured scalp smeared by soot and blood.

'Don't try to pass,' Gudrid called. 'I will kill you.'

'You're a woman,' the monk said. His accent was strange but comprehensible.

'I am a woman, but I am a Viking, and the daughter of Bjarni, son of Bjarni. And I will kill you if I have to.'

The monk waited. The sea birds wheeled and cried.

Perhaps it would be enough to rob this monk, Gudrid thought impulsively, and let him live. 'What do you have?'

The monk would not reply.

She stepped forward, axe ready, and began to rummage through the monk's heavy habit. The wool stank of sweat. She found nothing but a scroll. She took it.

The monk sighed. 'So the Weaver's will is done. Just as Boniface said.'

'What?'

'If you must take that, at least know what it is. It is a prophecy. It is called the Menologium of Isolde.'

Gudrid's eyes widened. Was it possible that after all that had happened the treasure she had sought, the impulse behind the ancient story of Sulpicia and Ulf, had fallen into her hands? She peered at the scroll, but of course could not read a word.

No scroll would satisfy her father. She needed more. Perhaps the monk wore a Christian cross around his neck; she had seen missionaries wearing such things. She stepped up to the monk and pulled at the front of his habit, ripping it.

And to her astonishment, she exposed small breasts.

'You are a woman!'

The monk pulled up his – her – habit. 'It's a long story.'

'If my father catches you, or my husband-'

They both knew what would happen to her, how exciting the raiders would find this woman dressed as a man – and how she would be used, before she was sold into slavery, or killed.

'You are a woman, as I am. In God's mercy let me pass.'

Gudrid, frozen by indecision, kept her axe high. Then she stepped back stiffly.

The monk walked forward. Her feet were bare, Gudrid saw, and they left indentations in the soft, damp sand. She paused by Gudrid. 'Thank you.'

Gudrid shook her head wordlessly.

The monk said suddenly, 'Come with me.'

Gudrid's thoughts raced. 'I long to,' she said. 'I can't. My place is here.'

The monk nodded. 'Take care of the prophecy. And beware it.' Then she turned and walked on.

Gudrid didn't turn to see her go. She kept her place on the headland, keeping guard, until the sun touched the western horizon, and her father came to find her.