Bradan watched, shaking his head at the display of controlled violence, studying Melcorka's thoughtful expression. What are you thinking, Swordswoman, surrounded by these men whose blood killed your mother? Are you plotting revenge? Or are you enjoying the company of men whose culture is so like your own?
When all the men had participated, the victors fought each other until only two men remained. One was the warrior with the scarred face and the other a lithe young champion with eyes of stone.
“Halfdan against Gorm,” Thorfinn explained for the benefit of Melcorka and Bradan. “Halfdan is the scarred man, Gorm the youngster and a faster man I have never seen.” He nodded. “This could be a fascinating contest.”
More agile and lighter than the scarred man, Gorm nearly ran around the inside of the ring, launching swift attacks on Halfdan, who repelled them with skill brought on by years of experience. When Gorm eventually learned his method was not working, he tried to entice Halfdan forward, to tire him out. Halfdan seemed to take the bait and walked forward, but rather than tiring, pushed Gorm against the crowd, where the youngster's speed was of no avail. Forced to fight on Halfdan's terms, Gorm lost heavily.
“You fight well, Gorm,” Halfdan said. “You have the makings of a warrior in you if you live to learn.”
Melcorka joined in the cheering of the crowd, while Bradan watched in silence. Aware of the woman who was studying him from beneath a fringe of blonde hair, he paid her little heed. Used to bold warriors, no Norse woman would be interested in a tall, morose-faced man who wore a brown cloak and carried no sword.
“Halfdan,” Thorfinn roared. “You have the right to face the Headhunter.”
“I will bring you back his head,” Halfdan said. “Or he will take mine, and the heroes of Valhalla will welcome me.”
“We will accompany you.” Melcorka spoke without looking at Bradan. “I would like to see this Headhunter.”
“You will be at my side, Swordswoman,” Halfdan said. “But we do not leave for two days. That gives us plenty of time to feast, drink and tell lies about our prowess in battle.” Putting a brawny arm around Melcorka, he escorted her into the hall to the roars of the crowd.
“Halfdan one-eye has taken your Melcorka.” the blonde woman was taller than Bradan had realised and even more shapely. She stepped close to him, clean-scented of fresh birch-bark perfume.
“I think Halfdan will find her more than he can manage,” Bradan said.
“Are you not going to fight for her?”
“I am no fighting man,” Bradan said. “And there is no need. Melcorka can handle him.”
“The Norse believe that all men are warriors,” the woman said.
“I am not Norse,” Bradan said and waited for the woman to give a scornful remark and leave.
Placing her hand inside the crook of Bradan's elbow, the woman guided him away from the main table to a small bench far from the fire. “I know, Bradan. I am Astrid.”
“It is a good name.” Bradan hid his surprise behind a sober face.
“Sometimes, I am known as Revna, but I prefer Astrid. I have something to show you, Bradan the Wanderer.” A strange light seemed to come from Astrid's eyes. Attractive eyes, Bradan noticed without effort, they were blue and lively, with a rare depth of intelligence.
Bradan smiled. “I am Melcorka's man,” he said. “Perhaps you had better invite her along as well?”
“What I have to show you would not interest the Swordswoman,” Astrid said.
Bradan shook his head. “I think you'd be better suited to a different man, Astrid. I am as ill-favoured with a woman as I am with a sword.”
“No,” Astrid said. “It is you I wish to show, not any of these ranting fools.” She lowered her voice as if imparting a great secret. “It is a book.”
“A book?” Bradan said. “I do apologise, Astrid. I had thought…”
“You thought I was inviting you into my bed, Bradan,” Astrid said, smiling. “I am different from other women, as you are from other men.” She touched his arm. “I am still a woman, though, as you are still a man.”
“What sort of book?” Bradan could not conceal his interest.
“One of great beauty and intricate workmanship.” Astrid's grip tightened on Bradan”s arm. “Do you wish to see it?”
“I do,” Bradan said.
Taking him outside the great hall, Astrid led the way to a small timber building that the Norse used for storage. “I have to hide it in here,” she said, “for if Thorfinn or any other warrior found it, they'd burn it without thought.”
Delving beneath a pile of kegs, Astrid pointed to what appeared to be a battered hunk of leather. “What do you think of that, Bradan?”
Bending, Bradan brought out what had once been a very ornate book. The cover was of leather, sadly damaged where brutal hands had ripped off precious stones and gold thread, and the pages were hand-written with beautifully worked illustrations.
Bradan held it reverently, shaking his head at the damage. “That's a religious book. It's the Christian Bible. It must have taken thousands of hours to transcribe. Where did you find it?”
“Thorfinn's men looted a Pictish monastery. All the other manuscripts were destroyed.” Astrid sighed. “They piled the books together and set fire to them. I don't know how much knowledge was lost, what treasures of geography, history, philosophy and theology we've lost for ever.”
Bradan examined the pages, admiring the exquisite workmanship. “What a waste; what a sin to destroy such beauty. How did you save this?”
“By barter.” Astrid spoke quietly, then lifted her chin, as if in defiance.
“Barter?” Bradan examined one page where the artwork was so delicate that it took away his breath.
