“What does a woman have that all men want?” Astrid looked away. “I could not let them destroy any more.”
“You are a brave woman,” Bradan said. “And a good one. That was a high price to pay, and I thank you for showing me this book. Even to hold such artistry is a privilege.” He smiled. “Someday, the world will thank you for saving something priceless.”
Astrid touched his arm. “I thought you would like it, Bradan.” Her smile wrapped around him. “Do you think it was worth the price?”
Bradan held the book as though it was made of the most delicate crystal. “Some Pictish monk, or more likely many monks, have laboured over this, copying every word by hand. The value is beyond calculation but you gave the most precious thing you have. Only you know if it was worth the price.”
Astrid stepped back. “Who are you, Bradan? From where do you come?”
Bradan shook his head. “Alba, I think. I may be a Pict, I am not sure. As far back as I remember, I have been walking.” He smiled into her eyes. “I am Bradan the Wanderer, a man of the roads, a man with no home.”
“You are more than Bradan the Wanderer,” Astrid said. “You are Bradan the scholar, Bradan the Curious, Bradan the Seeker, Bradan the Faithful, Bradan the Peaceful, Bradan the Lost.”
“Bradan the Lost, Astrid?” Bradan asked. “That title jarred after all the others.”
“It was meant to.” Astrid smiled. “Please return the book. It's safe there.” Astrid watched as Bradan replaced the Bible beneath the kegs. “Sometime, I will find that book a home, with a man who appreciates more than the swing of a sword and the sound of a drunken song.” She turned around, raising her eyebrows. “Were you watching me bend over there?”
“I was not,” Bradan denied.
“No? Pity.” Astrid smiled again, teasing him with her eyes. “You are lost, although I doubt if you even know it. What are you seeking, Bradan? What is the purpose of your wanderings?”
Bradan smiled. “That question has been in my head for some time, Astrid.”
“Tell me more,” Astrid said. “Not here. We can find somewhere more comfortable than a woodshed.” Putting out her hand as if by right, she led Bradan to a smaller log-built house that stood in splendid isolation at the fringes of the settlement. Clapping her hands, Astrid cleared away a gaggle of dogs, children and slaves. “There, that's better, isn't it?”
The interior was warm, with a high fire providing both light and heat, and several low benches and cushions scattered over the floor as furniture. The long couch attracted Bradan's attention, as did the exotic artwork that hung on the wall. “I've never seen a Norse house with such furniture, or with a picture on the wall,” he remarked.
Draping herself on the couch, Astrid smiled. “I am as different from most Norse as you are from most Albans, Bradan. We are of a race apart, you and I, which has little to do with nationality. This couch,” she said, passing a small hand across the silk covers, “was stolen in a raid somewhere east of Miklagard. The picture came from the east side of the Caspian Sea, also stolen in a raid, and unappreciated by the uncouth men who stole them.”
“How did you come by them?” Bradan asked.
“I have my methods,” Astrid said. “Do you like it here?”
“I do,” Bradan said. “It is extremely comfortable.”
“Then stay the night,” Astrid said.
“I have Melcorka,” Bradan reminded, gently. “I thank you for the offer.”
“Melcorka.” Astrid smiled and flapped her hand in the air. “Melcorka will not even notice you are gone. Melcorka will be boasting and drinking with the best of them, or perhaps the beast of them.” Astrid laughed at her joke.
Bradan remembered the drunken scenes he had witnessed in Norse and Alban halls, where even the bards and skalds praised the actions of fighting men, relishing the often-gory details. He knew that Melcorka could join in with song and story in a manner he could not emulate, and while she roistered the night away, he sought only a quiet space and the solace of the stars, or a civilised conversation. Or, he realised, the company of an intelligent man or woman such as Astrid.
“Let me show you what your Melcorka is doing,” Astrid said.
They heard the noise from the great hall from 100 paces away. Men were roaring in song, with rough laughter and the sound of horns or fists hammering on the table, dogs were barking, and a woman was screaming abuse. “Just stand at the door and look in,” Astrid said.
Melcorka was standing beside Jarl Thorfinn with her hair loose around her shoulders, beating time with the hilt of a dirk as the men bellowed out a song about the battle of Clontarf.
“I was where men fought;
A sword rang in Ireland;
Many, where shields clashed,
Weapons crashed in the helm-din
I heard of their keen assault;
Sigurd fell in the spear-din.”
Two warriors sprawled drunk under the table, one in a pool of vomit, while another wrestled with a less-than-willing slave girl. Three dogs were competing for a bone with much snarling and showing of teeth, ignoring the large rat that was drinking from a spilt horn of mead.
“You see?” Astrid said quietly. “Do you think Melcorka will miss you tonight?”
“It does not look like it.” Bradan felt something lurch inside him. “She looks happy with the Norsemen.”
Astrid patted his shoulder. “I am sorry if the sight causes you pain.”
“It is what it is,” Bradan said. “There is no need for anybody to apologise for speaking or revealing the truth.” He watched as a hirsute Norseman placed a massive arm around Melcorka, drew her close and planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. Shaking her hair, Melcorka only laughed, lifted another horn of mead and drank it back, to the cries of encouragement of the assembly. Yellow mead ran down her chin to drip on to her
