Read The Humming of Numbers Online
Authors: Joni Sensel
The Humming of Numbers (16 page)
He felt the squeaky, dry crunch of coals under his left palm even before the burning began. Jerking away did not seem to make any difference. Pain screamed in his hand and fingers and wrist.
Moaning in agony, Aidan clutched his left hand to his chest, crawled away on his knees, and swept the far corner of the room with his right hand. Moments before, as he had seized the ax and cut the captive boys free, something else had registered in his overtaxed mind. A bundle of altar linens sat against the rear wall, revealed by the heaving aside of the table. Square corners had poked through the drape of the fabric. At least a few precious books might yet be recovered.
Aidan's fingers felt cloth. Not sure his burned hand would work right and certain he could not stand any increase in the pain, he used his left forearm and right hand to scoop up as much as he could reach of the linen and the weighty load wrapped within it. He trapped the chunky bundle against his body. Feeling volumes slipping and thudding away and knowing he had not gotten them all, he faced the hardest test he'd confronted all night. He floundered for an instant after lost books before his lungs refused to inhale the thick air again. He knew the dark smoke would claim him if he didn't go now. With a choked cry, he spun and made toward the door.
The floor was littered with debris and flame. Aidan never got to both feet for more than two steps before tripping again. He would not have made it over the threshold at all if Lana had not waited there for him, the holly branch still in her hand. As she drew him and his bundle to better
air, smoke whirled in his head. He slipped into a half-conscious swoon in her arms.
air, smoke whirled in his head. He slipped into a half-conscious swoon in her arms.
The sensation of falling into blackness did not scare him. He felt confident that if he were bound not for sleep but for death, Lana would simply use her holly, God's evergreen token of mercy and rebirth, to raise him again.
A
roaring headache and a greater, tear-pricking fury in his left hand pulled Aidan back reluctantly to the world just a few heartbeats later. Somebody had borne him to the horse trough and doused him with cold water to quicken his spirit. Lana now held his wet head and shoulders in her lap, urgently calling his name and asking him questions long before he could understand any more than her voice.
roaring headache and a greater, tear-pricking fury in his left hand pulled Aidan back reluctantly to the world just a few heartbeats later. Somebody had borne him to the horse trough and doused him with cold water to quicken his spirit. Lana now held his wet head and shoulders in her lap, urgently calling his name and asking him questions long before he could understand any more than her voice.
He sat up, dizzy, and nearly wavered back over again. Just moving upright sent a rush of blood down his arm to his wounded hand. It answered with a fiery throb, forcing a cry through Aidan's clenched teeth. He curled protectively over his hand.
Lana pried it away from him to see what was the matter. When she saw the blisters and cracked skin, she yanked his whole arm to plunge his hand into the trough. Aidan closed his eyes and tried to breathe rather than gasp. The cold water helped.
“The Norsemenâall beaten?” he croaked, hoarse from the smoke.
“I think so,” Lana said, before urging, “The yew needles, Aidanâif they're still in your mouth, spit them out.”
He rolled his tongue to check. When he found them there, bitter, he did as she'd said.
“I thought for a moment they weren't going to protect you,” she said, her voice trembling. “That beast with the ax ⦔
Aidan nodded, too wrapped in pain to feel much triumph or relief. Eager for any distraction, he managed, “Lucky the table tipped when it did.”
“I believe in forces larger than luck,” she replied. “You may thank the boys and the table. I'll thank the yew. And your numbers.”
Her words recalled the maelstrom of noise and confusion through which they'd just passed. A shiver rippled Aidan's skin at the memory of that test, but having met it gave him new confidence, and not just in himself. The humming of numbers, steadfast amid chaos, reassured him that an order existed beneath the surface of the world, one he could hear and have faith in.
Wary of succumbing to pride, he told Lana, “Perhaps God deserves the most credit.”
She stroked his arm where it stretched over the side of the horse trough. “Is that not what I just said?”
Liam approached through the smoke. Aidan pushed himself shakily to his feet. The dawn light showed his older brother so drenched with blood, Aidan feared that some of it must belong to Liam.
“Are there wounds under that blood?” he demanded, reaching to check for himself.
“None I can feel,” Liam replied. “Better tend to your own.” He pointed, not to Aidan's hand but to the front of his robe.
Aidan looked down. A long rip marred his robe over the top of one thigh, high enough to have sliced the thin tunic beneath, too. The Viking with the ax had not missed completely. A bit of blood oozed. Now that Aidan knew it had cause, his leg hurt, although more with the ache of a blow than the sting of a slice. He fumbled with the torn fabric to see how much worse it looked underneath.
“I already checked,” Lana told him. “'Tis not so much more than a bruise and a scratch.”
“You alreadyâ” Aidan faltered, turning red at the liberty she had taken while he had been absent from his body.
Liam laughed.
“I saw nothing immodest,” she protested. “Just the wound on your leg!”
“Call yourself blessed and thank God, little brother,” Liam told him. “I truly expected to mourn your bold heart.
But even from outside, we were cowed.” He gave Lana an appreciative look openly tinted with fear. “I hope your rage has been spent, dread maiden.”
But even from outside, we were cowed.” He gave Lana an appreciative look openly tinted with fear. “I hope your rage has been spent, dread maiden.”
Lana stared at her hands, her face drawn in dismay. “Not âdread,' she whispered.
“Liam.” Uncharacteristic iron edged Aidan's voice. “Her name is Lana, and I don't want a word said against her.”
“Nor shall one be,” Liam said. “I'll make certain of that. After what she has just done for us, with such unspoken cunning, no one would dare.” His brow creased, however, and he stepped nearer Aidan to whisper, “I know who she is, Aidan, and whose daughter, too. But I saw her striking at them as they ran out the door. Those scratched by her holly could barely raise arms or see their way to run.” Giving Aidan a pointed look, he added, “Be wary of her.”
Lana must have heard that, for amusement battled with the regret on her face.
Despite the holly's enfeebling effect, the villagers had not come away from their ambush unscathed. One man was dead. Another had received a gut wound, and although he was on his feet, laughing, they all knew it would likely take poison in the next days and kill him.
“Kyle?” Aidan looked about in the dawn light for dear faces. “Michael?”
“Both sound,” Liam assured him. “Michael took a fair nick on one arm, but it should heal. He's with Regan.”
Their sister and the other young woman who had huddled with her had been terrified and abused, but they would survive. The alehouse shimmered in flames. Neither the brewster nor his wife voiced a complaint. They knew others had suffered more, and all were relieved to say the raid was over at last. Not a Norseman had escaped, and Liam planned to let them lie where they'd fallen for Lord Donagh to find.
“Should we hie away from here, then?” Aidan asked his brother. The sunrise was beginning to rival the fire. “Is it wise to be here when he appears?”
“I don't see why not, since his own blood did not spill.” Liam jerked his head. Brendan Donagh had been released of his bonds and now strolled among the corpses, spitting on faces and thrusting one of the Vikings' own weapons into their motionless flesh. The two brothers watched dubiously.
“He should have shown that much spirit before the bag went over his head,” Liam muttered.
Aidan shrugged. Having accounted for the people he cared about most, he wanted to check something else.
The bundle of books lay not far away. Aidan cradled his scorched, dripping hand and went to inspect them.
“I didn't get this far, did I?” he asked Lana, beside him. “Someone dragged it away from the reach of the flames.”
“I did,” she said, “while they hauled you to the trough. I knew it must be important to you.”
He slid aside the wrappings that belonged on the altar. Eight books lay beneath, including several Gospels and a fine Book of Hours. Although their bindings had no rich metals to scavenge, the raiders must have realized that their finely wrought illumination would fetch a price worth carting them off. These eight were but a fraction of the abbey's former collection, and any remainders were charred vellum by now. Still, Aidan touched their tooled covers and felt pleased with himself. Eight books were much better than none. Starting over from scratch would have required the scribes to disperse to other monasteries for as long as two years before they could bring any new copies home.
He didn't object when Lana turned a few pages and ran her fingertips over the gold-inked illumination.
A shadow from the breaching sun fell over them both. Aidan looked up. Brendan Donagh stood there. Aidan rose, mindful that the fray was over and he'd better now show the usual respect. Brendan was not guaranteed his father's position, but wealth and force and dynastic intrigue made his selection almost that certain.
In the meantime, no more hissing or thumping would be tolerated.
In the meantime, no more hissing or thumping would be tolerated.
“I'm told that I owe my liberation to you,” Brendan said.
Uncomfortable, Aidan shrugged. “And to others,” he said, keeping his eyes low.
“I'm not the fool I may look,” Brendan told him. “I surrendered to them to save the lives and honor of my mother and sisters. I knew they'd want ransom more than they wanted to kill me, and my father could provide it.”
“You owe me no explanations, lordship,” Aidan said. Brendan's powerful seven hummed and scratched in his ears. The young lord obviously felt defensive, and Aidan might not have made the same choices. Yet the fellow was neither stupid nor weak, his number confirmed that, and he would be no man to thwart once his father was gone.
“If I or my father can repay your courage, I would like to hear how.”
Aidan tipped his head. “If my family has need, perhaps I may ask in the future.” The young lord might remember the offer when tribute was due or drought ruined a crop. “Many thanks.”
Brendan nodded but did not step away. Wondering if his answer had not been enough, Aidan peeked up. He discovered the lordling gazing down at Lana, who still crouched near Aidan's feet. Not only had she not risen
courteously, she did not look up from the books. The whites of her knuckles gleamed against the colorful pages. Instinct, still primed from battle, told Aidan that fury, not fear, clenched those fists. He felt himself grow tense in response.
courteously, she did not look up from the books. The whites of her knuckles gleamed against the colorful pages. Instinct, still primed from battle, told Aidan that fury, not fear, clenched those fists. He felt himself grow tense in response.
“I thought I recognized your screeching,” said Brendan Donagh, a smirk on his face.
Lana rose abruptly, staring Brendan right in the face only long enough to deliberately turn her back and walk away.
Surprise and trepidation hoisted Aidan's eyebrows. He glanced back at Brendan.
Still smiling slyly, Brendan rolled his eyes to meet Aidan's. He did not seem to mind either Lana's disrespect or Aidan's inquiring look.
“I've tasted that saucy fruit,” Brendan said, raising his voice so that she would still hear him. “'Tis a pity you are a monk. You can't take full advantage.”
In the instant before Aidan realized what he meant, he merely frowned at the gleam in young Donagh's sharp eyes. Then the mockery hit hard against something he already knew.
From where he stood, the quickest blow with his uninjured fist was a backhanded slash. Brendan stumbled back. The shock, pain, and outrage on his face so satisfied Aidan that he leapt after the nobleman to hit
him again. He was only sorry his left hand hurt too much to help.
him again. He was only sorry his left hand hurt too much to help.
Kyle, nearby, heard the thud of fist on flesh, or perhaps Lana's yelp of dismay. He dragged Aidan off before he'd done too much damage or taken any in return. Liam and others quickly clustered around.
“Soft, friend,” Kyle said amiably, getting Aidan under control. “We already know you've gone mad and admire you for it. But why beat on someone you just risked your life for? Is this something they teach at the abbey?”
When Aidan's anger had ebbed enough for him to reply, he growled, “Yes. I'm beating a bit of the sin out.”
He glared while Brendan regained his composure. The witnesses carefully looked elsewhere. The young lord dabbed at the bloodied and already swelling parts of his face. He scowled at Aidan, and they locked eyes a long time.
“I believe anything I may owe you has just been repaid,” Brendan said softly.
Aidan found several retorts, but Kyle gripped his right arm with enough force to numb everything beneath those clamped fingers. Aidan took his friend's silent advice and said nothing.
Brendan nodded thoughtfully, then turned and strode swiftly away without another glance at Lana or anyone else.
Liam cuffed Aidan so hard across the back of the head that Kyle had to help him keep his feet.
“He could have had you blinded for that!” Liam said. “What were you thinking?”
“Nothing,” Aidan replied. “Just that I will never make a monk.”
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