The Bone Quill by Carole E. Barrowman, John Barrowman Read Free Book Online Page A

from the rowan tree. He was cold and scared and tired. Because of the lid of darkness on the bog, he could no longer tell how long he had been tramping through this muck. Every step sucked in his legs deeper than before.
    The chewing, slobbering noises were everywhere in the dark.
    At long last he reached the grassy mound at the centre – and the rowan tree. Solon pushed his matted hair off his face to get a clearer look at his prize. Caught in a ribbon of the palest starlight, the tree looked dressed for a royal ball, its berries glowing like millions of tiny red lanterns. The tree reminded Solon of the ones that Brother Renard had used to illustrate initials in his manuscripts.
    But it was the boy curled beneath the tree that took Solon’s breath away.
    He stumbled on to the grassy mound before the Grendel decided to feed again. The peryton might have sacrificed the sheep to the Grendel, but Solon didn’t think the trick would work a second time. He had to hurry. As soon as he stepped on to the grassy mound, the weight of the darkness lifted from Solon’s shoulders, and the terrible gnawing noises of the Grendel quieted.
    Solon supposed from the boy’s size that he was about his own age: fifteen or so. Wrapped in a blue wool cloak with only his fur boots showing, the boy was tucked tight against the trunk of the rowan. Sleeping, Solon guessed. Darting forward, he rolled the boy on to his back – and gasped again.
    It was a girl. A Viking girl no less, by her ruddy complexion, her long, white-blonde hair and the detailing on her cloak pin. She was lying in an awkward position. Solon thought she looked broken.
    The girl wasn’t asleep. She was wounded. A wide gash above her elbow was oozing a soupy pus from the frayed edges of its cloth wrapping. The wrapping was soaked in what, at first glance, looked like blood.
    Other than his sisters, Solon had had no contact with girls. This one obviously knew about the rowan tree’s powers, because it wasn’t blood on the cloth – it was a poultice made from rowan berries, the crushed fruit pressing on to her raw wound.
    How had she got here? Had she been left behind by the invaders?
That was nonsense
, thought Solon. Viking bands didn’t travel with women, never mind girls of fifteen. Perhaps she was a Viking slave? Or perhaps she was a trick of the swamp, a fairy spirit who would stop Solon from taking berries from the tree.
    He quickly filled his pouch with as much of the rowan fruit as he could.
    Then the girl cried softly. Solon flinched at the memories that he could suddenly see in her mind: the screaming of the monks, the crying of village children, the killer gleam in the Vikings’ eyes. Solon saw the cobbles of the Abbey running red with blood – a blow with an axe from one of the Auchinmurn villagers and the white-hot agony of the wound the moment it had occurred. He leaned to one side and retched at the pain.
    Wiping his mouth, Solon hesitated, unsure of what he should do next.
    The girl moaned again. She looked half-dead. Solon decided that, friend or foe, she needed his help.
    Lifting his water pouch from over his shoulder, Solon gently dribbled the liquid on to her pale lips. His hands were shaking, and most of the water sloshed on to her face.
    Her eyes popped open. If it hadn’t been for the glint of the knife’s hilt and Solon’s quick reflexes, he would have lost an ear.
    ‘Trying to drown me?’ she asked, coughing out the words in a language that Solon recognized as Norse. Keeping the knife under Solon’s chin, she struggled to use her injured arm to lift herself up against the tree. What little colour she had in her cheeks immediately drained away.
    If you stop threatening me, you stupid girl, I might be able to help you,
Solon thought irritably.
    I don’t need your help, you stupid boy!

EIGHTEEN
     
    The Abbey
    Present Day
     
    A s he charged into the sitting room, Simon knew immediately that the twins had animated themselves into a painting.