The Snow on the Cross by Brian Fitts Read Free Book Online Page A

to see the woman who was responsible for bringing me here, and the kind
of woman who would dedicate her life to living with these men.
    “I did,” said Bjarni.  “I have
requested you.”  He laughed at his own joke, punching Broin in the side as he
continued.  Broin, I assume because Bjarni was speaking in my language, didn’t
understand why Bjarni had jabbed him.  A shadow passed over Broin, and he
suddenly looked ready to draw his axe.  Bjarni was too busy laughing at my
earnestness to notice Broin’s reaction, and he continued to slap and punch him.
    I frowned at this display.  Bjarni
did not strike me as a frivolous man.  On the ship he had seemed serious and
stern, and his men who sailed with him seemed to respect that.  Now, home again,
Bjarni had metamorphed into some kind of buffoon.
    My head began to hurt.  “For God’s
grace,” I said.  “Be serious and tell me who wants me, otherwise, I will return
to my bed.”
    Bjarni’s laughter faded and he
cleared his throat.  “Bishop, forgive me.  We are walking south today, to the
seashore.”
    “Why?” I asked, my patience draining
away.
    Bjarni grinned.  “We are going to
Brattahild.”
    * * *
    Brattahild was the name of Eirik’s
farm, and it was not to the south, as Bjarni had said, but rather to the east. 
I stepped outside, blinking in the harsh light and twitching with cold.  I saw
hills in the distance, but no trees.  Again I noted I saw no color green here,
only brown and gray rock, dotted by pale scrub brush.  This stretched in miles
for all directions, although I could see streams of smoke coming from other
stone houses nearby.  I could smell the scent of saltwater, and so I knew the
sea was just over the hill to the south.  The sound of the gulls crying was
easily heard, even if the birds could not be seen.  Bjarni and Broin stood
looking at me as I stared all around me.  I noted their impatience drawn in
clear lines on their faces behind their heavy beards, and Bjarni’s eyes
narrowed.
    “Bishop, come,” he spoke sharply as
if calling his dog.  He and Broin started walking, leaving me shivering in the
doorway of the house I had lain in for no telling how long.  My knees were
buckling from my weakened state, and I had no fur cloak like the Vikings had. 
The soft wind cut through me with ice teeth, and I slumped against the doorway,
moaning.
    “Help me,” I murmured.  My body was
giving out.  The weakness of the flesh: St. Augustine wrote of it often.
    I sank to one knee, and it touched
the ground.  The sharpness of the rocks jabbed my knee, but I paid it no mind. 
I simply watched the bundles of fur walking away from me up and over the far
hill.  How could they not notice I was not following them?  The stupidity of
these men was staggering to me.  My eyes closed, and I found myself thinking of
my gardens in Le Mans , and the sound of my quill, and the
warmth of my fire . . .
    Coarse hands grabbed my shoulders and
hauled me to my feet.  I looked into the faces of the Vikings who had returned
for me.  They hoisted me up, brushed me off, and dropped an impossibly heavy
fur around my shoulders.  Broin said something and Bjarni began laughing.  I
felt my face burn.
    “Tell your god to give you strength,
Bishop,” Bjarni said, his voice mocking.  “We have a long walk.”
    I took a step forward.  The fur
helped against the cold air, but my body still shook from its weakness.  They
were taking me to Eirik’s farm.  I didn’t know how far it was, but when you are
not used to walking anywhere, the smallest distance seems endless.  I followed
the two men.  I found it hard to look up as I walked, so I focused on putting
one foot before the other until we arrived.  The Vikings were traveling at a
brisk pace, but not so fast as to lose sight of me.  At least for that I was
grateful.
    Apparently, the house I had been
resting in was apart from the other homes of the village.  It sat by itself
nestled between