were not much worshipped.
Einar. I caught him looking at me as I looked at him, and saw that his expensive silver cup was scarcely touched. Then I saw myself as he saw me, cheeks bulging with lamb, gravy on my chin, wild with the sheer, unbelievable sensuality of the whole affair.
I swallowed, sobered. Einar grinned and I followed his gaze to the arguing pair.
Illugi was in heated debate about the tale of Bishop Poppo and the wearing of the red-hot glove and Martin was smiling and answering him blandly.
Suddenly, as if a veil was whipped away, I saw, as I knew Einar did—had done since we arrived—that Martin was stalling. The wine, the food—even the argument—were all a feint, as when a man looks for an opening under a shield.
`Where, then,' Einar demanded, 'is Brondolf?'
If he had hurled the silver cup to the polished wood of the floor he couldn't have created more of a silence. Martin looked round, blinked and sighed.
Ì had hoped he would be here to tell you himself, but it seems that he has been caught up in events,' the monk said in his gentle, accented voice. 'Things are happening in the wider world—Bluetooth, for one—
which have to be dealt with.'
`What was in the saint's box?' asked Einar quietly.
Martin shrugged. He paused, then answered, 'Bones. Some writings, but not what I had hoped.' He rose and crossed to a small chest, opened it and took out a cloth bag, which chinked softly. 'Brondolf is disappointed in me, I fear,' he went on with a wry, deprecating smile, which twisted his face into a gargoyle mask for a moment. `He is now looking for more . . . practical . . . ways of restoring Birka's fortunes, since my poor efforts have failed.'
Ànd what were these poor efforts?' asked Einar, leaning forward so that the black pillars of his hair framed his face, making it even more pale than usual, his eyes deep-sunk pools. I was reminded of Eyvind, who had seen Thought, Odin's raven.
Martin spread his arms dismissively and smiled. 'I thought I had found a great ikon of Christ, one which would have made a church in Birka a pilgrimage for Christians everywhere. It seems I was wrong.'
`What was this ikon?' asked Illugi. Einar's dark-pool eyes never left Martin's face and made it hard for the priest to broaden the smile. I knew, at that moment, he was lying and the vision of a great mountain of silver, Atil's hoard, made my heart lurch. It could be real after all.
Martin spread his thin-fingered hands—stained with what seemed to be burn marks—and shrugged. 'It scarcely matters, Illugi,' he said smoothly. 'You know how many there are. Like so many others, this turned out to be a fake. If you took all the knucklebones of St Otmund and assembled them you would find a miracle. He had four hands, at least.'
Smiling, he stepped forward and placed the cloth bag in front of Einar with a soft, chiming chink.
'Brondolf thanks you for your efforts. You are free to go where you please.'
The air grew still and no one moved. It was as if we were all frozen and the longer the moment went on, the more painful the attempt to move became.
Then Einar, with a swiftness that startled us up like swallows, scooped up the bag and stood. In a second, there was nothing but movement, as if that had released us from some spell. Einar strode off without a word.
Illugi Godi, I saw, sensed that something had happened but wasn't sure what. Politeness stayed him long enough to thank Martin and offer all the usual platitudes and get them in return.
For my part, I saw the monk's eyes flick, just once, to the door. On the back of it, on a hook, hung a hooded cloak.
Einar waited for us in the courtyard, where a fresh, clean, cold wind drove out the cobwebs, streamed out our hair, hissed over the flagstones and rattled the little gate as we were quietly ushered out and handed a lantern. No guide back to the Guest Hall, then.
`You might have had more regard for hospitality,' chided Illugi Godi and Einar, only half listening,
Einar. I caught him looking at me as I looked at him, and saw that his expensive silver cup was scarcely touched. Then I saw myself as he saw me, cheeks bulging with lamb, gravy on my chin, wild with the sheer, unbelievable sensuality of the whole affair.
I swallowed, sobered. Einar grinned and I followed his gaze to the arguing pair.
Illugi was in heated debate about the tale of Bishop Poppo and the wearing of the red-hot glove and Martin was smiling and answering him blandly.
Suddenly, as if a veil was whipped away, I saw, as I knew Einar did—had done since we arrived—that Martin was stalling. The wine, the food—even the argument—were all a feint, as when a man looks for an opening under a shield.
`Where, then,' Einar demanded, 'is Brondolf?'
If he had hurled the silver cup to the polished wood of the floor he couldn't have created more of a silence. Martin looked round, blinked and sighed.
Ì had hoped he would be here to tell you himself, but it seems that he has been caught up in events,' the monk said in his gentle, accented voice. 'Things are happening in the wider world—Bluetooth, for one—
which have to be dealt with.'
`What was in the saint's box?' asked Einar quietly.
Martin shrugged. He paused, then answered, 'Bones. Some writings, but not what I had hoped.' He rose and crossed to a small chest, opened it and took out a cloth bag, which chinked softly. 'Brondolf is disappointed in me, I fear,' he went on with a wry, deprecating smile, which twisted his face into a gargoyle mask for a moment. `He is now looking for more . . . practical . . . ways of restoring Birka's fortunes, since my poor efforts have failed.'
Ànd what were these poor efforts?' asked Einar, leaning forward so that the black pillars of his hair framed his face, making it even more pale than usual, his eyes deep-sunk pools. I was reminded of Eyvind, who had seen Thought, Odin's raven.
Martin spread his arms dismissively and smiled. 'I thought I had found a great ikon of Christ, one which would have made a church in Birka a pilgrimage for Christians everywhere. It seems I was wrong.'
`What was this ikon?' asked Illugi. Einar's dark-pool eyes never left Martin's face and made it hard for the priest to broaden the smile. I knew, at that moment, he was lying and the vision of a great mountain of silver, Atil's hoard, made my heart lurch. It could be real after all.
Martin spread his thin-fingered hands—stained with what seemed to be burn marks—and shrugged. 'It scarcely matters, Illugi,' he said smoothly. 'You know how many there are. Like so many others, this turned out to be a fake. If you took all the knucklebones of St Otmund and assembled them you would find a miracle. He had four hands, at least.'
Smiling, he stepped forward and placed the cloth bag in front of Einar with a soft, chiming chink.
'Brondolf thanks you for your efforts. You are free to go where you please.'
The air grew still and no one moved. It was as if we were all frozen and the longer the moment went on, the more painful the attempt to move became.
Then Einar, with a swiftness that startled us up like swallows, scooped up the bag and stood. In a second, there was nothing but movement, as if that had released us from some spell. Einar strode off without a word.
Illugi Godi, I saw, sensed that something had happened but wasn't sure what. Politeness stayed him long enough to thank Martin and offer all the usual platitudes and get them in return.
For my part, I saw the monk's eyes flick, just once, to the door. On the back of it, on a hook, hung a hooded cloak.
Einar waited for us in the courtyard, where a fresh, clean, cold wind drove out the cobwebs, streamed out our hair, hissed over the flagstones and rattled the little gate as we were quietly ushered out and handed a lantern. No guide back to the Guest Hall, then.
`You might have had more regard for hospitality,' chided Illugi Godi and Einar, only half listening,
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