Two nights later and the weather changed. Herrard Great Hall was buffeted, suddenly, with wind. Shutters banged all over the building as the gusts built and built, until a storm broke with the sound of an invading army. Little Edward woke in his truckle bed and shivered with terror; most frightening was an echoing crash that came and went. Storm giants!
The lightning flashed and flooded the room with white light. Outside, in the inner ward, his oak tree groaned and creaked. Thunder pealed directly above and the child screamed.
“Wissy! Where are you, Wissy?”
He yelled with all his strength, but no one came. For a moment, he huddled under the blankets, but then it happened again: a crashing noise in the distance. The giants were breaking in! He must save Wissy! Edward tumbled from his bed and ran across a space that was instantly vast in the dark and the light and the dark. He stumbled toward one of the three doors and, heart hammering in his chest, sobbing, struggled to lift the iron latch that was nearly above his head, stretching his toes to reach it until the bones seemed to crack.
Twice more white light broke the darkness, twice more the hammers of the storm beat down on the roof, but that terror helped him trip the latch and he was through the door at a run, calling frantically, “Where are you? Where are you, Wissy!”
This night, the familiar was suddenly strange. In the daylight it was easy to find the twisting stair that descended to the hall. Night was different and there were no torches to show him the way. He ran, ran on, through the flashing darkness, through the rain gusting from the arrow slits and, at last, at last, his feet found the first tread of the stairs. But there was darkness in the stairwell and suddenly the certainty was overwhelming. They’d gone, they’d all gone to London and left him here. The crashing began again—the giants were coming closer. Edward screamed and covered his eyes with his fingers.
Below, there was chaos and noise in the great space of the hall as rain blew through the opened door, ripping the one piece of arras Anne still owned from its hooks. Struggling with its weight and the power of the storm, Anne felt her skirt lift and billow as she tried to close the door behind the cloaked and dripping man who’d been pounding on it.
“Leif!”
“Yes, lady. Here, I can do this.” It was a big door and a huge wind but Leif leaned into them both. The door closed on the howling night and there was almost silence.
“Wissy? Where are you?”
The cry of her child struck Anne’s heart. Snatching a torch from one of the sconces, she ran toward the stone staircase. Questions could wait.
Taking the stairs two at a time, she soon found her son. He was slumped, a small shivering bundle, on one of the stair turnings, and though he was trying not to cry, his little pale face and terrified eyes told the story. Shoving her torch in a sconce, Anne stumbled on her skirts in her haste to gather the small body into her arms.
“I was trying to save you but I thought you’d gone. I thought you’d left me alone.” Frantic, Edward hid his face in the bodice of Anne’s gown when the thunder pealed again. “Make it go! Make it go away!”
A massive shadow wavered up from below, the head a grotesque blob followed by a huge, dark shape. Edward looked up and screamed, “The giant!” The turning of the stair had hidden Leif Molnar from sight; now the light he held preceded him. A flash from the storm captured the child’s fixed, staring eyes. For one moment he looked like a corpse, dead from terror.
“Is the boy…?” Leif’s heart lurched. He would not say the word.
“No! He just hates storms.”
Edward burrowed more tightly into Anne’s shoulder. She chose to ignore what she saw in Leif’s eyes as she rocked her son, speaking softly. “There’s nothing to fear, my darling, nothing to harm you.” Distantly, the sky muttered, the thunder moving away. “See, it’s nearly gone, and we have a visitor. Your friend, Leif.”
The little boy spoke, not daring to look up. “Not a storm giant?”
The Norseman went down on one knee; his head was level with the child’s. “Have you forgotten me, Edward? That would make me sad.”
Little Edward sat up slowly and looked at the man in awe. “Are you a giant, Leif? You look like a giant.”
The Norseman shook his head, smiling, but his gaze was fixed on the woman. “Give me this boy, woman. There are things we must speak of. It is time for him to understand the thunder, and his own fear.”
Leif handed his torch to Anne and opened his arms to the child. Edward allowed himself to be scooped up and Anne walked down behind them. The two torches she carried cast the shadows of the man and the boy into the hall before them.
And Deborah was there, waiting, as the fire climbed high in the chimney and the flames rushed up to meet the dark night sky.
It was late and little Edward was sleepy, resting against Leif’s chest. There was a story, a long, long story, and he was at peace.
“Thor commands the thunder, Boy. And the storm. They are both his servants. You have nothing to fear because Thor watches over me, and since I watch over you, therefore he is your guardian also.”
That made Edward’s heavy eyes flick open. “But you said he was a war god?”
Leif shifted the child’s weight slightly, settled him in the crook of one great arm and drew a fold of his cloak around the little body. “That is true. But I am a fighter; so, too, are you.”
Edward chuckled. “A fighter? Me?”
Leif nodded gravely. “Certainly. You showed courage tonight. A coward would have stayed in bed, under the sheets, but you were brave. You faced the storm to help your aunt. As a fighter, all you need is technique. It will be my job to help with that. When you are grown, you will be taller and stronger than I am.”
Edward’s eyes were wide open now. He laughed—a bright sound in the dark hall. “But you are a storm giant!”
Leif laughed too. “Even so. Now, I was telling you about the thunder. When you hear it sound and see the sky torn apart, well then, you know your guardian is close by. So that even if I am not here with you, you know you are protected. Storm and thunder are the God’s preserve. Mortals cannot control that: not your mother, and not me.”
Edward’s eyes fluttered closed, feathery lashes resting on his cheeks. “My mother?” The little boy yawned hugely. “I’ve never seen my mother. She died.”
Leif’s glance crossed Anne’s as she sat embroidering by candlelight. She saw him form the words, saw him say them, though no sound came from his mouth to disturb the drowsy child. “No. Your mother lives.”
There was space between them, four paces at most; space they could cross, if they chose to.
But Anne dropped her gaze, attentive to her sewing, and he, after a moment, wrapped the boy more tightly and stood, ready to carry the sleeping child up to his bed again. And they said not one word more that night.