ERIKA’S SUMMONING
England, AD 621
The young monk’s prayers were silent, his crucifix clutched to his chest. He remained curled in a foetal position in the dust, rocking gently, fear gripping every nerve and sinew. Having just witnessed his defenceless brothers being butchered by a boatload of killers, he had no desire to climb out of his hidey-hole. The older priests hadn’t run, hadn’t hidden. They’d waited for the doors to be broken down, then stood there impassively as the invaders cut them down like cornstalks in the meadow. The youth had no such courage. His heart was filled with horror at what he’d witnessed, and what was to come.
Directly above he heard booted footsteps come to a halt. Dust was dislodged, finding its way through a gap in the floorboards and gently settling over his face. It was impossible to resist sneezing, but the monk stifled the sneeze and held his breath. A tiny squeak emerged and nothing more. He lay motionless, eyes turned upward, wondering whether the invaders had heard him. When the board was prised up and the helmeted face of a Viking raider appeared above him, he learned all he needed to know.
‘What you got there?’ came a voice from further away.
‘Nothing,’ replied the Viking, the voice lightly pitched.
‘Let’s have a look at nothing,’ replied the other, yanking the helmeted raider aside. A big bearded brute with a gaping left eye socket stood there, a sick grin appearing in the nest of wiry hair.
‘Don’t look like nothing to me. Another dirty rat, eh? Smile for my axe, monk!’
He raised his axe, but his helmeted companion seized his wrist.
‘Let this one go.’
‘Why by Odin’s sweetmeats would I do that?’
‘He’s just a child, Hagan. He hasn’t even grown whiskers.’
‘Nor shall he ever,’ replied a third voice above. ‘Cut him up, Hagan. Kill ’em all, says I!’
‘Let go of my hand, Shield Maiden,’ snarled Hagan, his beard bristling as his gap-toothed smile became a snarl. She kept her grip on the man’s big forearm.
‘You gone soft, girlie? You found these fools’ God or something?’
‘We should never have brought a girl with us on a raid, Hagan,’ said the other man. ‘I’ve said all along she’s an ill omen. She’s brought nothing but bad luck.’
‘Last chance,’ said the one they’d called Shield Maiden. ‘Walk away now, nobody gets hurt. We’ve got all the gold we can carry and then some. Whaddaya say, Hagan?’
The bearded Viking suddenly spun, tearing his arm free to swipe his axe at her. It connected with her head, knocking off her helmet, which clattered to the floor. From the monk’s hiding place below ground it was difficult for him to see what was happening, but he heard the unmistakable sound of steel upon shield followed by steel upon bone. There was a series of wet, crunching sounds, gurgles and death rattles, and then silence. Curiosity got the better of the young man and he lifted his head up through the floorboards.
The two men lay dead, and the woman picked up her battered helm from the ground. She stood before the altar in the apse, the stained-glass windows at her back, her long blonde hair falling about her shoulders. She could have been an angel.
‘May God the Father watch over you, sweet lady,’ whispered the boy, making the sign of the cross.
‘There’s only one Highfather, monk, and his name’s Odin. And he’ll be mad as hell when he sees what I’ve done to my uncle.’
She slammed her sword into its scabbard, adjusted her helmet and picked up her shield, just as the light through the stained glass intensified. The monk averted his gaze as she became a sliver of a silhouette, a heavenly blue light engulfing her. When he looked back she had gone, vanished into thin air.
‘Angel,’ whispered the young monk, taking hold of the floorboard and dragging it back into position as he returned to the safety of his hiding place.