Page 12 of The Warrior and the Monk

Wilder exhaled, a shaky breath escaping him. For the first time that day, he felt a glimmer of safety return. Forcing himself to speak steadily, he said, “My lord.” Relief flooded his voice, and his words came more easily now. “I’m glad you’ve returned. Would you like me to prepare dinner?”

Anders’s gaze swept the room, assessing the scene. He took in the group of men at the table, the remnants of food and drink from his larder scattered before them, and then his gaze softened as it landed on Wilder, pressed against the wall, an iron pot clutched defensively in his hand. After a moment, Anders held up a string of fish, freshly caught, still dripping with river water. Wilder moved to take them from him, but Anders turned without acknowledging the men, walking past them and handing the fish directly to Wilder. As he did, he gestured to a small curtained area—a private space. Wilder nodded and slipped behind it, feeling Anders’s silent command to wait out of sight.

He closed the curtain and sank down, setting the iron pot beside him and laying the fish across his lap. He ran a fingernailover the dark, glistening scales, trying to identify the type; he didn’t recognize them but knew their taste would be familiar once cooked. But it was hard to think about fish or dinner when his heart still hammered in his chest. Low voices drifted through the fabric barrier, rising in tone and urgency. All four men seemed to be speaking at once, overlapping in a frantic jumble of words that grew louder by the second.

A sudden, heavy thud made the entire longhouse tremble, cutting off the men’s voices. Wilder jolted, his gaze snapping to the curtain, but he resisted the urge to look. His heart raced as another loud, angry thump echoed through the house, followed by a strangled grunt. Swallowing his nerves, Wilder peeked through a gap in the fabric just in time to see the blue-eyed man, the one they called Harald, crumpling to the floor, his hand clutching his mouth where a trickle of blood dripped down his chin. Anders stood over him, fists clenched, a fury radiating off him that made the other men shrink back. Without a word, he pointed to the door, his meaning unmistakable.

The men scrambled to obey, two of them pulling Harald to his feet as he muttered something angry and defiant in their language, silenced only when one of his companions hissed at him to stop. The translator spotted Wilder behind the curtain, giving him an awkward, placating wave. “Thank you for the—hospitality,” he said, attempting a thin smile.

“Fine service,” Wilder replied flatly, his voice carrying an edge of sarcasm.

A low, warning growl rumbled from Anders, silencing any further pleasantries. The men hurried from the house, and within moments, the only sounds were the faint crackle of the fire and the soft creak of Anders’s footsteps as he stood near the hearth, his shoulders tense and his face still hardened in a scowl. Wilder watched him quietly from the curtain, feeling a mix ofguilt and gratitude. He’d let those men inside, given them food and drink, exposed Anders’s home to strangers. He’d let down his guard, and Anders had paid for it.

Wilder stepped out of the curtain, setting down the fish. He spoke quietly, ashamed. “I’m sorry, my lord. I thought they were friends of yours—come to visit.” In his limited understanding of Anders’s world, everyone in the area seemed somehow connected. Surely, everyone knew each other. But it was clear now how wrong he’d been. These men were nothing like Anders. Anders was—

Kind, Wilder had called him. But he wondered now if that was the right word.

Kindness wasn’t exactly what Anders had shown when he’d taken him from the monastery and brought him to this isolated life. Yet Anders treated him with a respect Wilder hadn’t often experienced, working alongside him, sharing his meals, never stopping him from talking and even listening as he rambled. The monastery had been full of people, but he’d often felt invisible, performing tasks expected of him with barely a word of acknowledgment. Here, it was just the two of them, and Anders was different. A man of few words, yes, but far gentler than Ellion had ever been, even though they had both sworn similar vows of brotherhood. Ellion had shoved him toward a stranger; Anders had been that stranger, but he’d never once threatened Wilder.

Wilder’s mind drifted to the blue-eyed man’s leer, the way he’d looked at him, the mocking tone as he’d called him beautiful. What might have happened if that man had been the one to claim him? The thought sent a chill through him, and he cast a sidelong glance at Anders, who was busying himself with the fire. His hands moved deftly, his expression now unreadable as he stoked the flames, his movements sharp, as if he wereimagining each jab of the stick was a strike against the men who’d disturbed their peace.

Wilder took the half-eaten plates of bread, cheese, and fruit and carried them outside to the chickens and goats, who clucked and nudged against him in their delight at the unexpected feast. He sat down on the steps, stroking Avery, who cooed and nestled against him. His mind was racing, his stomach uneasy, as though he were back on the stormy seas with no land in sight, his fate decided by the capricious waves.

Chapter Five

Wilder’s sour mood lingered, shadowing even the momentous arrival of the cows. He’d completely forgotten about the livestock in the aftermath of Harald and the other men, their intrusion leaving a bitter taste in his mouth that refused to fade. For the remainder of the day, Anders had kept his distance, though Wilder was acutely aware of his presence. Anders didn’t loom or approach directly, yet Wilder could feel his gaze—a heavy, persistent thing, impossible to ignore. He busied himself with chores, pretending not to notice, but Anders’s eyes followed him as if ensuring he stayed in sight.

The way Anders watched him was different, though, from the way Harald and his companions had leered. Their looks had filled Wilder with a cold dread, their casual glances and smirks weighing on him like a threat. Anders’s watchful eye, on the other hand, felt... steadying. Grounding. As though—

As though he were being guarded. Protected.

The realization unsettled him. He had no doubt that if any of those men returned, Anders would defend him. The memory of the blue-eyed Harald crumpled on the floor, Anders standing over him radiating fury, was fresh in his mind. Wilder thought of Anders’s strength, his towering form, and his sheer presence. A shepherd would defend his flock because they were his livelihood. A lord, Wilder reasoned, must see his servants the same way. And Wilder was Anders’s only servant. If somethinghappened to him—if he were injured, taken, or killed—Anders would have no one to help tend the ever-growing responsibilities of the household.

The chickens needed feeding and their coop cleaning. The goats and sheep required constant care. The garden had expanded so much that Wilder already found himself overwhelmed by the weeding, planting, and harvesting. Surely even Anders would struggle to manage it all alone. Wilder was indispensable, truly.

But that realization came with a shadow of fear. If he were so necessary, what would Anders do if Wilder tried to escape? If he gathered his courage and fled into the forest, seeking refuge in the dense trees, would Anders hunt him down like a wolf after a stray lamb? And if he managed to find his way to the nearest town, would Anders follow him there too, dragging him back to this isolated longhouse?

The thought left a bitter pit in his stomach. Was this to be his life? A captive bound not by chains but by the unrelenting practicality of his role? Relying on the goodwill of his captor and hemmed in by the dangers of the outside world? The days here stretched before him like an endless path of repetition: the same tasks, the same routines, the same companion. Each day so much like the last that it was easy to lose track of time.

The longhouse felt larger than the monastery yet no less confining. Perhaps, he thought with a twinge of despair, this place wasn’t so different after all.

The following morning, the silence of an uneventful breakfast hung in the air as Wilder cleared the table. Anders had barely spoken, and Wilder had been too distracted by his brooding thoughts to fill the quiet with idle chatter. He carried the bowls and cups to a small washbasin near the hearth, methodically scrubbing away the remnants of their meal. His hands moved automatically, the motions requiring littlethought. The sound of clinking dishes was the only noise until it was broken by the creak of the longhouse door.

Wilder glanced up, startled, and blinked in confusion at what he saw. A reddish-brown cow stood in the doorway, her fuzzy ears twitching and her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. Her small horns gave her an almost dainty appearance despite her size. Wilder froze, unsure if he was hallucinating.

The cow stepped over the threshold with slow, deliberate movements, her hooves tapping softly against the wooden floor. She sniffed the air, her large head swiveling as she surveyed her surroundings. Wilder’s eyes widened as she ambled further inside, her attention drawn toward the hearth’s ashes as though she meant to walk straight through them.

“No, no, no—wait!” Wilder set down the bowls with a clatter and rushed to intercept her before she could make a mess. He raised his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “Hello,” he said, voice uncertain as he approached the unexpected visitor.

The cow’s ears flicked in his direction. She paused her exploration and turned her head toward him. With a quiet huff, she allowed him to pet her broad forehead, her fur warm and surprisingly soft under his hand. Wilder smiled despite himself, but his expression shifted to one of mild disgust when her long, wet tongue flicked out and licked his palm.

“Ugh—well, that’s certainly one way to say hello,” he muttered, wiping his hand on his tunic. “Where did you come from?”

The cow offered no answer, her attention wandering as quickly as it had settled on him. She gazed at him with what could only be described as disappointment, realizing he had no treats to offer. Then, without hesitation, she turned and ambled back toward the door.

“Wait—hey!” Wilder followed her out, curiosity now outweighing his confusion. Had she wandered here from a neighboring farm? But from what he’d seen, Anders had no nearby neighbors. The land surrounding the longhouse was vast and untamed, with no other houses or farms visible for miles.

The cow seemed far too clean to have spent much time in the wild, her coat sleek and free of mud or debris. Her well-fed frame and groomed appearance suggested she’d been cared for—recently, at that. Wilder frowned, wiping his still-damp hand against his tunic again as he watched her lumber toward the small fenced area near the chickens and goats.

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