Page 11 of The Warrior and the Monk

Finally, one of the men spoke, his voice rough and questioning: “Anders?”

Wilder pointed back toward the path they’d just taken. “Out in town,” he said, voice steady despite his racing heart. “He’s buying cows. I don’t know when he’ll be back, but it should be soon.”

But the men didn’t seem content with this answer. Their gazes remained fixed on him, heavy with a strange intensity that set Wilder further on edge. And then, without so much as a word, the four men turned and strode past him, making their way directly into Anders’s longhouse as if they had every right to do so.

Wilder watched them go, heart pounding as he stood rooted to the spot, comb still clutched in his hand. A dozen questions raced through his mind. Who were they? Why had they come here, and what did they want with Anders? And, more importantly, what would Anders do when he returned and found them here?

With a sense of foreboding, Wilder turned his gaze back toward the path, silently willing Anders to return soon.

???

Visitors, it seemed, were the same regardless of whether they appeared at the monastery or at a secluded house by the river. And as always, Wilder’s role was to serve. He brought the men mugs of mead, grateful that there were just enough to goaround, and set out a platter piled with bread, cheese, and dried fruit to ease their hunger while they waited for Anders to return. The men dug into the food without hesitation, rough hands reaching for chunks of bread and cheese. Wilder watched them, wondering if they'd even thought to thank him, when the man who had initially asked for Anders raised his mug and the plate in a mock salute, saying something that made the others burst into laughter.

Though he didn’t understand their language, Wilder caught enough of their tone to suspect they were teasing him. He forced a polite smile, though it was strained. His attempt was met with a returned smile from the same man, who raised his mug again and, more slowly this time, said in Wilder’s language, “It is fine service.”

The sound of his own tongue spoken by this stranger startled Wilder. It had been weeks since he’d heard it—long enough that the words didn’t register immediately.Fine service.“Do you—do you understand me?” He stared at the man, incredulous. All this time, they could have included him in the conversation!

“Some.” The man shrugged, seeming pleased to have surprised him. “I know important words.” With exaggerated effort, he began listing words: “Drink, ship—ah, gold.” He paused, tapping his chin as if trying to think of more. After a moment, he snapped his fingers and pointed at Wilder, adding with a smirk, “Beautiful!”

The others roared with laughter as Wilder’s cheeks flushed, his polite smile slipping as he glanced around the room, uncertain where to look. His gaze landed on the blue-eyed man, who drained his mug and watched him intently, that unsettling grin still curling at his lips. Mead dripped from the corner of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving Wilder’s face.

It struck Wilder, with a cold jolt, that he knew absolutely nothing about these men. How did Anders know them? Were they his friends? Did they come here on business? Or had he foolishly let in a band of strangers—potentially dangerous ones?Beautiful,the man had called him. Wilder’s heart thudded faster.

He glanced nervously toward the door, considering his options. If need be, could he dash out of the house and escape? The men were not as large as Anders—he doubted many were—but they were still bigger than him, broader and rougher, each carrying an air of strength. He would need to be fast. “Anders will return soon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. But did they notice the tremor?

At the mention of Anders’s name, the group exchanged glances, smirking as if they shared some private joke. The man who knew a little of Wilder’s language turned back to him and asked, “He is good? Anders?”

Wilder hesitated. What was the man asking, exactly? Was he asking if Anders was a good lord? If Wilder was a good servant? And how much of his answer would this man even understand? He chose his words carefully. “Anders is kind to me.”

“Only kind?” the man pressed, his smile sly, eyebrows raised in a suggestive arch.

Wilder shifted uncomfortably, casting his gaze down. What else could he ask for? Anders had taken him, yes, had stolen him from the quiet shores of his monastery, plucking him out of a life that, while strict, had at least been familiar. Yet he had been lucky in his capture. Anders was quiet, hard-working, and, above all, had treated Wilder with a gentleness that was unexpected. That in itself was more kindness than he could have dared to hope for.

But what about these men? Would the same hold true for them? As he glanced from one unfamiliar face to another, Wilder thought of the night Anders had taken him from the beach, the sword that had gleamed in the moonlight. What had the monks done with it? Had they dared remove it from where it had fallen, or had they left it there to rust, a silent monument to his absence?

“Kind,” Wilder repeated softly, lifting his gaze to meet the man's once more. This man’s eyes gleamed with amusement as though he could see past Wilder’s words and into his deeper thoughts. Wilder felt exposed and vulnerable, his mind racing with uncertainty. "Kindness is the greatest quality a person can have," he said.

The man's brow furrowed. He took a moment to translate it to his companions. For some reason Wilder's words struck them as extremely funny. One of them—the sneering, scarred, blue-eyed one—made a gesture with his fist near his crotch and said something that sent the group into another round of hysterics. Wilder had no desire to know what he'd said, but the translator dutifully relayed the source of their laughter. He jerked his head toward his friend. "Harald's greatest quality is his cock. Better than kindness. Bigger, too."

Wilder felt his face grow hot. The blue-eyed man—Harald's—expression was mocking. His lips curled into a leer. He stared at Wilder's mouth.

At the monastery, Wilder had been afraid of many things. Summer storms frightened him with their crashing thunder, harsh lightning, and fierce winds that seemed capable of sweeping the entire monastery into the sea. He imagined flames devouring the building before anyone could run, smoke filling the air as the storm tore through everything he knew. He feared being caught daydreaming, shirking his duties, as he hated to see the abbot's disappointed look—a silent rebuke morepainful than any scolding. And the night Ellion had pushed him toward Anders and an unknown future had filled him with a terror he’d never known. But this was a different fear altogether.

As he stood there, back pressed against a wall, he asked himself why he’d let the men inside. Why had he served them mead and food as if they were welcomed guests? Why had he wandered so far from the doorway, which now seemed an impossible distance away? A shiver ran down his spine as he took a step backward, bumping into a stack of linens and cooking supplies that crashed to the floor in a jumbled heap. A small iron pot tumbled free, hitting the ground with a dull clatter. Wilder snatched it up, his hand trembling as he wondered if it was heavy enough to use as a weapon, should the need arise.Where was his dagger?He cursed himself for not wearing it, for leaving it off his belt. A flicker of regret crossed his mind; he should have prepared for whatever might come from the dark depths of the forest.

“All well, beautiful,” the translator said with an unsettling smile as he bent to pick up a fallen piece of fabric, brushing off the dust before offering it back to Wilder with a casual, too-familiar kindness.

But Wilder shook his head. He felt his heart pounding against his chest. “No,” he whispered, his voice wavering. “I want you to leave. All of you—please, leave.” He knew he had the right to say so. With Anders away, he was responsible for the house and its security. Whatever anger Anders might show afterward, he’d accept the punishment. For now, he held the iron pot’s handle like it was a weapon and stood his ground, resolute.

“Why would we want to leave?” the man asked, feigning innocence.

“I want you to leave,” Wilder repeated, firmer this time. “You’ve had food and drink. Now it’s time for you to go.”

They exchanged amused glances, more intrigued than offended, as if his demand were an unexpected twist in an otherwise ordinary day. It wasn’t that they didn’t understand him; they understood perfectly. Rather, they seemed entertained by the notion that he might have any authority to tell them what to do. They made no move to rise, remaining exactly where they were, unwelcome figures that Wilder had foolishly allowed to linger in his home.

Then the room darkened suddenly.

The men’s smirks faded as a shadow blotted out the sunlight spilling through the doorway. Anders loomed there, his broad form filling the space, dressed simply in a rough-spun tunic and breeches yet appearing more intimidating than if he’d worn full armor. His expression was one of barely-contained rage, his dark gaze fixed on the intruders with a murderous glint.

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