The Bard sat in the shadows and listened. He hadn’t brought his harp. The Little Yule and waes hael ceremonies belonged to him, but the Great Yule had been graciously offered to Brother Aiden. Jack was surprised by the friendship between the two men. Monks generally denounced the old ways, but Brother Aiden was different.
When he’d staggered into the village after the destruction of the Holy Isle, he’d gone mad with grief. At the time, everyone believed the Bard was mad too, but the old man’s spirit was actually traveling in the shape of a bird. When the Bard’s spirit returned, he took in the monk. “It’s the least I can do after the trouble I caused,” he explained.
Jack didn’t feel as generous because Brother Aiden’s care fell on him. It was his job to make sure the monk ate and exercised. He had to walk the man up and down the beach, all the while listening to his moans. Well, it was tragic, what had happened to Brother Aiden’s companions, but no Northman would have complained so much about fate.
Every night the Bard played the harp and Jack sang while Brother Aiden sat by the hearth with a glazed look in his eyes. “Music is the very air of healing,” the old man explained. “Aiden may not seem to be listening, but he is. His spirit is trapped in the burning library of the Holy Isle. With our help, it will escape.” Gradually, the little monk’s nightmares left him, and he was able to care for himself. The villagers built him a little beehive-shaped hut to live in.
Brother Aiden was touchingly grateful to the Bard and never once said a word about wicked pagans.
The Great Yule feast began to wind down. Wives packed up the remaining food and roused husbands from comfortable stupors. The blacksmith was carried home by his slaves, and more than one farmer was forcibly pushed out the door. Eventually, the hall emptied.
“Shall we go?” Mother said. She’d already wrapped Lucy in a woolen cloak.
“Not yet,” said Father. “I have business to attend to. We’ll wait until the Bard leaves.”
Jack saw the Bard come alert—not that the old man was ever anything else.
“It may take a long time,” Father explained. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your bed.”
“That’s quite all right,” said the Bard.
“It will be boring.”
“I’m seldom bored,” the old man said genially.
Father frowned but turned brusquely to the chief. “It’s about Pega.”
“Has she done something wrong?” the chief said. He leaned back on his bench and stretched out his legs.
“No, no. It’s something else. Tell me, is she healthy?”
What a strange question, thought Jack.
“As healthy as any child. She catches colds and so forth.”
“Is she a good worker?”
“Ah!” The chief suddenly woke up. “An absolutely wonderful worker! For the size of her, she’s amazing.”
“Giles, what are you up to?” said the Bard. Now Lucy had awakened and eagerly pressed herself against Father’s side.
“This is farm business,” Father said.
“You have boys coming every day to help you,” said the Bard. “What more do you need?”
“I plan to buy a few cows for butter and cheese.”
It was the first Jack had heard of the plan. Father had all the work he could handle, even with the help of the village boys. That was an arrangement the Bard had worked out to free Jack for his apprenticeship. Father owned chickens, pigeons, geese, and thirty sheep, as well as the beehives and herb garden that were Mother’s domain. During the summer he planted oats, beans, and turnips as well. How could he possibly take on cows?
“Pega’s a valuable slave,” said the chief.
“She’s stunted and ugly. I’m surprised she doesn’t turn the milk sour,” Father said.
“On the contrary. She turns milk into fine yellow cheese,” said the chief.
They were bargaining as though Pega were a sheep! Jack was so outraged, he couldn’t trust himself to speak. He looked up and saw the Bard watching him intently.
“She looks weak. If I were a cow, I’d kick her out of the barn,” said Giles Crookleg.
“She stares them down as well as any sheepdog,” the chief replied.
“Giles,” Mother said. “We have no room for cows.”
So Mother didn’t know about the scheme either, thought Jack.
“Be still,” said Father. “I’ll give you five silver pennies for the wench.”
“Five!” cried the chief. “The skill in Pega’s hands is worth at least fifty.”
“For a sickly runt? I think not!”
“Observe her face, Giles. She has the scars of cowpox. She is safe from the great pox. I’ll call her from the other house so you can see.”
“Father,” said Jack hesitantly.
“Be still. Dairymaids are well known for lung-sickness. Because of our friendship, however, I’ll give you ten pennies,” said Giles Crookleg.
“Father, buying slaves is evil,” Jack said. A hush fell over the hall. All eyes turned to him.
“Excuse me?” said Father in a cold voice.
“He said, ‘buying slaves is evil’,” Mother repeated.
Giles Crookleg rose to his feet. “How dare you oppose me!”
“There, there,” the chief said hastily. “We have an expert on evil here. Brother Aiden, what’s your opinion in this matter?”
He eats at the chief’s table, Jack thought. He won’t say anything. The boy’s heart pounded and his face burned. He’d never opposed Father so directly or publicly. He hated doing it. But he knew how terrible it was to be sold like a cooking pot, to be discarded when you wore out.
“Slavery is wrong,” said Brother Aiden in his gentle voice. Shock went through the room, although the Bard merely smiled. “It is lawful, as you know, but you were asking me about evil. My companions on the Holy Isle—those who were not slaughtered—were sold into captivity. Your own children were taken, Giles, and returned only by the greatest luck. How could you possibly want to own another human being?”
The hearth fire crackled and the wind fiddled with the thatch. Father looked thoroughly ashamed of himself. “I suppose—I suppose I don’t,” he said.
“Da, you promised me!” Lucy cried suddenly. “You said you’d buy me Pega if I’d be good! And I was!”
“So there we have it,” said the Bard.
“Giles!” Mother gasped.
“I did want to start a dairy,” Father said in his own defense.
“You promised me!” shrieked Lucy.
“Hush,” said Mother, attempting to pull her from Father’s side. The little girl clung to him, sobbing wildly, and Jack could see his father’s resolve crumble.
“I gave my word,” he said, putting his arm around his beloved daughter.
“I tell you what. I’ll go down to forty pieces of silver,” said the chief. He’d been startled by Brother Aiden’s words, but Jack guessed he wasn’t all that upset by them. Brother Aiden was always going on at people about sin.
“Thirty,” Father said automatically.
“Giles, that’s Lucy’s dowry,” Mother said.
“She’ll marry well without it.”
“Done!” said the chief.
Do something, somebody, thought Jack. He looked from Brother Aiden to the Bard and saw them looking back. At him. It was his task. He suddenly saw, in his mind’s eye, Lucy throwing a tantrum at the need-fire ceremony and Pega taking the candle into her own hands. And he knew what his part in this had to be.
“I’ll buy Pega for thirty-one pennies,” said Jack. “And then I’ll free her.” He saw the Bard and Brother Aiden relax.