Page 4 of The Evening and the Morning

Sunni and Cyneric lived in a house like any other except for the dairy, a lean-to extension built of cob, a mixture of sand, stones, clay, and straw, with a roof of thin stone tiles, all meant to keep the place cool. The building stood on the edge of a small field where the cows were pastured.

Edgar reached the house, flung open the door, and dashed in.

He saw Cyneric on the floor, a short, heavy man with black hair. The rushes around him were soaked with blood and he lay perfectly still. A gaping wound between his neck and shoulder was no longer bleeding, and Edgar had no doubt he was dead.

Sunni’s brown-and-white dog, Brindle, stood in the corner, trembling and panting as dogs do when terrified.

But where was she?

At the back of the house was a doorway that led to the dairy. The door stood open, and as Edgar moved toward it he heard Sunni cry out.

He stepped into the dairy. He saw the back of a tall Viking with yellow hair. Some kind of struggle was going on: a bucket of milk had spilled on the stone floor, and the long manger from which the cows fed had been knocked over.

A split second later Edgar saw that the Viking’s opponent was Sunni. Her suntanned face was grim with rage, her mouth wide open, showing white teeth, her dark hair flying. The Viking had an ax in one hand but was not using it. With the other hand he wastrying to wrestle Sunni to the ground while she lashed out at him with a big kitchen knife. Clearly he wanted to capture her rather than kill her, for a healthy young woman made a high-value slave.

Neither of them saw Edgar.

Before Edgar could move, Sunni caught the Viking across the face with a slash of her knife, and he roared with pain as blood spurted from his gashed cheek. Infuriated, he dropped the ax, grabbed her by both shoulders, and threw her to the ground. She fell heavily, and Edgar heard a sickening thud as her head hit the stone step on the threshold. To his horror she seemed to lose consciousness. The Viking dropped to one knee, reached into his jerkin, and drew out a length of leather cord, evidently intending to tie her up.

With the slight turn of his head, he spotted Edgar.

His face registered alarm, and he reached for his dropped weapon, but he was too late. Edgar snatched up the ax a moment before the Viking could get his hand on it. It was a weapon very like the tool Edgar used to fell trees. He grasped the shaft, and in the dim back of his mind he noticed that handle and head were beautifully balanced. He stepped back, out of the Viking’s reach. The man started to rise.

Edgar swung the ax in a big circle.

He took it back behind him, then lifted it over his head, and finally brought it down, fast and hard and accurately, in a perfect curve. The sharp blade landed precisely on top of the man’s head. It sliced through hair, skin, and skull, and cut deep, spilling brains.

To Edgar’s horror the Viking did not immediately fall dead, but seemed for a moment to be struggling to remain standing; then the life went out of him like the light from a snuffed candle, and he fell to the ground in a bundle of slack limbs.

Edgar dropped the ax and knelt beside Sunni. Her eyes were open and staring. He murmured her name. “Speak to me,” he said. He took her hand and lifted her arm. It was limp. He kissed her mouth and realized there was no breath. He felt her heart, just beneath the curve of the soft breast he adored. He kept his hand there, hoping desperately to feel a heartbeat, and he sobbed when he realized there was none. She was gone, and her heart would not beat again.

He stared unbelievingly for a long moment, then, with boundless tenderness, he touched her eyelids with his fingertips—gently, as if fearing to hurt her—and closed her eyes.

Slowly he fell forward until his head rested on her chest, and his tears soaked into the brown wool of her homespun dress.

A moment later he was filled with mad rage at the man who had taken her life. He jumped to his feet, seized the ax, and began to hack at the Viking’s dead face, smashing the forehead, slicing the eyes, splitting the chin.

The fit lasted only moments before he realized the gruesome hopelessness of what he was doing. When he stopped, he heard shouting outside in a language that was similar to the one he spoke but not quite the same. That brought him back abruptly to the danger he was in. He might be about to die.

I don’t care, I’ll die, he thought; but that mood lasted only seconds. If he met another Viking, his own head might be split just like that of the man at his feet. Stricken with grief as he was, he could still feel terror at the thought of being hacked to death.

But what was he to do? He was afraid of being found inside the dairy, with the corpse of his victim crying out for revenge; but if he went outside he would surely be captured and killed. He looked abouthim wildly: where could he hide? His eye fell on the overturned manger, a crude wooden construction. Upside down, its trough looked big enough to conceal him.

He lay on the stone floor and pulled it over him. As an afterthought he lifted the edge, grabbed the ax, and pulled it under with him.

Some light came through the cracks between the planks of the manger. He lay still and listened. The wood muffled sound somewhat, but he could hear a lot of shouting and screaming outside. He waited in fear: at any moment a Viking could come in and be curious enough to look under the manger. If that happened, Edgar decided, he would try to kill the man instantly with the ax; but he would be at a serious disadvantage, lying on the ground with his enemy standing over him.

He heard a dog whine, and understood that Brindle must be standing beside the inverted manger. “Go away,” he hissed. The sound of his voice only encouraged the dog, and she whined louder.

Edgar cursed, then lifted the edge of the trough, reached out, and pulled the dog in with him. Brindle lay down and went silent.

Edgar waited, listening to the horrible sounds of slaughter and destruction.

Brindle began to lick the Viking’s brains off the blade of the ax.

He did not know how long he remained there. He began to feel warm and guessed the sun must be high. Eventually the noise from outside lessened, but he could not be sure the Vikings had gone, and every time he considered looking out he decided not to risk his life yet. Then he would turn his mind to thoughts of Sunni, and he would weep all over again.

Brindle dozed beside him, but every now and again the dog would whimper and tremble in her sleep. Edgar wondered whether dogs had bad dreams.