The Reluctant Berserker Read Online Free PDF Page B

entreating face, the bowed nape of the younger man’s neck. “He deserves…”
    What did he deserve, for taking advantage of Wulfstan’s weakness and giving him what he hadn’t really known he wanted until that moment? What did he deserve for being a more natural man? “He deserves a good hiding. He was disrespectful to me and is fortunate that I am a merciful man. With another he would not have been so lucky. That mouth of his will get him killed, if you do not teach him to shut it.”
    Without letting go of Wulfstan’s knees, so—unless he wished to kick the frail ancient off—he was pinned in place, the old man nudged the younger, who scrambled to his feet and eeled back inside among the crowd without a backward glance. “I will teach him so, my lord.” He bowed, until the ends of his long moustache trailed on Wulfstan’s shoes, and shed warm tears on his feet. “Thank you. Where I travel, I will tell of your kindness. I will link your name forever with—”
    “No.” Wulfstan’s skin crept. “Let me earn my reputation in battle and not for forgiving little slights. There is no glory in beating a scop, so where is the glory in refraining? Silence will serve.”
    It was an age-worn smile he got in return, soft as an old cloak. “As you wish, lord.” Creakily, wincing as his joints straightened, the old man struggled to his feet. “I am Anna, my lord. Anna of Cantwarebyrig. Though I have very little, what I have is yours to command, in gratitude for your generosity.”
    Give me your boy. Wulfstan’s heart spoke, or perhaps it was a devil speaking directly to his soul. This day had been cursed from its beginning, and he was suddenly weary for it to end.
    He inclined his head, accepting the offer of service, but didn’t open his mouth to say anything more for fear of what might come out. Anna withdrew, and Wulfstan stood gulping for breath, his prick bruised with need and his mouth full of the taste of another man’s spit.
    When he came back in, making the flames of the fire bow as he passed, the hall seemed suddenly bright as day. He felt every man’s eye on him.
    Wulfstan knew what he looked like from the many times he had lost his temper and seen sudden fear spark in the eyes of his playmates and friends. He was tall and broad and heavy with muscle, and when he chose to show it, everyone took notice. Now, some of his confidence returned, sure those who watched him saw only a warrior proud in battle. No one looked beneath the skin to the turmoil within. He was safe.
    Servants scurried out of his way, and the local townsfolk either bowed their heads or averted their eyes as he climbed back onto the dais, into the whirling pool of light from the hanging bowls of fire, into the glitter of gold and the bright colours and clean cloth of his rank.
    The scops were both there before him, the older man on his stool, the younger cross-legged beside him on the floor. Not part of the high world, but permitted to occupy the same space—and therefore not quite part of the lower either. The bruise had begun to show on the cheek of Wulfstan’s angelic-looking young man, and there was a streak of blood yet behind his ear, where a hasty cleaning of his bloody nose had smeared it. He looked down sharply when he noticed Wulfstan watching him, but somehow his deference had an air of mockery.
    Now Wulfstan felt again that everyone must know. He felt on show, stripped, waiting for judgment. Pushing past the two as they tuned their harp-strings, he walked to his seat, trying not to make it look as though he fled. They don’t see it. None of them see it. They never have, they never will.
    Putting a hand on Aelfsi’s shoulder to steady himself, he hitched one leg over the bench, then the other. His companions’ faces lifted to him without alteration, as though they had no idea his world had changed in the brief time he had been apart from them. He sat, and as he did so the sound of the ripest, fattest fart ever let loose