Bound

6. A Grace From God

1

A Grace From God

February 16, AD 643, Near Bebbanburg

Thomas skirted the village, keeping to the shadows. Dogs barked, set off no doubt by the passage of the Wild Hunt. Unease touched him. He had saved his father from the Alder King but at what cost? The Huntsman’s voice echoed through his mind. I will take a human.

He shook his head to clear it, his heart sinking. He had intervened, and someone would die because of it. Yet what could he have done differently? He thrust the speculations aside. He had enough to worry about.

My father is alive. He is Fey. As he rode under the thin moon, his mind whirled around those two thoughts. He urged Missy to go faster and abandoned himself to the solid feel of her powerful strides underneath him, the muffled thuds of her hooves on the frozen ground. When he reached the path that led to Torht’s holding, he reined Missy in, bringing her to a walk as he turned her head down the path, her breath wreathing him in silver clouds.

As Thomas approached Torht’s house, he saw the bone carver sitting on the bench in front. Torht’s moon-touched hair and the subtle glow of Fey power lent him a ghostly appearance.

“Hail, wilding,” the other Fey said in his usual quiet manner, lifting a hand in greeting and rising as Thomas dismounted. Torht was one of the few Fey who addressed him as wilding without making it sound like a curse.

The bone carver took Missy’s reins and rubbed her nose affectionately. “We are long parted.”

“But never far apart,” Thomas replied, although he wasn’t sure if the greeting was meant for him or for Missy, who pricked up her ears and nuzzled the Fey. Torht was Horseclan, one of the Fey who had a special affinity for horses. The mare was like putty in his hands.

A shrill whinny from the back of the dwelling broke through the night. Torht glanced that way and hissed, flicking his fingers. The cry cut off.

“I’ll take care of the lady,” Torht said, inclining his head to Missy. “The Healer and her patients are in the workshop. The Ward and his wife are with us.” He turned and led Missy away towards the enclosure holding the rest of the horses.

“Thank you,” Thomas called after him, but Torht made no reply.

Unlike the rest of the people Thomas knew, both Fey and human, Torht had no kin in the area. Although the rest of the villagers respected him for his skill at bone working and his way with horses, they were suspicious of him—the same suspicious regard they gave Thomas, who also was alone, with no family or lord to vouch for him. Perhaps that was why the bone carver was kind to him.

But I’m not alone now. He took a deep breath and, squaring his shoulders, strode towards the workshop. Stepping inside, he saw that a single candle burned on a table that was littered with bones, half-completed projects, shavings, and tools. The table had been pushed to the side, allowing room for a fur rug that had been placed on the floor.

Nona knelt beside the two figures who lay on the rug: his father, and the human woman. She looked up as Thomas entered. “They are sleeping. But do not fear. Your father will be well. He will wake in the morning.”

Relief and anxiety in equal portion filled Thomas as he pulled the door shut and shrugged off his cloak, hanging it on the peg beside the door. He squatted beside Nona, his gaze tracing his father’s supine form, his stomach twisting at the sight. It seemed ages since he had left Lindisfarne at the urging of Nectan’s Call. He felt hollow and unmoored, a ship adrift, uncertain of his next step. The sudden presence of his father posed questions too large to ask.

The human woman moaned, her face twisting in a grimace as she slept. Thomas eyed her warily. This woman, too, posed questions he did not want to face. “How long do you think she’ll be like that?”

Nona shrugged slightly, her face troubled. “As to that, I can’t say. As long as he wishes.” Her lips thinned, anger sparking in her eyes.

He. The Huntsman. The woman moaned again, picking restlessly at the blanket that covered her. The Alder King has caught her in a dream, Nona had said. Thomas felt slightly sick at the thought of being lost in one of the Huntsman’s nightmares. No matter who she was, he wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.

A vision of his mother on her deathbed flashed before him. He stood up, his pity gone. “My mother. He left her—left us—”

The quick sympathy on the Healer’s face as she rose to face him made his anger flare. Sympathy was the last thing he wanted. He turned and stalked over to the table and leaned on it, his head bowed as he struggled to contain his emotions. God, I don’t understand this. Help me.

Nona’s dress rustled as she stepped up behind him and placed a hand on his back with a tentative touch. “Get some sleep. You can speak with your father when he awakens.”

He glanced at her. “Not sure I’m ready for that.”

Her eyes flashed, and she dropped her hand. “Don’t be foolish. This is your father. You thought him dead, yet here he is. ’Tis a grace from God. Do not set your heart against him before you know what happened. And he is a Traveller. He can help you get home—have you thought of that?”

Thomas straightened up, raking his hair from his eyes. Home. His heart flipped in his chest as he looked over at his father, and his hand dropped. Hope and betrayal warred in his chest.

He looked at Nona, seeing the set of her jaw, the way her arms were crossed in front of her, the anger flashing in her eyes. The last time they were alone she had been upset by his confession of his true nature to her cousin, Celyn. Apparently she hadn’t forgiven him yet.

But that topic was too much for him, drained and numb as he was. “Home,” he echoed. “The sooner the better, for all our sakes.”

Nona’s lips pressed together, but she remained silent.

He heaved a breath, trying to set aside his tangled emotions. “Look, you should go. There’s nothing more for you to do. Go to the house. I’ll stay with them.”

She cut a glance at his father and looked back at him, her eyes softer. “Get some sleep. It will help you when he wakes.” She threw her cloak over her shoulders and looked back at him, her hand on the latch. “God be with you.” She stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.

He stared at the door for a moment, his mind blank, and then shook himself, running his hand through his hair once again. God, have mercy. He blew out a breath through his nostrils, seeking calm.

The woman mumbled and moaned, breaking the quiet. Thomas looked at the two figures on the floor and walked back, squatting beside his father again. You are much like him, Nectan had said. It was true. There was no mistaking that he was Matthew’s son.

The last time he had seen his father he had been nine years old, watching him eat his breakfast. That memory had revisited him over and over, his father’s last words echoing in his mind: See you later, Tommo. Be good for your mom.

His heart twisted. They thought his father had died that day, but he was alive. He had Travelled here…his thoughts stuttered, and then stopped. He was too tired to figure it out. He looked at his father for another long moment and then stood. He retrieved his cloak, wrapped it around himself and stretched out on the hard wooden-planked floor, close to the banked hearth fire.

He had meant to say the caim, but he was asleep before he could form the words.