Stephen Baxter - Conqueror

The others rushed her from either side. Before she could raise a hand they had pinned her arms and spun her around, and Elfgar pushed her down so she sprawled over the table, belly-down over the precious Menologium. She struggled, and was punched in the back hard enough to wind her. It took only heartbeats. Obviously these brutes practised their moves.

The sudden violence in this place of learning was shocking.

And when they had her pinned, the others yanked her arms over her head, and Elfgar fumbled at her habit, dragging it up over her legs.

She understood. They were trying to tup her – even thinking she was a boy. So this was how they exerted their power, even over poor, confused Dom Wilfrid.

But she was no ordinary novice.

'You can't do this. You'll burn in Hell!' She thrashed and squirmed. Her reward was another punch, this time in the nose. Her mouth filled with blood. Elfgar ripped down her pants and kicked apart her legs. He fumbled at her, and she felt the hot tip of his prick pushing at the cleft of her buttocks.

Dazed by the blow, confused, she tried to think. Perhaps if he used himself up in her arse, she could still get out of this with her secret intact, and no worse than a bloody nose and a sore backside.

But now, with horror, she felt his hand snaking around her hips. Perhaps he meant to play with Aelfric's balls. There was nothing she could do about it. She felt his hot hand slide over her belly, and then down into the tangle of hair below-

He pulled back. 'Tears of Christ!' He laughed. 'Why, lads, he's no Aelfric! You're a-'

Wood slammed on bone. 'Animals! Hell-hounds!'

Elfgar howled and fell back. Aelfric's hands were released. She slipped backwards off the table, her manuscripts sliding back with her. Frantically she fumbled at her habit.

Dom Boniface was laying about him with his walking stick, the purple scar on his face flaring. The three novices yelled and ran. Elfgar was bleeding from the back of his head, his pants around his ankles, his prick comically still erect. They clattered into tables, spilling heaps of vellum and ink pots, until at last they made it out of the door. Boniface chased them. 'I've had enough of you animals! I know what you do! Never mind your confessor, I'm going to the abbot about this, and you'll be scourged as even you have never been scourged before!…'

The Menologium was on the floor, covered in blood and spilled ink. Aelfric lifted it to the table and tried to smooth it out.

She was distracted by a wheeze. Boniface, his burst of energy used up, had collapsed to the floor, still clinging to his stick.

She ran to him. 'Dom Boniface. Let me help you.'

With one arm under his, she got him to his feet. He was lighter than she had imagined, frailer, and there was a strange stink about him. Perhaps it came from the purple growth that enveloped one cheek and the side of his jaw. As she walked him to a chair, she tried not to recoil.

He noticed, of course. Gasping, he said, 'Oh, you needn't be afraid of it, child.'

'Afraid?'

'Of my demon, the thing which is eating me from the outside in. I don't fear it. I thank God for sending me an opportunity to show my strength! I have had a good life, and a long one – I'm forty-three, you know – I thank Him and praise Him.' She got him to the chair, but he tried to kneel. 'Join me now, child, in a prayer of gratitude.' He closed his eyes.

She knelt, but she felt unable to concentrate. 'Oh, Dom Boniface – the manuscripts are ruined! Even the original is covered in blood.'

'The blood you spilled defending it. That's no sin. Ruined? Well, perhaps. But time ruins all things. That is why we make copies, after all. Your copy may last a century or two, but when it wears out there will be another novice, in this very room, to make a fresh version, and so it will go on.'

'But all the time I put into it-'

'Then you must thank God for giving you the opportunity to start again and to do it even better. Everything that happens to us reflects the generosity of God.' He opened one eye. 'I don't think he saw, you know. Elfgar. He felt below your belly, but he may not believe the evidence of his fingertips. Especially since he was distracted by my stick colliding with his thick head. Your secret is still safe. Safe with you, your father, the abbot – and me, Aelfric.'

'Aelfflaed,' she said miserably. 'My name is Aelfflaed.'

'No,' Boniface said gently. 'In this holy place, your name is Aelfric. Come now, Aelfric, and join me in prayer.'

She closed her eyes, kneeling, and followed as he began to chant a rosary. The repeated words soon lost their meaning, and the throbbing pain of her nose subsided in the soothing rhythms.

At last Macson opened his eyes.

He was lying on a straw-filled pallet, in a small, smoky, mud-walled room. He turned his head to see Belisarius, who sat gravely on a battered couch in a corner of the room. Macson raised his right hand. Belisarius had stripped it of its bandages. At the sight of his ruined palm, Macson blanched.

Belisarius waited patiently.

Macson said something in a tongue Belisarius didn't recognise. Then, evidently remembering further, he repeated it in Latin: 'Where am I?'

'A tavern,' Belisarius said. 'Near the docks. I took a room.'

'You brought me here.'

'It wasn't cheap. I had to hire two men to carry you.' Two of those accusers who had filed out of the church, in fact, who hadn't been averse to accepting a little of Belisarius's silver.

Macson looked at his hand. 'What have you done? The bandage-' 'The priest's rag would not have helped. I removed it and bathed your wound in wine, which may stop it festering. And it is better to leave the burn exposed to the air, rather than to cover it.'

'You are a bookseller, not a doctor.'

Belisarius frowned at how much this stranger seemed to know about him. 'True. But I have always travelled. I have necessarily picked up a little medical knowledge, if only to keep myself healthy. The Moors, in fact, are proficient in medicine, having preserved ancient wisdom and built upon it.'

Macson moved his hand cautiously; it was rigid, claw-like. 'I'm not even in much pain.'

'I gave you a little opium. The pain will return, I'm afraid.' Macson turned to him. 'Thank you. You helped me. Though I'm not sure why.'

Nor was Belisarius. He had no business here, save to sell his books, and he certainly didn't want any entanglement with local criminals. But perhaps there had been something in the dignity of this shabby Latin-speaker, tortured before his eyes by barbarian Germans, that had appealed to his soul. He said simply: 'You asked me.'

Macson propped himself on his left elbow and laughed, hollow. 'A man may ask for charity from a bishop, but he doesn't always receive it.'

'Besides,' Belisarius said carefully, 'you claimed you know me.'

'So I do. You are Basil-'

'Belisarius.'

'Yes. Belisarius the east Roman. You deal in rare books from the libraries of Constantinople and Alexandria. I have worked for Theodoric before. You may not remember me – but I do you.'

Belisarius didn't remember this man, but he had no reason to believe he was lying. 'You are not a German.'

'No. I was born on the other side of the estuary of the river Sabrina, in what was known as the land of the Silures, – in the days when this island was a province of Rome.'

'You are of the wealisc.' Welsh.

He grimaced. 'I am British. The wealisc is what the Germans call us. It is a word that means "foreigner". Or "slave".'

'Tell me what was being done to you, in that church.'

'It was a trial,' Macson said darkly. 'I am a learned man, sir, as is my father, who raised me as a scholar. I worked faithfully for Theodoric in his book business for many years. But Theodoric accused me of stealing from him. So I was brought to the church, to be paraded before supporters of Theodoric's case.'