like a complete idiot.
Alfred sensed the priest’s awkwardness; he had grown used to it by now and knew it would be merciful to move swiftly to the business at hand.
“Cuthbert was a junior cleric under Aethelred at Canterbury,” the King explained to Wulfric. “He has a keen aptitude for languages, so the archbishop put him to work studying the scrolls. He was the first to successfully decipher what had baffled many other more learned scholars.”
“If I had known what lay within them, I would never have consented to it,” Cuthbert was quick to offer. He had seen what the archbishop had wrought in Winchester’s courtyard, from the words he had helped to decode, and the guilt lay heavy on him. He felt responsible for every twisted, malformed monstrosity the archbishop had brought forth and wanted now only the opportunity to help set it right again.
“I say it not to assign blame,” Alfred said, placing a reassuring hand on the cleric’s shoulder. “That is set squarely on Aethelred’s shoulders alone. I mean to say that you are among the brightest of Canterbury. And perhaps now our brightest hope.”
Cuthbert felt briefly uplifted by the compliment, only to grow even more nervous as the King’s words reminded him of the responsibility that now weighed upon him. He placed a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed nervously.
Wulfric did not know what to make of the callow, fidgety little man who stood before him. Little more than a boy, really. There had been many like him during the war, pressed into service despite their protests and their tears. Most of them had not survived long. But behind all the awkwardness and jitters, Wulfric recognized a spark of something in the boy’s eyes—a keen intellectual curiosity that he remembered once burning within himself as a young man, before war had made it a luxury to be swept aside. In a way he envied Cuthbert. Before the Norse came, he had often dreamed of joining the clergy himself and devoting himself to a life of quiet scholarship. In the next life, he told himself.
“You came with Aethelred to Winchester?” he asked Cuthbert.
Cuthbert nodded. “I was one of many he brought from Canterbury to assist him with his . . .” He hesitated, looking for the right word. “His . . . experiments. I dared not refuse, but I feigned a sickness contracted on the journey so that I might have as little hand in it as possible. Many of us were not comfortable with what the archbishop was doing. Few of us had the courage to refuse or question him.”
“What became of the other clerics when he escaped?”
“One tried to stop him. He was turned, God help him. The others fled shortly after for fear of being punished for complicity in his crimes.”
“But not you.”
“I have no family, no means, nowhere else to go. I cannot return to Canterbury. And even if I could, I would not. I have vowed to help somehow undo what I helped to bring about, and I told His Majesty so.”
Wulfric smiled; he was beginning to like this man. Oftentimes a fretful demeanor like Cuthbert’s could be mistaken for spinelessness, but the more Wulfric took the measure of him, the more he was convinced that Cuthbert was no coward. From his own hard-won experience, he knew that true courage was not the absence of fear but doing what must be done in the often-paralyzing presence of it.
“In Cuthbert’s study of the scrolls, he discovered that they contained more than just the words of transformation,” Alfred explained. He looked at Cuthbert. Still ridden with nerves, it took the cleric a moment to realize that the King was expecting him to continue the tale.
“Oh! Yes. The scrolls also contained detailed descriptions of several other quite interesting invocations, some of which I believe were intended to be used to counter the transformative effect. Put simply, I believe it may be possible to bless an object—such as a suit of armor—with a ward of protection that would dispel any magick directed at it.”
Wulfric looked at Alfred with puzzlement. “I thought you had ordered the scrolls destroyed.”
“I have been working mostly from memory,” explained Cuthbert. “I have a very good one.”
“Does Aethelred know of this?” Wulfric asked him.
“No. By the time I deciphered these counterspells, I had seen for myself what the archbishop was doing, and I decided it was best not to pass on any further knowledge to him. When he asked me, I told him that the rest of the scrolls were beyond my ability to translate.”
Wulfric was impressed. A nervous little milksop this young priest may have been, with a lifespan likely measured in seconds on any field of battle, but Wulfric’s father had taught him to value intelligence and sharpness of mind more than any other quality, and it was fast becoming clear that Cuthbert had no shortage of either. Still, it was difficult not to feel extreme unease as he considered the strategy that Alfred had proposed with such confidence. Kings, Wulfric contemplated, were always more sanguine about their war strategies than were the men charged with carrying them out on the battlefield. He gave Alfred a skeptical glance, such as few of those at court would dare attempt.
“This is your plan? Magickal armor?”
“I’m sure by now you would agree that Aethelred’s magick is no fantasy,” said Alfred. “If the arcanery with which he conjured these monsters is not in doubt, why should we not have as much confidence in the other spells gleaned from the very same scrolls?”
“I look at this as I would any other weapon of war,” said Wulfric. “I will believe in its usefulness once it has been proven in the field. How exactly do you propose to test this?”
“I thought we might put the armor on you and throw you at Aethelred,” said Alfred with a sly smile.
Wulfric turned again to the cleric. “Does your knowledge extend to anything we might use offensively against Aethelred and his horde?”
Cuthbert looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, my lord . . . such as what?”
Wulfric glared at him, irritated. “I don’t know! A rain of fire? Enchanted arrows? You tell me, you’re the expert!”
Cuthbert looked down at the floor, embarrassed. “No, my lord. Nothing like that, I’m afraid.”
“So you can protect me against this conjurer’s magicks, but not against the beasts he creates.”
“For that, my friend, you will have to rely upon your sword, and your wits, as you always have,” said Alfred, with a smile that he hoped might foster some encouragement. It did not succeed.
Wulfric sighed. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that there was to be no escaping this dire duty—not only for the debt he felt he still owed Alfred, but because the more he saw and heard of Aethelred’s sorcery, the more he genuinely feared for the chaos and destruction it might spread. He could refuse and go home, but then how long might it be before war or something even more terrible arrived in his village, threatening his wife and child? No, this mad priest had to be stopped. And if he would not do it, then who would?
“I will want to choose the men I take with me,” he said to Alfred with the weary tone of reluctant acceptance.
“Of course,” said the King, trying not to show his relief.
Cuthbert was still standing there, quietly wringing his hands. Wulfric looked to him now with a nod. “Starting with him.”
Cuthbert’s eyes widened in alarm. “Excuse me . . . what?”
“If this campaign is to be successful, my men and I will rely heavily on your knowledge. Your unique knowledge.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” stammered Cuthbert, with the beginnings of what felt a lot like panic. “But I can discharge my duties here, enchant whatever armor you require before you and your men depart. Anything you—”
“That will not be sufficient,” Wulfric interrupted with a wave of his hand. “This magick of yours is unproven. We may require your expertise to maintain or adapt it as needed. And