Malcolm brings a pagan gift

“I thought I heard some caterwauling going on back here,” Malcolm called from the doorway of the barn. “Thought it might have been some tomcats fighting. Should have known it was only you two. What the devil are you doing?”

“Don’t look so precious, like we should be glad to see you,” Bertie said. “We already knew you were home anyway. His Majesty the King was already here.”

“Oh, then, you won’t be wanting the little something my father sent you,” Malcolm said wickedly.

“What?” Bertie begged.

“Nothing precious.”

“Oh, shut up, Malcolm. What did he send? A knife?”

“He already gave you a knife, stupid sprout. This is better than a knife anyway. Look at this.” He held out a coarse string, darkly dyed, on which hung a pale, brownish lump.

“What is it?” Bertie asked, unimpressed.

“Stupid! It’s a bone! A man’s bone,” he added in a dramatically hushed voice, his golden eyes glittering. “It’s a man’s finger bone, very old, from when my people were not yet Christians, and wore the bones of the men they conquered.”

Bertie’s eyes widened. “Let me see,” he begged, holding out his hands.

Dunstan frowned. “Isn’t it pagan, if they weren’t Christians?”

“Shut up, sprout. It’s not bad, because it’s old. My father didn’t kill the man. My ancestor did. I have a whole string of them. My ancestors killed lots of men. Lots of Norsemen, too! Maybe that’s a Norseman’s bone!”

“Then I want a string of them too!” Bertie laughed. He had already faced the teasing of young Eirik Olafsson.

“You better not let your Mama see that, Bertie-​​boy,” Malcolm warned. “She might think it’s not Christian.”

“But it isn’t,” Dunstan protested.

“I can wear it under my shirt,” Bertie said, putting it on and tucking it in.

“That’s right,” Malcolm nodded.

“Shouldn’t you ask Father Brandt?” Dunstan asked.

“Oh, shut up already! Nobody is ever going to give you any presents, that’s for sure. You will just tell your Mama.”

“No, I shan’t.”

“Well, quit your yammering, then. Listen, Bertie, now that I gave you something, I want to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Come here,” Malcolm said, and Bertie stood. “Today’s Saturday, right?” he whispered.

“I guess so,” Bertie said.

Dunstan stood so that he might listen too. Malcolm scowled at him but did not protest.

“Do you mean to sleep at your father’s house tonight?” he asked Bertie.

“I don’t know. I do sometimes on Saturdays.”

“I know. Now, listen – can you ask your father whether I might come stay with you tonight on the hill? And we could sleep outside in my tent?”

Bertie shrugged. “I guess so.”

“You can tell him I want to tell you about my trip. Up on your hill you can almost pretend it’s the moor.”

“Oh, I want to come too!” Dunstan begged.

“Oh, not you!” Malcolm growled. “You will just tell your Mama everything we say.”

“No, I shan’t!”

“Oh, let him come, Malcolm,” Bertie said.

“I don’t want him.”

“Well, Malcolm, I guess that’s real mean. Why can’t he come?”

“Because he will just tell his Mama. Besides, aren’t you too scared to sleep outside, scaredy-​​cat?” he asked Dunstan. “Won’t you cry for your Mama?”

“No, I shan’t,” Dunstan pouted.

“He already stayed outside with us at the castle,” Bertie said. “He didn’t cry.”

“I know, but I – oh, never mind,” he sighed deeply with resignation. “But if you say one word to your Mama or your father, you will never do anything with us big boys again. Hear?”