Fenrir c-2

by M. D. Lachlan

  ‘What is a tenth?’ said Astarth

  ‘A lot.’

  ‘More than a dozen?’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘It is 666 of them,’ said Jehan.

  ‘And their fellows stood by and saw so many slaughtered?’ said Egil.

  ‘They welcomed martyrdom.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ said Egil. ‘Your Latin means nothing to me, priest.’

  ‘The chance to die for their god.’

  ‘They’d have been better men if they’d killed for him. It’d be a mighty king who came in and took so many from Rollo’s army, I tell you that,’ said Egil.

  ‘When the first tenth had died, the emperor sent his orders again. They were refused. And he killed 666 men again, and again, until only six remained. Then he killed them and the whole legion was dead.’

  ‘Would they not have been better defending these families of their god? The Roman king could now order his other soldiers to slaughter them,’ said Ofaeti.

  Jehan ignored the question in order to drive home his point. ‘Six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six men stood and died in this place. Their bones may be beneath your feet. Do you call them cowards?’

  ‘I don’t know what to call them,’ said Ofaeti. ‘I know what to call a man who fights; I know what to call a man who runs. One who does neither I have no name for.’

  ‘He said he was called a Saint Maurice,’ said Egil.

  Jehan spoke in a low voice: ‘You are less than serious, Egil, and yet you should quake in fear before my god. I am not a warrior. Your idols would not be interested in me. I have been downtrodden, taken from my homeland by savage men, my companions killed, my future promising only death. Do I tremble? No, because my god is a god of love.’ He grabbed the tip of Egil’s spear and held it to his own breast, staring the Viking down. ‘You are brave men, but it is the bravery of fools who do not know what is arrayed against them. You would shake to your boots if you knew his wrath. Yet God wants to love you. He offers you deliverance, asks you to dwell for ever in his house. If you refuse, damnation awaits. You will be tied and pinioned and thrown into the mouth of hell, where the eternal suffering of fire awaits.’

  ‘Burned for eternity by the god of love?’ said Ofaeti. He seemed puzzled.

  ‘He offers you his mercy. If you refuse it, you condemn yourself,’ said Jehan.

  ‘I could do with something to warm me up,’ said Egil. ‘It’s like Nifhelm up here.’

  ‘Nifhelm?’

  ‘The realm of the ice giants,’ said Ofaeti. ‘It’s underground, so I’m fairly certain it’s not around here.’

  ‘It’s a silly myth,’ said Jehan.

  Ofaeti shrugged. ‘It is cold, though, isn’t it? There could be white bears here, which wouldn’t be a lot of fun. I’ll tell you what,’ he said: ‘if your god sends us this monastery, a warm bed and a bowl of stew before the night’s out, then I’ll believe in him.’

  ‘You worship God without conditions. You don’t make bargains with him.’

  Ofaeti looked genuinely nonplussed. ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘Praise him.’

  ‘Flatter, you mean. Lord Tyr would strike such a man down. You offer him the death of fine warriors in battle, gold and cattle, not words to please a lady. If you can’t bargain with a god then the god is no good to you.’

  The mist in the valley was thinning. Jehan peered through the grey air. There was a cliff rising out of the main slope, and beneath it was a structure too regular to be natural. It was just a shape, a darker grey on a field of other greys, but the confessor knew it could only be one thing — the monastery. From along the valley he heard a sound. It was the wind, though it reminded him of what he would soon be hearing. Singing. The monastery was famous for its acoemetae — the sleepless ones. The monks sang in shifts, unceasing for nearly four hundred years now. He looked at the sky. It would be around mid-afternoon, the little hour of nones. They’d be singing the songs of ascents. He recited the words of one of them to himself.

  He who goes out weeping,

  Carrying seed to sow,

  Will return with songs of joy,

  Carrying sheaves with him.

  The message of the psalm cleared his head and renewed his strength for the struggle to convert the northerners. He had to accept that he was dealing with a simple people. There are many ways to Christ, his abbot had told him. Perhaps he should let the northerners walk theirs. He looked up. The great cliff curved around to his left, the monastery tight to it. Could none of the Vikings see it?

  ‘If God sends you the monastery, will you renounce your idol?’

  ‘He’d have to chuck in a whore as well for that,’ said Ofaeti. ‘He’s a god of love; he should have a few at his disposal. But I hear your god doesn’t like whores, begging the question of what he does like.’

  The confessor waved his hand. ‘Honest men and good women. Whores are tolerated by some in the Church for they keep the good women of the town chaste. They are not tolerated by me. Pray properly and God will send you a wife.’

  ‘All whores are thieves too,’ said Ofaeti, ‘but they’re gone by the morning. It’s one thing to get done by a pirate, it’s another to invite him into your house and let him complain when you fart. I’ll have no wife.’

  ‘You don’t want children, Ofaeti?’

  ‘Don’t you, monk?’

  Jehan snorted and looked to the mountains, just gigantic shadows in the mist. He had often lectured people on the sins of the flesh. What had Eudes said to him when Jehan had warned him that his whoring would see him in hell? ‘It is easy to be chaste when God has made it impossible for you to be anything else.’ Had Jehan known lust? Of course, but he had prayed for it to go and it had, largely. Those feelings were not the hardest ones to control. God had stricken his body, rendered him blind, and Jehan had known why. God had wanted him for Himself. In darkness and constriction he had no closer companion than God, certainly no greater love. But with a touch in the dark of the Viking camp something else had stirred inside him — a longing greater than lust for true companionship, for touches that did more than lift him, wash him, cut his hair or trim his beard. For most of his life he had been alone in the darkness with God. He cursed the ingratitude that made him hungry for something more.

  He knew, to his regret, that it was possible there were whores at the monastery. The abbot’s position in recent years had been given to warrior nobles. While a core of monks kept the hours and attended to God’s works, there were many at such places who preferred to eat, drink and satisfy their lusts. They weren’t monks, just lesser sons whose families had nothing better to do with them.

  The monastery seemed clearer to him now, and he was surprised none of the Vikings had yet seen it. There was a smell in the air — something sweet, the scent of cooking perhaps. No. Not cooking, but something like it. It was a note he’d never quite noticed before, an alluring aroma like ripe cheese, pungent and strong yet delicious.

  ‘Hey! Look!’ Varn was flapping his arm. ‘Can you see that?’

  ‘I can,’ said Ofaeti. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Saint-Maurice,’ said Jehan. ‘If there’s a whore in there, then your soul’s Christ’s.’

  Ofaeti laughed. ‘If she’s a pretty one, then why not? Whatever’s inside, let’s hope it’s a gift from your god and not from mine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that would be fifty angry monks come to cut our throats,’ said Ofaeti. Jehan recalled the big man’s words in the chapel: ‘Tyr’s blessing, many enemies.’

  Jehan glanced at the Vikings. They were not in a good state — hungry, frozen, ice in their beards, their cloaks and blankets tight about them. Were the monks of Saint-Maurice in a belligerent mood, he thought, the northerners would not last long.

  It was better to be cautious.

  ‘You stay here,’ said Jehan.

  Ofaeti shook his head. ‘We’re coming with you.’

  ‘If you do, they’ll think you are bandits and kill yo
u. There are five hundred monks in there, and their house possesses some of the greatest treasures in Christendom.’

  ‘Got what?’ said Ofaeti.

  Jehan realised too late what he had said, but the damage had been done. He was glad he’d exaggerated the number of brothers by at least five times.

  ‘This place is in the mountains on one of the main routes between Francia and Rome. Do you think they have never seen a bandit before? Or a hundred bandits, or a thousand? You are eleven. If you let me speak, you’ll be in the warmth of their guest house before nightfall. If you don’t, you’ll be spending another night in the cold.’

  Jehan would fulfil his oath, he thought: he would put the Vikings’ case to the abbot. But he would not lie. The bones were those of a brother, not a saint. And he knew that when he explained exactly who the Vikings were and that they were pagans, their lives would not be worth much. The abbot of Saint-Maurice was the second son of a powerful and warlike Burgundian noble. Such men were drawn to the Church for the power it offered rather than by piety and weren’t slow to use their swords. He felt sure of the answer the Norsemen would receive. He didn’t want them dead and would argue that they could be brought to Christ, but he knew the outcome of his visit to the monastery would not be good for them.

  The Norsemen muttered but Ofaeti knew they had no choice but to accept what Jehan said. However, before the monk went, the big man took him by the arm.

  ‘You are a hardy man and a brave one,’ he said, ‘but I remind you of your oath. We are offering no threat. If they come to kill us then they will be the Caesar and we the Theban legion saints.’ He prodded Jehan firmly in the chest. ‘“Thou shalt not murder,” so your god says.’

  Jehan nodded.

  ‘And one other thing. This warrior puts his head on a block for no man. If your brothers come, we will bless them.’

  ‘Bless them?’

  ‘They want to go to their god, don’t they? We’ll speed them to his side.’

  Jehan smiled at him. ‘We spend our entire lives preparing to die,’ he said, ‘but I will seek their protection for you — if you come to Christ.’

  ‘Protection first, then we’ll see.’

  Jehan didn’t move, just looked into the big Viking’s eyes.

  ‘You are very wonderful,’ said Ofaeti.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You look blank when I bargain, so I thought I’d try praise, like you said. Your mother raised a mighty man. Is that not praise enough?’

  ‘My mother didn’t raise me,’ said the monk, ‘or anyone, as far as I know.’

  36

  Rescue

  The riders caught them as they made the river on the third day. Aelis had not even been aware anyone was following her, but as they broke from the woods into an open meadow, they heard the horses behind them. The wolfman’s wound had turned bad and there was no way to outrun them. There were no boats at the river and there was no prospect of escape.

  Sindre had been riding with increasing difficulty and eventually Aelis had had to take his mount’s reins. The wound seeped through his tunic, bloodying his fingers where he held his side. Each evening he would search the woods and return with a strip of bark on which he would scratch a symbol. He would sit staring at it until sleep took him and throughout the next day would hold it in his hand as he rode, glancing at it and mumbling into nothing,

  ‘The meaningful rune that the dead god stained,

  That the rune lord of the Gods carved.

  Odin for the Aesir,

  Dvalin for the dwarves,

  Asvith for the giants and the sons of men,

  I myself carve here.’

  As the river approached, Aelis had seen his skin turn pale. She knew that he was teetering on the edge of death. When the halloo of the riders sounded behind them, Sindre hardly looked up. When he did, he was shaking and his teeth were chattering. He could hardly sit on his horse, let alone fight.

  There were twenty of the horsemen, and two levelled spears at them, but Aelis was not scared. The way they rode told her all she needed to know. The riders were confident, holding their spears with ease and poise, their movements as they directed their animals hardly noticeable.

  ‘Northerners, you’re going to get it, you bastards!’

  The rider was speaking Roman and had a Parisian accent, nasal and reedy without the guttural crunches and rolls of the people with whom she’d been raised.

  She shouted back to them in the same language, ‘I am Lady Aelis, brother to Count Eudes, harried and pursued by Norsemen and monsters. Get off your horses and bend your knees to me.’

  The lead rider lowered his spear and came forward to draw his horse alongside her. He looked at her war gear, the helmet stuck on the cantle of the saddle, the sword at her side. He put his hand to her head and touched it.

  ‘Where’s your hair?’

  ‘Take your hands off me. If my brother was here you would be flogged on the spot for that impertinence. I was attacked by the Norsemen and had to disguise myself.’

  ‘No lady would ever cut her hair,’ said the horseman. ‘What are you, a witch?’

  Aelis was so pleased to see Frankish riders that she was willing to indulge the man’s rough ways. ‘I’m the lady who will be kind enough not to mention your behaviour to Sieur de Lanfranc, if it ceases now.’

  Aelis had mentioned the name of her brother’s master of horse. As a knight, the horseman would not be subordinate to Lanfranc, but the old cavalry commander — whose grandfather had won his rank under Charlemagne — made life very difficult for those who crossed him. Lanfranc was notoriously sweet on Aelis and not above calling a man out in a duel if he thought it would please her. Few people would relish testing their sword skills against his.

  The horseman glanced back to where a second rider, a taller man, was trotting in.

  ‘A little less rough if you would, Renier. I can’t imagine the count will be happy if his sister reports your manners.’ His accent was stronger — eastern, thought Aelis.

  ‘I can’t see why she’d cut her hair,’ said the first man. ‘It’s a shame and an indignity.’

  ‘Next to rape and murder?’ said the taller horseman. ‘You were raised in little Paris, Renier. Had you been brought up in one of the great cities you might be less easily shocked. A spell in Aachen would have done you good. Chevalier de Moselle. Madam, you are our mission, we have been sent to find you.’

  ‘The siege is lifted then?’

  ‘No, we broke out. But that means we can break back in again. The Norsemen are not as united as they were and are busy fighting among themselves at present.’

  ‘You didn’t come just for me?’ Aelis was appalled that men had been taken from the defence of Paris just to look for her.

  ‘No. We have delivered a message to the emperor. He will now move to help us, I am sure. Our task is over. We have you and all that remains is for us to dispatch these foreign dogs who have taken you prisoner and we will return you to Paris and your brother.’

  ‘We are not foreign dogs,’ said Leshii; ‘we-’

  ‘No,’ said Moselle, ‘you are not even that; you are the corpses of foreign dogs.’

  He drew his sword but Aelis put up her hand. ‘These men have rescued me.’

  Moselle looked at Leshii and the wolfman. ‘That one is a northerner,’ he said, pointing to Sindre.

  ‘Some of the northerners have worked for us in the past and still work for the emperor. This man has no allegiance to the Paris Danes.’

  Moselle made a tight little nod.

  ‘Tell them to get down from their horses. A merchant and a pagan should not be riding fine animals like that.’

  ‘Fine animals?’ said Leshii. ‘This is a common pack mule!’

  ‘Too good for you,’ said Moselle.

  Aelis gestured to Sindre. ‘He killed the Viking king.’ She knew no Frankish warrior would accept that a woman had killed Sigfrid. In fact, to suggest it would be to mock them, to say that she had achieve
d what they could not.

  Moselle nodded again. ‘And Sigfrid gave him a blow for his pains, by the look of it.’

  ‘He took an arrow. It’s still in him. Can you draw it?’

  ‘Fiebras!’ Moselle turned in his saddle and shouted.

  ‘He’s a healer?’ said Leshii.

  Moselle snorted at him. ‘He’s a warrior. Just happens to be handier with the pliers than the rest of us.’

  Leshii got down from his horse and helped the wolfman down. Aelis could see he was not best pleased to meet the Franks.

  ‘Your ransom gone, merchant?’ she said to him in Latin.

  ‘I am sure your brother will reward me for my pains.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t give you pains for your reward,’ said Aelis, though her tone was light enough and she intended to see the merchant compensated for the loss of his wares at least. She pulled her cloak up to cover her shorn head but Moselle immediately took a silk scarf from around his neck and passed it to her. In a second she had regained her modesty. Then she went to the bushes and took off the big mail shirt. She rejoined the horsemen and gave the sword to Moselle.

  ‘Give this to my brother from the wild man,’ she said. ‘It belonged to the Viking king.’

  Moselle looked impressed. ‘He was a strong man,’ he said.

  Sindre was on the ground, scarcely breathing. Fiebras, who had produced a big pair of long-nosed pliers from his saddle bag, knelt beside the wolfman.

  ‘Not long for him, lady,’ said the Frank. ‘The kindest thing is to leave the arrow and let him die.’

  ‘Might he live if it’s drawn?’

  ‘Might is a big word,’ said Fiebras, ‘but yes, he might.’

  ‘Then draw it.’

  Fiebras told his colleagues to make a fire, then went to the river and pulled out a reed, which he split with a knife. He put the pieces in his cap and returned to the wolfman. Sindre was secured with a length of rope, bound tight around his arms and legs. Two of the biggest Frankish knights pinned him, one lying across his legs, the other across his chest.