The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  He looked up. “Beautiful, Peter, a work of art.”

  Peter bowed his head, and said, “Your Grace, if I may ask, what chance is there now? The Emperor marches for Rome. How will Paris’s pitiful handful beat back the Northmen?”

  Gozlin set the letters onto the table as the fireplace crackled. He no longer moved quickly. He approached the fire and took the silver cup of mulled wine that sat on the mantle.

  “How was Saint Genevieve able to beat back Attila the Hun? The Scourge of God rode with his tens of thousands. His minions of Gog and Magog swarmed the land. Sigfred’s Northmen would have only been a fraction of that host. Nay, in that terrible day the Antichrist had been unleashed upon the Earth. Paris had no warriors, but a simple peasant girl crawled onto her knees and implored the Virgin Mary. From her knees, Genevieve beat off Attila. The horde rode elsewhere.” Gozlin smiled serenely. “We have the relics of Saint Genevieve. I warm myself beside them every morning and evening and I know that Heaven hears my prayers and petitions. How could Saint Genevieve not hear us? This is her city. Her bones lie in our care. In the coming days we will fast and fall before the saint, and she will implore Heaven on our behalf.”

  The Bishop’s certainty heartened Peter, yet his own abbot had spoken about their handle of the axe of Saint Martin. Their relic hadn’t stopped the reavers.

  “Your Grace, Paris has fallen before to the Northmen. Why shall it stand this time?”

  Instead of frowning at such a question, Gozlin smiled. “Yes, Paris fell in those days. I have heard others ask your question. It is reasonable and most sweetly answered. Paris fell because the priests lacked faith and ran away with the relics. I however will not run. None of us will run. We will stay here and pray, and because of our faith we shall witness a miracle.”

  Peter nodded uneasily.

  Gozlin sipped from his silver cup.

  “I understand the weakness of men’s hearts,” the Bishop said. “Around us, cities and monasteries burn with pagan fire. Villagers cower in the woods. The nobles on their steeds gallop away. Some throw down their swords so they can ride faster. To gird these trembling hearts and steady the faith of the weak, I have brought Saint Denis’ relics and his great yellow banner into the city. We have the immortal relics of Saint Germain and some too of Saint Martin. How can Paris fall with these titans of Heaven pleading before Holy God for us?”

  “That makes perfect sense, Your Grace. And yet… so many other cities throughout the Empire have… had such holy relics.”

  “That’s a lie! They didn’t have relics like ours. Here with her prayers Saint Genevieve beat off the Huns. That is a fact, my son. If we have the faith and do not flee—remember, the Parisians of her time wished to flee. Her resolve rooted them. She thus won a great victory for Christendom. We shall do likewise.”

  Gozlin became grave. “Now, we shall have to bear arms in our defense. We must not test God. Some of the clergy will have to use clubs or hurl stones. None will pick up an axe, however, for sharp iron makes men bleed. A monk, a priest, even an archbishop, must never shed human blood. We must leave that to soldiers, to the barons and counts.”

  “Yes, Your Grace, I stand abashed.”

  Gozlin became thoughtful. “You’re half-Dane, are you not?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Perhaps therein lay this urge to grab an axe. You must war against your Danish nature, my son. Later today, I will take you with me to the shrine of Saint Genevieve and let you touch her bones. You must beg her help to overcome this bloodlust… and any other sins you need to confess.”

  Peter nodded slowly. Those intense eyes were unsettling, too knowing and soul piercing.

  Gozlin clunked the silver cup onto the table. “Men say Count Odo has learned to thirst for Danish blood. He has become a vampire in his lust. You rode with him, yes?”

  Peter swallowed painfully.

  “Count Odo was a rascal and drunkard before Louvain. Since then he has become… hardened. What did you find him to be like?”

  Peter desperately wished he were elsewhere. Somewhere, sometime, his lies and trickery had to end. With his head bowed, he took a step toward Gozlin. Then on a sudden, wild impulse, he stumbled to the Bishop and fell onto his knees. “Your Grace, I must confess. I have aided the Count.”

  Gozlin said nothing and showed nothing.

  Peter swallowed in a dry throat. “He… He craves victory over the Northmen, as you’ve said. He yearns to shed their blood, to burn them, but he lacks military knowledge. You have a book, Your Grace.”

  “De Re Militari,” Gozlin said.

  Peter nodded miserably. “I took it from your shelves, Your Grace, and have been copying pages and secreting them to the Count.”

  “This I know,” Gozlin said.

  “I thought that if—” Peter gazed up in wonder. “You know?”

  “Indeed.”

  “B-But Your Grace…”

  “Count Odo is a clever man,” Gozlin said. “Armed with old Roman knowledge he can be of use during the siege. However, he has affronted the Church with his abduction of Judith.” Gozlin unleashed the full force of his eyes. “What price does he pay you, my son? Oh, if you have done this for the good of the Church, and gained his confidence so that you may aid Holy Mother Church later—that is one matter. But if it was for thirty pieces of silver…”

  Those staring green eyes told Peter that any tales of Willelda would meet with rage, whippings and worse!

  “Speak, my son. Confess your sins.”

  Peter’s mind raced even as he spoke. “Your Grace, I have been given a holy task. My abbot, as he died, bid me rebuild Saint Martin Abbey of Aliquis. Count Odo… h-he has offered to aid me in that glorious task.”

  “And,” Gozlin prompted.

  “…And the Count has said that he will help me rescue the villagers who were tenants on abbey land. Just as they ransomed you from the Northmen, Your Grace, so I wish to ransom those of my abbot’s flock who were lost. Love for them blinded me. Please forgive me if I have done wrong in this.”

  Gozlin laid a dry hand on his shoulder. The grip was strong. The gold ring dug into his flesh, pressing into a tender spot. “Confession is good for the soul, my son. Yes, I could see you as abbot of Saint Martin of Aliquis. That would be a signal post for an Irishman, half Irish and half Dane. Yes, a good post, one many Franks might aspire too. If you toiled for the good of Holy Mother Church… then the Church would toil hard on your behalf.”

  “Your Grace?” Peter said.

  “Count Odo is bloodthirsty, and that is how it should be with a soldier. Yet he has affronted God by taking Judith into his household. God surely looks upon that as He did when Achan stole out of Jericho a Babylonian robe, two hundred silver shekels and a wedge of gold and buried them under his tent?”

  Peter frowned, uncertain of the reference.

  Gozlin enlightened him. “The Israelites marched around Jericho after Moses died. Joshua led them.”

  “Ah,” Peter said.

  “Judith is a nun,” Gozlin said. “She belongs to God and yet lives in sin with the Count. Until we right this wrong surely we will lose against the Northmen.”

  Peter cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I do not disagree with you. But I have heard it said that she has never taken holy vows.”

  Hot fires kindled in those eyes. After a time, Gozlin said softly, “Long ago the Northmen caught me and held me for ransom. I carried a burden then for a friend. The friend’s name was Bishop Engelwin of Paris. I carried his baby daughter, Judith. The Danes would have slain her, except I spoke up on her behalf.” Gozlin touched his nose. “This is my reminder of that day. Will you believe me if I say that I regard Judith as a daughter?”

  Peter could barely nod.

  “I took a vow before Engelwin that she would become a nun. My question for you, my son, is whose side are you on?”

  “Your Grace,” Peter whispered, “I belong to the Church. I am hers to command.”

  “Then I bid you t
o keep your eyes open so we may find a way to spirit Judith to safety and stay the wrath of God.”

  25.

  That night Peter prayed as he touched the bones of Saint Genevieve. It was a solemn experience. Incense wafted around the shrine. Nuns moved serenely in attendance. That night he dreamed of her. Genevieve wore the guise of Willelda and asked him why he was so tardy rescuing her.

  “Are you Genevieve or Willelda?” he asked in his dream. They stood in the hut, the former den of iniquity. A brutish Dane stomped through the curtain and slung her over his shoulder. Peter picked up an axe and buried the iron in the warrior’s side. It didn’t matter. (He hated dreams.) The Dane laughed and had wolf-like teeth.

  Peter woke in the darkness and crawled onto his knees. He fell asleep with his head on the cot. Fortunately, he woke before the others. They would have considered it an ostentatious display of mock piety.

  As cold rain fell, he hurried to the abbey of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. It was on the north bank, near the downstream bridge. He descended creaky stairs into the cellar. He moved aside a small casket and picked up De Re Militari. It was large with wooden covers and heavy as a baby. Carved into the cover was an image of a sword with a jeweled pommel. He hurried to the Bishop’s house and into the scriptorium. He made the book his exemplar. Then with a knife in one hand, to scrape away any mistakes, and with his quill in the other, he soaked ink onto the page. He wrote all morning and into the afternoon. Gozlin came by. The Bishop glanced at the book and the parchment tacked onto the writing board and lifted an eyebrow.

  “It gains me admittance into the house, Your Grace.”

  Those intense green eyes bored into his soul.

  Peter said as blandly as he could. “I’m not certain where she sleeps.”

  Gozlin spoke with nasal distaste, “In the Count’s bed.”

  “I don’t believe so, Your Grace. He… seems smitten with her and adores her from afar.” It was only a white lie. It surely didn’t greatly add to his sins.

  “Not too far,” Gozlin said.

  “True. Yet I think you’re right in that something occurred to him at Louvain. Somehow that affects his… his manner with her.”

  “Indeed. This is news, and proves that I have judged correctly. You are perplexed. You see, there are those who urge me to forget Judith. People say, ‘She has been ruined,’ ‘The Count has turned her into his harlot and thus she is no longer worthy in God’s sight.’ Now you tell me that the Count has not yet indulged in his animal rut. Such news will help me sway the doubters.” Gozlin smiled. “My leniency toward you has already borne fruit. Yes, keep writing, Peter. Find out whatever you can.”

  After the Bishop left, Peter slipped from his stool and hovered over the stove. He stared at nothing, despondent.

  “Are you well, Peter?” asked a monk.

  Peter nodded and went back to work.

  The next two days he did likewise.

  He found Lupus on the fourth day. The Lotharingian hammered walkways onto the north wall of the Merchant Quarter. Peter spoke with the sub-deacon in charge of wall construction, a bluff man who motioned Lupus over. The Lotharingian clutched a wooden mallet and followed Peter to a stack of timber.

  Peter thrust a sack at him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Fresh bread and a joint of pork,” Peter said.

  Lupus shoved the mallet handle through his belt and peered into the sack. His thick fingers closed around it. “Thanks, but that don’t buy you nothing.”

  “Not even a few more days?” Peter asked.

  Lupus stared up at the clouds. “I’m thinking we had this talk before. It gained me nothing then but hardship.”

  “Suppose you spoke to Ermentrude about me. It will hurt me, agreed. But what will it gain you?”

  “Satisfaction,” Lupus said promptly.

  Peter forced cheerfulness into his voice. “You’ll get that anyway in a few more days. But maybe you’ll get something better if you wait.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know what. But after today I will know.”

  Lupus eyed him. “You don’t look well.”

  “I can’t imagine why. A few days, can I have them?”

  “I’ll regret it. But a few days,” he said, “no more than that.”

  ***

  Peter steeled himself to it that afternoon. He knocked. Huge Gerold put his cudgel under Peter’s nose. He told Peter the Count had said to chase him off if he showed up again.

  Peter peeled a parchment from his sheaf. “Show him that.”

  The door slammed in his face. Minutes later Count Odo appeared.

  “Gozlin knows all about these,” Peter said, waving his sheaf of parchments. “He wants me to gain your good graces so I can help him kidnap Judith. He thinks you’re Achan from the walls of Jericho.”

  “What are you taking about?”

  Peter explained the Biblical reference and soon found himself ushered into the same room as before. He thumped the parchments onto the desk.

  “You’ve been busier than a squirrel,” Odo said.

  “I realize you can’t give me Willelda. I accept that, and I accept that you’ll help me rebuild Saint Martin Abbey. There is one woman however you can let me speak with.”

  “Judith?”

  Peter took a deep breath and nodded.

  “So you can tell the Bishop you saw her?” Odo asked.

  “I need her advice,” Peter said.

  It took a moment. Odo laughed. It reminded Peter of how the Count had been during the ride to Paris.

  “A monk who loves women,” Odo said. “No. You’re a monk in love with beautiful women. Wait here, Brother Peter. I believe Judith will be delighted to speak with you.”

  Peter paced as he waited. The door opened and in stepped Judith. Peter froze. Here was Saint Genevieve, Helen and Aphrodite.

  “I hope you beg my pardon,” Odo said, “but I must attend to other matters.” He closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.

  Peter wanted to kneel and thank God for that.

  Judith sat on a stool and fluffed her yellow dress. She had tied her long hair and fixed it under a tall hat. It showed off her slender neck.

  His tongue felt thick. “Milady, I’m in need of counsel.”

  “I am an ignorant woman, brother, born from a mother out of wedlock and a bishop of the Church for a father.”

  That calmed him. “I am the son of a Northman king, milady, who raped my royal mother. I am the dung of Ireland and a waif cast upon the shores of Frankland.”

  She smiled.

  He smiled back and began to talk. He told her his tale, beginning with Willelda. He spoke the truth, even as to what his abbot had given him as penance. He told her what Gozlin wanted. The dream was his last confession.

  She listened keenly and twice patted his hand, helping him continue. “You love her,” she said.

  “Oh yes, milady.”

  “Judith, please call me Judith.”

  “I love her dearly… Judith.”

  “You’ve thought about what I said, or about what Saint Paul said concerning passion and marriage?”

  “I have,” he admitted.

  Her delight was obvious. She bent her head in thought. Guile marked her features. It startled him. She looked up. The guile melted, replaced by saintliness. She said softly, “I am not an interpreter of dreams, brother. However, it’s clear that neither Odo nor Gozlin can save your Willelda. Only God can.”

  “This is what I believe.”

  “Then you must trust your wisdom. Please God, and hope that by doing so He smiles upon you.”

  “But how can I do that?” Peter asked in misery. “I am a monk and I have sinned.”

  “You spoke of a penance, of going to Rome.”

  “Yes. My abbot said that I had to go to Rome and there find a new relic for Saint Martin of Aliquis Abbey.”

  “Then you must go to Rome,” she said.

  “B-But that doesn’t sav
e Willelda.”

  “On the contrary, it is your only hope.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Perform your penance and win back God’s favor. When you return with the relic, God will no doubt allow you to rescue Willelda.”

  “But I’m a monk! A monk doesn’t rescue women, certainly not those he has lain with.”

  “You forget Holy Writ. Better to marry than to burn with passion. You must marry Willelda.”

  But the laws of the land say that I must always remain a monk.”

  Judith became earnest. “I have learned that resolve tramples such trifles. If a wall bars you, dig under it. If a prison traps you, pry out the bricks. If the laws of this land prohibit you from leaving the brotherhood, seek a new land.”

  The concept was staggering. It wilted Peter. He said in a small voice, “…Go back to Ireland?”

  “You see, resolve has already provided you with a solution.”

  He began to pace. She watched him. For a moment, he had the uncanny feeling that she was a hawk and he a mouse of the field. He regarded her.

  The tip of her tongue touched her lip. “Perhaps you wonder, brother, how in these perilous times to gain Rome and the relic.”

  He laughed in despair.

  She rose, went to the Count’s desk and lifted a parchment. It held tight prose and at the bottom a large seal. The mark in red wax was of a crosier, a bishop’s hooked staff.

  “This is the credential of Enrico the sub-deacon,” she said.