Sanctuary (Dominion)

by Kris Kramer

  I found one in the heart of the city, just east of the bridge, called The Silver Gable. It faced the wharfs where boats sailing the Ouse docked, unloaded their cargo and paid their tariffs, making it not only the most popular tavern in town, but also the best place to hear about news throughout Britain. I was a little apprehensive about going there, as priests, real or not, don’t typically spend a lot of time in taverns. But, as usually happens, my curiosity outweighed my sense of propriety, and I walked through the front door undeterred.

  Loud, bawdy conversations fell silent when I entered the Gable, and all eyes watched me as I shuffled across the wooden floors, looking for a clean bench or chair to sit in. Stale was the only word I could think of to describe the place. The pungent odor of sweat filled my nostrils, mixed with the thick plume of smoke wafting from the hearth to my right. I had to step around spilled ale more than once before finding an empty spot at a table where a few Frankish sailors had just arrived after stopping over in East Anglia, and Kent before that. The first moments of our conversation were awkward, and a few of them looked eager to see me off from their table, but after a few minutes chatting with them about their voyage, the tavern returned to normal. I asked them about Ranulf and Caenwyld, hoping they may have heard some news that would help everything make sense. The name Caenwyld meant nothing to them, but they did know Ranulf. He was a minor lord from Kent known for making trouble, but a generous enough man that the people from that region put up with his boisterous ways.

  They couldn’t really tell me much more than that, although I did learn one interesting piece of information about him. Ranulf had ties to a Frank named Charles de Montaire, a wealthy nobleman with lands in what used to be Armorica, the closest part of Europe to Britain, just across the sea. I’d never heard the name before, but they claimed he was a pious man, surrounding himself with priests, and tirelessly searching for lost Christian relics. They knew Montaire because he had a reputation among merchants and traders in this part of the world as being cruel and unforgiving to anyone who tried to peddle fake relics to him. One merchant, who’d sold him a ring once worn by St. Anthony, found himself strung up to a tree in Frankia, slathered in his own blood, and left for the wolves, after Montaire determined that the ring was fake. Distrusting merchants, he’d instead hired Ranulf several times to help him retrieve what he wanted, usually through force.

  I thanked them for the news, and passed on what little I knew from my own travels, specifically about the dwarves at Leicester. That story had already made the rounds here, though, and in fact, one of the sailors had heard just this morning that those same dwarves were now rooting around in the eastern forests of Mercia, digging up holes all over the place, and leaving the local populace in a state of near panic. I had little interest in Hargrin’s Band, though, so I left them to their ale, and wondered again about Ranulf and Montaire, and a curious thought came to me. Humbert used his journal, which he’d kept for decades, to record all sorts of what I thought at the time to be trivial information. But within those notes were occasional rumors about Christian relics in the area, and I couldn’t help but connect the theft of that journal to Montaire. Is that why they’d come to the village? For scraps of parchment? Had Rogwallow been almost destroyed just for the musings and rumors of an old priest?

  I left the tavern and wandered back toward the riverbank, wringing my hands in frustration. I stopped at a watchtower overlooking the river and leaned against one of the wooden legs. The men standing inside glared at me but I paid no attention to them. I just waited, watching two boats as they sailed up river and moored at the docks. The boats unloaded a wide variety of goods - flour, spices, grain, leather, furs, jewelry, chickens, and even a few barrels of mead and wine. Some deckhands yelled at the men on shore for being clumsy with their cargo while those on shore yelled back, telling them to mind their own business – though not in so many words.

  My attention focused on a druid who disembarked from the second ship, along with two other large, dangerous-looking men. He wore a dirty, cream-colored robe with intricate blue stitching on the edges and mud caked on the bottom from dragging it along the ground. His hood was down, exposing his wild greyish-brown hair and thin beard, his bent nose and deep-set, black eyes. At least a dozen necklaces hung around his neck, most made of string and leather, with various small bones or pressed iron runes hanging from them. One gleamed in the dim sunlight, probably made of silver, and I supposed that was why he had two churlish brutes following him around. Caught alone in the wrong place, that druid could find his necklace taken by a quick brigand, along with his life.

  I raised my eyebrow while watching him walk from the docks to the market. I remembered the story I’d told Arkael, and it seemed only fitting that I’d see another Druid now, just as I’d started to feel disillusioned. I wondered if this was a sign, and I realized I’d seen quite a few of them lately. The fur trader repeating Humbert’s words, Humbert’s journal, Ranulf’s connection to Montaire. They could all be written off as coincidences, of course, some of them quite obvious ones. But combined, they were just enough to stoke the spark of my maddening imagination.

  “Hello, Pere.” I turned at the familiar voice, and I almost backed away in surprise at the short, sinewy Frank waiting behind me.

  “Pepin,” I whispered. He stood with his arms crossed, a triumphant smile on his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “Continuing my visit of the grand English towns,” he said. “On my own.”

  I stared at him dumbly for a long moment, still trying to understand how he'd come to be standing next to me. I’d left him in Rogwallow, halfway across Britain. “Right,” I paused, clumsily trying to gather my thoughts, “I know. I’m sorry about that. I just… How on God’s earth did you find me?”

  He smiled, and gave me that curt Frankish shrug I’d come to know only too well. “I am very good at following. It was easy. Everyone I pass, they say they see you walk north. So I go north. I could not find you that first night, and then the rain forced me to stay at a village, and I thought ‘I have lost him.’ But then, I found the merchants you stayed with and they tell me what happened. After that,” he shrugged again, “I get lucky, and end up at Leicester." He struggled trying to pronounce the name. "Imagine how surprised I am when they tell me you left just that morning. So I walk fast, and I get here a few hours ago. The people at the church, they say I just missed you, so I come out here looking.”

  “You’re staying at the church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you follow me?”

  Another shrug. “I do not know anyone else on this island.”

  My shoulders sagged and my cheeks flushed in shame and regret. I’d been so completely selfish and thoughtless leaving Rogwallow in the way I did that I’d turned my back on someone who only meant to help me. “I’m sorry about leaving you behind. I already felt horrible for leaving the village. I couldn’t drag you away, too. Although in retrospect, I really could have used some company. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, my friend. I assure you I am not angry. I am just glad to find someone I know.” He moved to stand next to me, looking out at the river. “So this is where you go. Home, no?”

  “In a matter of speaking. I’m on my way to pick up some items for Sister Agnes, the nun from the church. You can join me if you’d like.”

  “Of course.” Pepin fell in alongside as I moved back up the road, toward Thurgis’ shop. “I take it you didn’t convince that man to go back to Rogwallow?”

  I sighed. “No, I didn’t.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That’s a long story. But I suppose I owe you that much.”

  I related to Pepin the basics of my journey, but not the version I’d told everyone else. I told him everything, and once I was done, I realized how good it felt to finally let someone else in on the story, and the frustration that accompanied it.

  “So, you lost him?” Pepin asked. He walked behind me as I threaded my w
ay through a small crowd in the market. Voices chattered and called out all around us, but I didn’t hear any of it. “This savior?” I nodded grimly. “You will keep looking?”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing today. Asking around. Trying to find out anything I can about Arkael, or Rogwallow, or the people who attacked it. I haven’t learned much.”

  “You will do it. I have faith.”

  “Thank you, Pepin. By the way,” I paused again, trying to find the courage to say the words, “was anyone upset with me for leaving?”

  Pepin shrugged. “I don’t know. I left after you did. So I suppose if they are cursing your name, then mine is right behind it.”

  I smiled, mostly to cover up the sickness in my stomach. “It’s what we deserve. I only pray that I can prove to them someday that my intent was good.”

  We reached the road leading to Thurgis’ shop, where a thought occurred to me.

  “I know this is a long shot, but have you ever heard the name Charles de Montaire?” Pepin’s face went white when I said that name, and he looked away uncomfortably. I stopped. “What is it? You know him?”

  “I… know of him. I hear the stories. I have never met him, but a man who works for him came to Poitiers some time ago. I am not sure why.”

  “I think he was behind the attack on Rogwallow. I think he wanted Humbert’s journal. I know it sounds crazy, but I keep finding these clues that point me there, and it’s getting harder to find any other reason to explain why Ranulf’s men did what they did.”

  “What did they do?” Pepin asked as if afraid of the answer.

  “It was the ones in the church. I don’t know how to explain it, but I don’t think they were there just to steal. I think they were there to destroy. To inflict as much pain as they possibly could.” I shook my head in disgust. "They only wanted to hurt us."

  Pepin nodded in support. “I see. I do not doubt your reasons. Montaire is an animal. But I can’t tell you much more than that.”

  Before I could say anything in response, a wave of unease washed over me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand, and I felt the need to look up and down the street at the other townspeople, as if they caused it. I saw faces that were stern, or lively, or uncaring, none of them looking at me, though. The sensation passed quickly, but it lasted long enough to remind me of that moment when Caenwyld walked into that church. I suddenly felt uncomfortable standing out in the open, so I hurried to Thurgis’ shop.

  “One other thing,” I said before walking inside. “I haven’t mentioned any of this to anyone at the church. I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between us.”

  “Of course, Daniel.” Pepin smiled easily. “I shall keep it our secret.”

  Chapter 11

  Pepin became the early subject of conversation at dinner that night, answering inconsequential questions about his time in Poitiers, and what he thought of the tighter Papal involvement in Frankia. Pepin answered everyone’s questions politely, but I could tell he didn't want to talk about church matters. I realized that even though we knew each other through the Church, we rarely talked about it during our time together. Maybe that was why we got along as well as we did. Discussions about religion and church matters were serious things, and Pepin was rarely a serious man.

  After a while, he changed the subject and made sure to let everyone know that he'd been named after Charlemagne's father, Pepin the Short. The former King of the Franks had liberated the city of Carcassone from the Saracens almost a hundred years ago, which made him a local hero to those in the area, such as Pepin’s family. He told the story to everyone he met, so I'd already heard it a dozen times before today, but he told it with such passion that it entertained me every time. Deaga knew all about Pepin the Short and his victories, and she was very excited to have another Frank to speak to, since she rarely spoke in her native tongue anymore.

  Afterwards, though, the conversation turned to me, and I discovered that my exploits throughout the day had been made known.

  "So boy," Oslac said, grinning as he spooned some broth into his mouth. "finding your way around town again?" By now, only Oslac, Eadwyn, Pepin and myself sat at the table, eating a stew prepared by Agnes, who’d left to bring dinner to the rest of the church’s inhabitants. Deaga had been called to the church, where she spoke with the wife of a local lord about making her daughter a nun.

  "I am," I said, and I immediately knew that he'd heard about my time in the taverns. I wasn't concerned. I was there for legitimate reasons, but I felt uncomfortable discussing it around them. "I'm finding Eoferwic to be just how I left it."

  “I don’t think Eoferwic had two kings when you left,” Eadwyn chimed in.

  I realized the opening I’d been given, so I pounced. “It seems to me that Osbert had it coming, though, trying to seize church property.”

  “That was a terrible time,” Eadwyn said. “For a while there, we thought he might come after our own holdings. Luckily, he only went after churches outside of the city. And ended up sparking a civil war for his trouble. A war he may win, but it will be a costly victory.”

  Oslac shook his head in disgust. "Forget Osbert. This civil war's bad for all of us. It’ll draw the Danes right to us like flies to-" he glanced at Eadwyn and decided against finishing his metaphor. "Anyway, they may be pagan savages, but they’re smart pagan savages. With Osbert off chasing after Aelle and leaving the city defenseless, they’ll come at us like the wolves they are."

  "I've heard they're wintering in East Anglia," I said. “The Danes.”

  "Means nothin'." Oslac spit out a piece of gristle from his broth, then stirred his spoon around in the bowl. "They want treasure, boy, and we have plenty of it, in their eyes. Remember what happened at Lindisfarne. That'll be us soon. They'll come here eventually. Too pretty a place to leave it be."

  The name Lindisfarne sent a shiver down the spine of anyone affiliated with the Church. Once a quiet abbey on the northern coast of Northumbria, the monks at Lindisfarne had collected all manner of Christian relics and treasures, along with the gold, silver and precious donations that come from those seeking favor from Christ. Because of that reputation, they were victims of the first major Viking attack, in 793, one which rocked the Christian world for its suddenness and its brutality. Since that day, churches had become a prime target for Vikings, especially those near water.

  "You've been preaching those same warnings all year," Eadwyn said reproachfully, "and we haven't seen them here yet. They'll likely just hide away somewhere until the spring comes, so no use worrying about them until then."

  "You think ships don't sail in the cold?"

  "I think Vikings don't sail in the cold."

  "Cold is all they know," Oslac grumbled. "It's why they come here all the time, so they can see what it's like to sweat in the summer. And it’s why they’re wintering in East Anglia, instead of going home. They’re staying close and those bastard Angle frogs are givin’ them horses and safe passage." Eadwyn frowned but he didn’t say anything. Oslac glared at me while slurping down more soup. “That’s your people down there, pup. Yer mum’s people, at least. Those frogs are hiding away in their swamps while the Danes sit idly by and watch us, waiting for a moment like now, when we’re weak.”

  “If I was truly an Angle,” I began, hoping to deflect his ire, “don’t you think I’d have gone back at some point in my life to wade through the marsh like my fellow frogs?”

  He grinned. “True enough, boy. Once yer ma got you out of there, you were smart enough not to go back.” He took a sip of his ale and frowned. “Why do we have this swill? Have to find a monk to get a good beer around here.”

  "I will agree with you, though," Eadwyn said, "that this civil war weakens us. If we don’t have one true king by the spring, then all of Northumbria should be worried."

  “In Frankia,” Pepin began, having stayed quiet most of the meal, “we have many kings, too. But they are usually sons or nephews of the main king, and they all bow to him.�
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  “Britain had a High King once,” Oslac said. “His name was Arthur. World’s gone to hell since he died.”

  "Arthur was strong, but Charlemagne was better," Pepin said, not seeing the incredulous look forming on Oslac's face. "Charlemagne was crowned Emperor by the Pope himself."

  Oslac had stopped eating now, and he stared at Pepin, who shrank away once he realized what he'd done. Eadwyn looked at the floor, pretending not to be part of the conversation. I said nothing, mostly because I didn't want Oslac to veer the discussion back to me, and at this moment I was willing to sacrifice my friend to the cranky old priest’s wrath to do so.

  After supper, and Oslac's diatribe on Arthur's place in history, I retired to my room to be alone with my thoughts. I still couldn’t shake the restless feeling that had plagued me all day, and I decided to at least try to be productive. I rummaged through my satchel, found my journal, and went to the library to write about my travels. I managed a few pages worth of idle notes, mostly just recounting the villages and towns I visited, but my thoughts were scattered and useless that night, so I gave up writing and tried reading instead, though that proved just as fruitless an endeavor. I set aside the books, returned my journal to my room, and decided to walk around for a while. I found Eadwyn sitting in the Archbishop’s office, and Pepin and Deaga chatting in the kitchen in Frankish, but I didn’t feel like being around anyone, so I grabbed my cloak and went outside.

  The courtyard was cold and empty, but I enjoyed feeling soft grass under my feet and being away from confining walls. Two city guards stood in the small park out past the half wall that sectioned off the courtyard from the square, lazily chatting and watching servants at an estate on the south side unload packs from two horses. When I was younger, that estate belonged to Eolderman Cynbert, but he'd been old and sickly then so I couldn't imagine he still lived. The house probably belonged to one of his four sons now. I'd never met any of them, but I'd heard stories about each one, ranging from silly to frightening, and I wondered which one the Church was now lucky enough to have as a land-holding neighbor.