The Miracle Thief

by Iris Anthony

  “Why Saint Catherine? Why that abbey?”

  “I just wish…” I wished, for the first time in my memory, that I was not a king’s daughter, that I was not a princess, and that my mother had taken me with her when she had fled the court. I wished I was exactly as the ignominy of my birth should have decreed: I wished I was no one at all. But how could I say that without sounding ungrateful or offending my father, the king? “The abbey is my dower.” It was the only thing of value I possessed. “And if I marry the pagan…”

  He sighed as his frown eased.

  If I married the pagan, I had little hope I would ever be allowed to go there again.

  I had traveled there once before. In that place of lofty heights and quiet contemplation, I had known a peace I had never felt before. There, I could pray to Saint Catherine and kiss her relic, she of a noble and pure heart who never ceased to advocate on behalf of maidens and those who died a sudden death. But more than that, I was almost certain if I could just talk to one of the nuns again—not the abbess herself, but the nun who tended the relic—she could calm this fear, soothe this panic that threatened to undo me. Had she not done so before? Had she not had just the right words when I had entertained hopes of abandoning the court? And whether I ought to remain a virgin or sacrifice myself to the heathen, Saint Catherine would not fail to tell me what to do. After that, I would pray for the strength to accept whatever my future held.

  “Why could you not just pray at the cathedral in Rouen?”

  “Because I want to pray to Saint Catherine.” I had cried enough tears the night before. How could I possess still more? And why could I not keep them from staining my voice? “Even if…” Even if. Even if it meant a long journey to the east and the south. Even if the archbishop would not like it. Even if, in the end, it would change nothing. I took in a great breath and tried once more. “The Danes have asked for a three-month truce. Surely I could make it there and back by then.”

  “It’s far too late in the year—” A servant was approaching. Father accepted a cup of wine from him.

  I held my breath as he took a drink.

  “But then why should you not be allowed to ease your mind?”

  Praise God and all His angels!

  “I am to meet the chieftain this morning.” He took another sip. “You will come with me and—”

  “Why must I—”

  “Because I say so!”

  I took a step backward, away from his wrath.

  He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, he looked even more wearied and worn than he had before. “Because I say so, and it is I who wear the crown and I who sit on the throne of this kingdom. Will no one obey me simply because it is their duty? Must I always and forever explain myself? What other king has ruled a people so stubborn and stiff-necked as these!”

  I understood then that it was not I in particular who had incensed him. What other king had had his throne stolen by his father’s mistress and then given first to his half brothers and next to a man who had kept it well beyond the day my father came of age? A man who had wanted to give it to his own brother, Robert, Count of Paris, instead?

  “My mother, the queen, always said daughters could be of great use.” He took another drink from his cup. “But she never told me they could also be so taxing and vexatious.”

  “You would do well to prepare yourself then, for you have three others, and who is to say this next one your queen is breeding might not be a girl child as well?” I bit my tongue to keep from saying anything more. I had said far too much already.

  A warning glinted from his eyes. “You will go to Rochemont, and then you will come back and marry the Dane. If it takes your hand to guarantee his fealty, then it is a sacrifice we both will make.”

  ***

  Would he have treated his queen’s daughters so poorly? Sacrificing them so quickly, so carelessly to a pagan? I returned to the villa and exchanged my linen tunic for an azure-colored silk. The hems had been edged with golden threads that glittered even in the room’s dim light. Why should I give the Dane reason to think so easily gotten a treasure was a poor one as well? If he thought me dull or meek, a girl who could be satisfied with careless attentions, then I would show him now, at the outset, he was mistaken.

  I stood while my hair was combed and plaited and a golden fillet set upon my head.

  Is this how my mother had felt when she’d gone to my father? Had her fingers trembled? Had she felt the same dread? I wondered if she’d had any say in the matter and if anyone ever stopped to ask her how she felt about becoming the concubine of the king. I had never felt a deeper need for her, never wanted her more than I did now. Why had she left me, and where had she gone?

  Later that morning, as I left the villa to await my father and his counselors in the courtyard, the archbishop hailed me. I might have pretended disdain or indifference, but my years at court had taught me there was nothing to be gained by making enemies. As I pretended pleasure at his greeting, my father appeared, crossing the colonnaded porch to join us. Together, we walked out past the palisade down to the ford. The heralds trumpeted our coming. And my father’s men carried his pennon. His counselors followed behind us.

  Across the bank, the Danes were waiting for us, their broad, silver-ringed arms crossed before them. They did not appear to be impressed with the trumpets or the banners. If anything, they seemed…to hate us.

  They came in the dead of night with seven hundred ships and forty thousand men. They’ll put your father’s palace to the torch, and it will be all your fault. In spite of the fine weather and the warming sun, a chill crawled up my spine. I hid my trembling hands within the folds of my sleeves. At the foot of the willow that had screened me just the day before, Andulf was waiting. I accepted his hand as he helped me into a boat; I barely had time to settle myself upon the silk cushion before we had reached the other side. There, we exchanged the sun for leaf-dappled shade.

  Behind us, a full contingent of my father’s guard crossed the ford on foot, shields in hand, swords glinting.

  A grove of trees crowded this far bank, dipping their roots into the water. I was helped from the boat and stood on that foreign shore, blinking, waiting for my father’s party to advance as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

  The trees here were oddly formed. Their branches were misshapen and swollen with large, lumpen cankers. I had never before seen their like. “What are—?” My hand found my mouth as I came to realize exactly what they were. Horses and—and dogs? Their throats had been slit, they had been hauled up into the branches, and now they were hanging from the limbs like trussed hams or strings of mottled cheeses.

  The archbishop and his party had joined me. Walking behind the archbishop was his nephew, a canon. The monk who accompanied them was introduced as a translator. A Dane himself, he had converted from the pagan religion. He was just as broad as the Danes before us and just as fair, but no fire burned in his eyes save that of the true faith. He spoke in an accented tongue from the canon’s side as he followed my horrified gaze. “It’s a heathen practice. They sacrifice to their gods to seek favor and blessings.”

  As I looked around, I realized every tree, and nearly every large branch, dangled some rotting, dead thing that dripped a noxious ooze and buzzed with flies. As the wind gusted from the west, I smelled them too.

  My vision spun, and as I faltered. I took a step backward away from the gloom, away from that dreadful, rancid smell toward the boat.

  Toward the river.

  Toward the light.

  But my father was proceeding beyond us, away from the water. As he struck out, I fell into step behind him. Up ahead, farther down the road, stood a hulking beast of a man: the chieftain, Rollo. He seemed as likely to murder us all as to treat with us for peace.

  The translator leaned close. “In our tongue, they call him The Walker, for he is too lar
ge to ride even the mightiest destrier.”

  He was too large for his shield. It looked puny in his hand. He was too large even for a helmet, for unlike the others, he did not wear one.

  When my father stopped the procession, the Dane spoke to us in his native tongue. When we did not comprehend, the translator gestured us forward. The guards looked at each other, full of unease. My father hesitated, but the archbishop tipped his crozier in their direction and started out ahead of us all. The trees thinned and soon gave way to a meadow. The Danes had pitched their camp on both sides of the road. There were many more of them, vastly more of them, than I had ever imagined.

  Their comings and goings had beaten the meadow into dusty submission. And in the center of that great encampment, a massive fire had been kindled. It burned hot and bright, its dark smoke spreading a stain through the sky and draining the life from the sun, leaving it pale and grayed, a poor imitation of the moon.

  That giant-man strode toward the flames. Once there, a second man brought him a bull. Two other men stepped forward to support it as the chieftain slit its throat. Blood spurted forth in a stream that fanned out to either side. Those heathens clamored for it, basking in it, while Rollo took up a bowl and collected some of the blood.

  After babbling something over the bowl, he pulled off one of his arm rings, plunged it into the blood and then pulled it out. Thrusting it over his wrist, he shoved it up his arm. It left a dark red smear as a mark of its passing.

  Beside me, the archbishop clutched at his crozier as he made the sign of the cross.

  Turning from that abominable sight, I pushed through my father’s guard and collapsed onto the bent meadow grasses, retching.

  CHAPTER 8

  Andulf stood before me, hands at his hips, blocking me from view of the others. When I was done, he passed me down a handkerchief. It was there the archbishop found me.

  “You must get up and show yourself! Do not let fear rule your heart. Remember the faith of Saint Perpetua and the courage of Saint Felicitas.”

  Saint Perpetua? Saint Felicitas? “But—”

  He gripped my hand. “They were pure of body and of heart.”

  And they had died for it! “They were martyrs!” My intended whisper came out as a shout.

  He bent toward me as he looked me straight in the eyes. “And now they have received their heavenly reward.”

  “For their earthly suffering!” Such suffering. Torn apart by wild beasts and then put to death with the sword. “You cannot ask—surely you cannot think that I—”

  “It is not I who does the asking. It is your father, the king. You must not doubt that you were born for such a time as this. God is sovereign in all things. Even the low circumstances of your birth He has used for His purposes. Just think: your father’s other daughters are much too young to be of use. Clearly even the king’s youthful indiscretion was meant for good.”

  But I was not good. I was not even especially devout.

  “The chieftain has promised to be baptized. What could be greater than leading a pagan people to God?”

  Many things. Everything I valued and held dear was greater than being joined in marriage to such a barbarous brute. “I do not think my faith is great enough to—”

  His eyes flashed. “The king is not in a position to dither about this treaty. He is bound by Saracens to the south, while the Saxons are ever restless in the north. And to the east, the Magyars are rumored to be on the move. But if he can count on these Danes to aid him, then perhaps he can triumph after all. You must look beyond what you see. You must fill your heart with hope and faith.”

  He was right. Surely he was right. I durst not believe he was wrong. Perhaps this was something God, in His mighty Providence, had decreed for me. And for my father.

  He grasped my hand in his.

  I kissed it.

  “Take heart. This is what you were meant for.”

  “But I am not valiant. I fear what may happen to me once I wed the Dane.”

  “Better to fear for your life than for your soul.”

  Were they so very different? Was not the one married to the other? He sent a look back over his shoulder to where two different peoples awaited me. “Is your life so very dear? Do you consider it more precious than these thousand souls?”

  Did I? I supposed I must. Was it my great vanity or my small faith that kept me from feeling honored that I could be used in such a way? In truth, my skin crawled at the thought of uniting myself with the Dane. How was it that the archbishop and my father could see my path so clearly, when I could not see it at all?

  He gripped my arm, pulling me to standing, and then trundled me back toward my father. “Hush now. The king speaks.”

  I could not hear my father. Not clearly. But it seemed he spoke no more than several sentences before gesturing through the crowd toward me.

  His men fell back, leaving me exposed to the gaze of the chieftain.

  Beside the Dane stood the archbishop’s translator. “He wishes to marry now, in honor of the agreement.”

  On their side, the Danes had moved closer to the great fire. One was adding hanks of grass to feed its flames.

  Now? “No! I—”

  The archbishop tightened his grip on my arm, pulling me forward toward my father, who was speaking in reply. “No. During the truce, the princess will journey to the royal abbey at Rochemont to seek there the will of God. You may marry in three months’ time at Rouen, after you have been baptized.”

  There was no little discussion between the Dane and the translator before they seemed to come to an agreement. The translator spoke. “He says the girl will not make the journey.”

  My father turned to the archbishop. “I told her she will be allowed to petition Saint Catherine, to assure herself this is God’s will.”

  The archbishop’s mouth tightened as his gaze narrowed. “And I told him she will be his in marriage.”

  “After the pilgrimage.”

  “I gave no such stipulation.”

  The fire was now shooting sparks and sloughing billowing clouds of smoke. I tugged at my father’s sleeve. I would have gone down on my knees if it would not have been unseemly. “Please. Please, do not make me marry him.” The Dane’s eyes had not once left my face, but I did not care if he saw me begging.

  My father glanced down at me and then back to the archbishop. “She will marry him after she has made her pilgrimage to Saint Catherine. It was they who demanded the three-month truce, and so it is they who will have to wait.” He lifted a hand when the cleric would have spoken again. “That is all I have to say.” He turned to leave, though he paused as he passed the archbishop, speaking to him in a lowered voice. “I have little taste for this. Either they will agree, or they will not.”

  The archbishop frowned as beads of sweat broke out on his brow beneath his miter. “Wait. Just—just for a moment.” He gestured to his translator and consulted the monk in low tones. The translator spoke to the chieftain, who answered with a rapidly rising volume. The translator finally returned and spoke with the archbishop, who relayed the message to my father.

  “He says he will wait.”

  I found I could breathe again, though only with great effort.

  “But the princess cannot go to the abbey.”

  “He has no say in this. Not if he wants a truce. And they will not wed until after he has been baptized. I will not risk God’s wrath by wedding my daughter to a pagan.”

  The count had been silent throughout the negotiations, but now he stepped forward, bowing. “Sire, I have not asked you for money, and I have not asked you for men. But I do ask you this one thing: I must have a truce. I cannot fight them.”

  “You must have a truce, he must have my daughter, and my daughter must pray to the relic of Saint Catherine.”

  Sweat had made a trail down the archbishop’s
face. “I gave my word, Sire.”

  “And apparently you gave mine along with yours!”

  Behind us, my father’s guard parted as a page approached. The lad swept off his cap, bowed, and then handed my father a missive. Father broke the seal and parsed it. Then he refolded it and passed it to an abbot, who gave it to a clerk.

  After a glance toward the chieftain, he clapped the archbishop on the shoulder. “I shall give the Dane the lands he asks for, but I shall not give him my daughter unless Saint Catherine wishes it.”

  “But—” The archbishop’s protests were stayed by a squeeze of my father’s hand.

  “The chieftain will agree, or he will not. Go and inquire.”

  We waited while the autumn sun grew hotter and the birds ceased their swooping hither and yon, preferring their shaded nests to the bright sun. And still the archbishop and his translator conferred with the Dane.

  My father finally stopped his pacing. “Enough. If he does not agree, he does not agree.” He caught the count’s eye. “I will entrust these proceedings to your care, Robert.”

  “I must beg you, Sire, to consider that—”

  I pulled at my father’s sleeve. “He comes.”

  My father glanced over at me. “What is that?”

  “He comes. The archbishop comes.” And the chieftain with him.

  The cleric’s smile was triumphant as he lifted his crozier. “He has agreed!”

  My father sprang forward as if longing to be gone from that place. “Then they may have their truce, and we will meet in Rouen at the end of December.”

  The translator passed the message to the chieftain, who grunted. “He agrees.”

  It had not sounded like an agreement to me. And behind the chieftain, there was much low-voiced murmuring among the rest of the Danes.

  “Then we will seal the agreement.” My father stepped toward them and then stood there, hands at his hips, one foot poised before the other.

  The archbishop spoke through the translator, gesturing toward my father.