by Iris Anthony
***
That forenoon, the Danes began to stir. They were restless and ill-tempered, uttering their words in vile tones as they stalked into the wood to do what was necessary, and then stalked back. They set up a board to play at some game or other. One of them took up a piece of wood and began to whittle on it. But always, one of them watched me.
The clerics kept to themselves, hands pulled into their sleeves, sitting upon a rock in sullen silence. At the appointed hours, we could hear bells tolling from several directions, signaling the offices. The canon and monk observed each one, and I asked if I could join them. They seemed surprised at my request and not as pleased as I would have expected, but I did not wish to miss any chance to impress upon God the earnestness with which I would be making my plea to Saint Catherine.
As the sun hid itself behind the mountains, and all danger of encountering pilgrims had passed, several of the men went out into the wood with their weapons. They came back, carrying a hart, which they proceeded to skin and then roast over the fire. The sizzle of its flesh and the scent of it made my stomach churn in anticipation.
Godric added some salt to their meal, and they gave him a joint of venison, which he shared with me. We sat together on our bed of ferns as they ate and drank and then drank some more. And still they did not let me long leave their sight. There were five of them. Even when I took my turn in the wood, one of them followed me. That night, it was the youngest of them, he whom I liked least of all. His eyes protruded from his face, and he always seemed to look overlong at me. Upon my return from the wood, he stepped toward me, halting my progress. And then he lurched and fell into me. Murmuring some pagan words, he gave my left bosom a sharp squeeze. Then he grabbed me about the waist and pressed himself against me.
I tried to push him away, but he only gripped me tighter.
As I began to fear I would never escape his grasp, someone grabbed him at the shoulder and threw him far from me. It was not Godric who had saved me this time, but the older cleric.
The young Dane snarled something at him, but the cleric grabbed him by the ear and dragged him over to the fire where the others were playing at their game.
“You will not do this—this—despicable thing! We journey to acquire a holy relic, and I will not have the journey profaned by your pagan ways!”
Their chieftain could not have understood what the man was saying, but he rose as the cleric was speaking and went to stand in front of him, staring at the man through unblinking eyes. When the man had ceased his tirade, the chieftain drew his knife and reached out to grasp the cross that dangled by a silken cord from the cleric’s neck.
The man went ashen.
Wrapping the cord around his fist, drawing it taut, the Dane severed it with one quick slice. Stripping the cross from the cord, he threw it into the fire. And then, clutching the silver hammer he wore around his own neck, he showed it to the cleric, uttering something in his heathen tongue.
The monk had come near, and now he translated. “He says, when your words can save your cross, then he will do what you tell him. Until then, the girl is a slave, and it is for her master to decide her fate.”
***
Godric fairly pushed me toward his horse that evening. “Do not ever stray beyond my sight.”
“I won’t.”
“How can I protect you if I cannot see you?”
“It was not your fault.”
He gripped my arm even tighter.
“You hurt me.”
He dropped my arm as if I had been the one to hurt him. Such shame showed upon his face that I tried to comfort him. “The cleric was there. He saved me.”
“But churchmen cannot always be present. And what happens if the Danes come upon you all alone?”
“I have lived my life alone.” It seemed to me now as if I had always been alone.
He helped me up onto his horse and then mounted behind me. “I had a wife once, but my lord called me to his counsel, and while I was gone, the Danes came. They murdered her. I should not have gone. If I had been there, then I could have saved her.”
“It was not your fault.”
“Then whose fault was it? God’s?” The accusation was spoken without passion, as if it were a familiar refrain. “They tell me God can do anything, so why then did He not save her? Her faith was very great. If anyone deserved His favor, she did. But He abandoned her when she needed Him most.”
“Perhaps He was there with her.”
“Doing what?” His cry rang through the wood. “What did He do while the Danes raped and murdered our mothers and our sisters and our daughters? Nothing!”
We rode on in silence for a while. When Godric spoke again, it was in a low tone, though his words were no less vehement. “The priests said the Danes were sent as punishment for some great sin of ours. But my Winifred was kind and good. It should have been me. I ought to have died in her place.”
He had his Winifred, and I had my hand. Both evidence of some sin great enough for God to punish, but not important enough that we had ever been told what it was. It seemed a great injustice.
“If I were God, then I would reward those who loved me and punish those who did not.”
“Who is to say your Winifred has not received her reward? And who is to say the Danes will not receive an eternal punishment?”
“But what about me? What about me, who loved her? And how can I hate the God who took her and yet long to be with her in His presence?”
“Maybe it was not God who did the taking.”
“He allowed it.”
He allowed it. He had allowed it. My heart ached with sorrow for him. “But that does not mean He approved of it. And no matter what she suffered from them, they could not have stolen her soul.”
“N–no.” He spoke the word with tear-choked grief, and he did not say anything more.
The road was difficult, and the way was steep, but the stars shone down upon us. How could they have been there all this time without my knowing? And how could there be so many of them? I marveled at their blinking brightness and great number as we rode.
When dawn broke, we repaired to the wayside, where Godric and I shared his mantle again. As I drifted to sleep, it was, if not in peace, then at least with a sense of safety. But I woke to muffled cries, the twitching of a leg, and the thrashing of an arm.
It seemed Godric had finally succumbed to sleep.
In my own slumber I had curled myself into his side, and at some point, he had turned toward me and slipped his arm beneath my waist. But now, with his other one, he seemed to reach out, to try to grasp something only he could see.
The Danes slumbered on, shaking with great snores.
“Winifred!” Godric spoke the name with great anguish as he kicked out at…nothing. And still his spirit was not eased.
I sat and put my good hand to his flailing arm, patting it, stroking it, telling him it would be all right. That whatever ills assailed him would be gone when he woke.
As I whispered, his agitation eased. His hand grasped mine and pulled it close. And then he pressed my head to his chest. I could not have moved from his embrace if I had wanted to, but perhaps he had need of it more than I.
***
“I slept.” Godric spoke the words with great wonder as I eased myself from his grip. His eyes were clearer; the redness had lessened.
“Yes.” I smiled at him.
“And you…” He glanced down at the arm he had wrapped about me. “I did not…?” His eyes searched mine.
Did not? “Oh! No. You did not assail me. But you suffered from your dreams.”
“I have not slept a night through. Not since Winifred…” Grief and guilt and shame pooled in his eyes. “I said her name… I remember it… I remember saying it.” He passed his hand before his face and then stared out into the distance. “I was saying good-
bye.”
***
Long before evening, the rains began. The sky threw down handfuls as the wind blew it first this way and then that. I had known rain before, at home; by times it had chased me from the window and threatened the fire, but I had not known just how very wet and cold it could be. How relentless raindrops were in finding a way to worm beneath my tunic. Nor how one raindrop atop another and another and another could saturate my mantle, bringing the weight of the world to bear upon my shoulders.
I took refuge with the young monk beneath the overhang of a rock as the others readied themselves to leave.
The rain seemed to cloak us from the others, and he soon became quite loquacious. He told me he was converted by a priest who had wandered to their clan, performing miracles. “When not even our witch could repeat them, I realized Odin and Thor and Freya could not stand against the god he served. And so I asked myself why should I not worship this most powerful of gods. When they let him leave, I went with him.”
“Our God is not just the most powerful of gods, He is the only God.”
“So the priests say. But what does it matter whether He is the only one or simply the most powerful of many? But I know you must understand this. How is it you can worship someone who cursed you?” He nodded toward my right hand. “You would not do it because you wish to. It must be that you believe there is no one else powerful enough to help you.” He spoke as if he was trying to convert me to his strange beliefs.
“I believe, because I should.”
“People should do many things, but rarely do they actually do them.”
He seemed disappointed in me, but then I was disappointed in my own answer as well. I had spoken truth, had I not? I had set out on the pilgrim’s path because I knew I should: my mother had wanted me to. But even so, that did not mean I had to do it with the hope that burned within me. “I believe because I must.”
“You must? But who can make you?”
“Then perhaps…perhaps I believe because I want to.” That was the truest of all of the answers I had given him. I believed because I wanted to hope I was one of God’s creatures; that not only the strong or the brave deserved the best eternity had to offer. I wanted to think that somewhere, someone did not despise me; that God, perchance, might even love me, if I could prove myself deserving. I believed because of the things I had seen. And because of those I had not.
“What was it like”—he gestured toward the hand I had drawn up within my sleeve—“when you were cursed? What did you do that you deserved it?”
“Nothing.” I had done nothing. Nothing I could remember. Nothing I could beg forgiveness for. Nothing I could confess to a priest.
He glanced out beyond the rain to where the Danes were preparing to leave. “They disdain you because of it, but they will not hurt you. At least not in the worst of ways. They plan to keep your hand hidden and sell you as a bed-slave; for that they will preserve your chastity. So do not fear.” He sounded as if I should be grateful.
“Why do they seek the relic?”
“They don’t. It’s the canon who wants it.”
“But why?”
“To take it back to Rouen. A marriage depends upon it. But mostly, the archbishop wants it for his cathedral.”
“What if the abbey won’t let him have it?”
He smiled. “That’s why the Danes come with us.”
“But, what do they plan to do?”
He looked out once more to a world that had gone gray. “Whatever they must.”
“They would not harm any in order to take it?”
He did not answer.
“What if Saint Catherine does not wish to go?”
“I do not think she has a choice in the matter.”
“But I need to pray before you take her relic. It’s why I’ve come all this way. To seek healing.”
“I can promise nothing.”
“Can you ask the canon, then?”
“The canon? They will not listen to him. They do not understand prayers or weakness, only war and death. They would prefer to have to seize the relic, for it’s by fighting they prepare for life after death, for Valhalla, where only the bravest of warriors will go.” A glaze had settled over his eyes, and he stared into the rains as if he were looking beyond them. “And the bravest of those brave warriors are the berserkers, they who beat upon themselves and eat their own shields in their lust for blood.”
“But…but…what of Paradise?”
He blinked. “A place of rest and peace?” He turned to look at me. “They would forfeit Paradise without a second thought. They would spurn your angels and wait instead for the winged Valkyries.” He leaned close as he stared into my eyes. “They fight, you see, to have a place among the worthiest of warriors, for only those will be taken to Valhalla. And there, each day they fight, and at night, they feast.”
It seemed a strange eternity, spent in endless war. “Surely they do not fight each other.”
“Only each other.”
“For amusement?”
“Never for amusement. They fight to prepare for the last great battle, so though their limbs be lost and their heads be severed from their bodies, each night they are made whole so they can feast together. And they begin their battle anew each morning.”
“But what of love and charity?”
“There is no place for them there. Nor for the meek or the aged. They care nothing for angels. Upon his death, what every warrior hopes for is a Valkyrie. You see then why they do not accept this message of grace or this God. They do not want to.”
CHAPTER 23
We started out long before night had fallen, when the rains seemed to lessen. At times they stopped altogether, and we saw glimpses of the sun’s decline. But soon they returned with more force and such conviction I feared the rest of the day’s light would be lost to us.
The road was steep. The Danes halted our procession and conferred, then led us off the road toward a rocky cliff that rose up toward the sky. There, we each took shelter where we could find it within the crags of the rocks.
Godric took me by my bandaged hand and led me some distance from the others before he drew me into a shallow cave where we were protected from the rain. He took the mantle from his shoulders and transferred it to mine. Though it was wet, it was warm, and it still held his scent.
Kneeling beside me, he drew a bundle from his belt and placed it before me. Unknotting the cords which bound it, he opened it to reveal the contents. A collection of small pouches and tiny phials lay within.
I looked over at him. “What are these?”
“A hair from Saint James. A filing from Saint Peter’s chains. Oil from a lamp that burned in the church of Saint Andrew. Dust from the tomb of Saint Denis. A piece of cloth upon which once rested the crown of thorns. A thread from the veil of the Holy Mother. A sliver from the true cross.” He touched each pouch and phial in turn.
“They are…relics?”
“I am a relic hunter for my lord.” He was looking at me as if weighing the impact of his words.
“A relic hunter?”
His gaze slipped from mine, though he nodded. “My lord collects them. And each time I find one, I keep a small piece…a thread from a veil or a few sprinklings of dust…” He placed several of the phials into my hand. “Perhaps if you prayed to them, you might be healed.”
“Why do you offer me these?”
He looked up once more into my eyes. “I joined the Danes because I also travel to the abbey. But it is not for prayer, nor is it for healing. It is so I can take Saint Catherine’s relic myself, for my lord.”
I did not know what to say.
“You must not doubt that when I have the opportunity, I will do it.”
Everything he said I understood, but still it did not make any sense. “But why do you keep these?”
&n
bsp; “For Winifred.” His voice broke as he swallowed. “She died without the last rites. They all did.”
My heart lay heavy within me. It was only the fact that my mother had been visited by a priest in her last hours that gave me any comfort in her death. Because she had received absolution, I knew she had gone on to Paradise. But Godric had no such knowledge. Indeed, there was nothing for him to hope for.
“If I say enough prayers, if I collect enough relics, then maybe…”
He did not have to finish his thought. If he collected enough of them, if he said enough prayers, then maybe the saints could intervene and save her soul. And then she could rest in peace.
“She used to come to me every night. But last night when you…when I slept…she said good-bye. I think the prayers have finally worked. So perhaps these relics can help you as well.”
“My way lies toward Saint Catherine.”
“But these are all here, right now, in the same place. You would not have to go all the way to the abbey, and if there were an opportunity to leave, for you to escape…” There was hope and desperation in his eyes.
I collected the pouches and phials and gave them back. “I am bound for the abbey because my mother wanted it. She had it written into her will. I have to go, or she will have no peace.” And neither then would I.
As he gathered up his collection, he did it as one ashamed. As if he had shown me his weakness.
“Your offer is very kind, but if prayers on my behalf could work, then they would have done so long ago. My mother sent me to Saint Catherine because she thought it was my only hope.”
He looked over at me. “I am trying to save you from the same kind of Danes who murdered my wife. I would help you escape.”
“But if I choose to save myself, then I might lose my only chance at healing.”
I thought he might speak, but he only hunched his shoulders up toward his ears, and he squatted there beside me, staring into the rain that spewed out from the cliff over the mouth of our shelter.
I held out a corner of his mantle.
