Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “The work that goes on inside this room is costly and delicate. It requires artful hands and eyes, and I would ask that you not disturb this work.”

  Geirmund nodded, his curiosity heightened. “I will respect your wish.”

  Torthred opened the door, and inside the room Geirmund saw four monks seated at slanted tables. The murmur of their voices filled the hall with the hum of a beehive, but it was difficult for Geirmund to hear just one alone, and it seemed they all spoke in different tongues. They leaned over books and parchment pages, reading, writing, and painting with brightly coloured pigments, and even gold. The markings they made upon the parchment appeared very fine, as the abbot had said, and included figures of men, women, children, beasts, and patterns so entwined the eye could not untie them. None of the monks there looked up from their work, so intent were they upon it, and their voices droned unbroken.

  Torthred tapped Geirmund on the shoulder and nodded his head towards the doorway, and after they had stepped outside, back into the cloister, the abbot closed the door behind them.

  “That is the monastery’s scriptorium,” he then said. “That is where we read and copy sacred texts, for ourselves and for others.”

  “What were they speaking?” Geirmund asked.

  “They were talking with angels, apostles, and saints.”

  Geirmund looked again at the door. “I saw no one else–”

  “They speak through the text on the page,” Torthred said. “When we read the words of Saint Augustine, or Saint Paul, their voices pass through us and live once more.”

  “Your books hold voices?”

  “All books hold voices.”

  “Even the voices of the dead?”

  Torthred smiled and nodded. “Would you like me to teach you?”

  “To read?”

  “Yes.”

  Geirmund looked again at the scriptorium door, and he thought of John’s ability to read for Sidroc. Such a skill could be useful. “Yes, if you are willing to teach me,” he said.

  That seemed to please the abbot, and for the next several weeks, every day, they sat in the courtyard after the night-meal, seated upon stools, the other Danes looking on in amusement as Torthred taught Geirmund to read. At first they used sticks to draw markings in the dirt at their feet, but after a month or so Torthred brought single fragments of old, worn parchment for Geirmund. The abbot praised him for how quickly he gained in skill compared to others he had taught, but to Geirmund learning was not a contest. He wanted to know how to read and write for himself because he found power in it.

  It was during one of their nightly lessons that a priest arrived at the monastery gates. He was badly injured, with broken ribs and teeth, but he had nevertheless travelled some forty rests to deliver a message from the town of Tamworth.

  The Danes, it seemed, had returned to Mercia, and the peace had come to an end.

  21

  Torthred returned to the courtyard sometime after the monks had taken the wounded traveller into their world beyond the north-eastern doorway. The abbot seemed very troubled as he explained that the Danes had put King Burgred of Mercia to flight. With no more silver to pay for peace, the axe had finally fallen. Ivarr and Ubba had attacked Tamworth, and since then Halfdan and Guthrum had also encamped at a place called Hreopandune to the north-west.

  “Burgred fled?” Geirmund said. “After fighting Æthelred and Ælfred, I’d come to believe Saxon kings had more courage and honour than that.”

  “Some do,” Torthred said. “Some do not.”

  Geirmund shook his head. “If the Danes are in Mercia, you and your monks are no longer safe here. The wall we built together will stand against a war-band, but not an army.”

  “Yes,” Torthred said. He nodded along, but his eyes and mind seemed to be elsewhere, distracted by something. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

  Geirmund watched him for a moment. “Something more troubles you.”

  The abbot glanced at Geirmund. Then he looked downward and pressed his hands together below his chin as if in Christian prayer, the tips of his fingers against his lips. “I had a brother with me at Ancarig,” he said. “Tancred. The Danes slew him.”

  Geirmund remembered then that John had once mentioned the name. “The loss of a brother is a hard thing.”

  “I also had a sister there,” Torthred said. “Tova. But she managed to hide in the fens until the Danes had gone.”

  Geirmund had seen her face in the reeds. He had thought her a river-vættr. “Where is she now?”

  Torthred closed his eyes. “She was at Tamworth during the attack. I have just been told that she fled to come here.”

  “When?” Birna asked.

  The others in the courtyard listened, but Torthred suddenly sat upright and looked around at them as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Days ago,” he answered, then nodded towards the corner doorway. “She left Tamworth even before the priest who has just come, and she should have arrived by now. I fear some evil may have befallen her.”

  Geirmund looked at Rafn and Vetr. Both Danes nodded without needing to hear his order aloud and gathered up their weapons. Geirmund turned back to Torthred. “My warriors will go and look for her. If she is to be found, they will find her.”

  The priest looked up. “I confess I’d hoped for such an offer but felt hesitant to ask.”

  “Why?”

  “You–you are a pagan. And I feared–that is, with the peace now broken…”

  Geirmund placed his hand on Torthred’s shoulder. “It is true the peace is broken between our kings, but that does not make us enemies until we are called upon to fight one another.”

  Torthred sighed, short and almost a laugh. “As the Samaritan helped the Jew, so the pagan helps the priest.” He dragged a hand down his face as if to wipe away his thoughts and his worry. “I am grateful.”

  “We’re ready,” Rafn said, and with another silent nod from Geirmund he and Vetr left the monastery.

  Torthred watched the gate in the wall through which they had gone for some time, grasping the cross he wore about his neck in a tight fist, helpless. Geirmund pitied him, for, just as Vetr had said of priests months before, the abbot had never learned to fly and hunt, and so he could do nothing to protect his family. But Geirmund also knew that Torthred was no coward, and it was the god he worshipped who made him weak.

  “Go and rest,” he said to the abbot. “You can do nothing more tonight.”

  “I can pray,” Torthred said, eyes unblinking.

  “Then do that,” Geirmund said, despite the little good he thought it would do.

  The remainder of that night passed restless and heavy with threat, and Rafn and Vetr did not return until mid-morning the next day. They did not bring Torthred’s sister with them, but they had found her, and in finding her they had also found Krok and his warriors.

  “She is their captive,” Rafn said, which caused Torthred great distress, but the Dane went on to say that she appeared unharmed.

  “It seems they make their way here,” Vetr said. “I think they know who she is and mean to ransom her. That is why they keep her safe.”

  “Why go to that hardship?” Steinólfur asked. “Why do they not simply take the monastery?”

  “They lack the warriors for that,” Vetr said. “We counted only thirteen.”

  “That means two more have died.” Birna smiled. “And they have not yet returned to Halfdan. Krok must be in dire need of plunder, to reward his war-band and to please his king.”

  Geirmund agreed with her. “Were you seen?”

  Rafn snorted.

  “No,” Vetr said.

  Near them, Torthred paced about the yard, twisting and wringing his hands together. “If it is silver they want, they can have it. I will not–”

  “Steady,” Geirmund said. “There might be a w
ay to keep your silver and also save your sister.”

  “How?” the priest asked.

  “He has a plan,” Steinólfur said, looking at Geirmund. “Isn’t that right?”

  He did have a plan. It would mean leaving the monastery behind, but that did not strike Geirmund as too great a cost, since they were not now long for that place with the Dane-kings close by and sure to burn it.

  “Are you and your monks willing to abandon this place?” he asked the abbot.

  “I–” Torthred blinked and shook his head. “Leave our monastery?”

  “Yes.”

  “But–”

  “Mercia is now Daneland,” Geirmund said. “If you stay here, you will die, Torthred. Your monks will die, and their deaths will not be easy. You may give up your silver if that is what you wish, but after Krok’s war-band has gone, there will be an army at your gate.”

  Torthred fell silent.

  “How long?” Geirmund asked Rafn.

  “If they are coming here, as we think they are, they will reach the gate tomorrow.”

  Geirmund turned back to the abbot. “I know you will need to talk with your monks, but you only have until sunrise to make this choice.”

  Torthred nodded and trudged from the courtyard, shoulders slumped, his head hanging so low his chin almost touched his chest.

  “Don’t be surprised if they choose to stay,” Steinólfur said, after the abbot had gone. “They’re fools, the lot of them.”

  “Perhaps,” Geirmund said.

  He hoped that since Torthred had once decided to leave his wooden tomb, he would likewise decide to leave his monastery. The abbot did not soon return with an answer, and eventually Geirmund and his warriors gave up waiting and went to sleep, but not long after that the chanting of the monks in the deep-night awoke them. Geirmund stood by the temple door until they had finished praying, and he stepped in front of the abbot as soon as he emerged from within.

  “Have you made a choice?” he asked.

  Torthred blinked. “We have.” He paused and looked over his shoulder at his monks. “We will leave the monastery.”

  “Good.” The relief Geirmund felt upon hearing that surprised him. “Where will you go?”

  “I am friends with the abbot at Cerne, in Wessex. Many of us will go there.”

  “I am pleased to hear it.” Geirmund moved out of Torthred’s path so the monks could return to their beds, and then he returned to his own.

  At midday Krok finally appeared at the monastery’s outer wall as Rafn and Vetr had foretold, but he had not come with his war-band. Geirmund peered through a thin gap between the wooden stakes and saw the Dane standing before the western gate with two of his men, who between them held Torthred’s sister. Geirmund recognized her, barely, from the glimpse he had caught of her in the fenlands. She looked to be Skjalgi’s age, and though bound and gagged, she appeared unharmed apart from the dirt that covered her apron-dress, which must have relieved the abbot. He stood at the top of the wall as Geirmund and his warriors listened from below, out of Krok’s sight. Geirmund had told Torthred what he must say, and how he must say it, but he worried whether the priest could make those words sound as if they belonged in his mouth.

  “What do you want, pagan?” Torthred said.

  “I am Krok,” the Dane said. “Do you lead here?”

  “I do. I am the abbot.”

  Krok pointed at Tova. “I am told you know this girl.”

  Geirmund had counselled the priest to hold a middle ground between fear and anger. If he showed too much fear for himself or his sister, then Krok might decide to attack the monastery, thinking it weak, but if Torthred showed too much anger, he might rouse Krok to anger also.

  “I do,” the priest said, his voice even. “She is my sister.”

  “Then let us keep this matter simple. You see what I have, and I think you know what I want.”

  “Silver,” Torthred said. “You Danes are all the same.”

  Krok laughed. “Who doesn’t want silver?”

  “For the release of my sister,” Torthred said, “we will give you silver.”

  “Good!” Krok clapped his hands together. “Now we must agree on a price.”

  “What price do you ask?”

  “What price do you offer?”

  “We are not wealthy.” Torthred rubbed his chin as if tallying in his mind. “We can give you twenty pounds of silver.”

  Geirmund didn’t know if the monastery even held twenty pounds of silver, but that was the amount he knew would please Krok without tempting his greed much further.

  “Twenty-five pounds,” the Dane said. “Not a penny less.”

  “We do not have twenty-five–”

  Krok laughed. “I think you will find that you do if you look hard enough.”

  Torthred paused. “Agreed. Return tomorrow at dawn.”

  “Agreed!” Krok said. “Do I need to tell you what will happen if you fail to give me what I ask?”

  Torthred paled, and Geirmund watched him, worried what he might say, but the abbot seemed to find his strength a moment later. “Do I need to tell you what you will get from me if my sister is harmed?”

  Krok laughed again. “Until tomorrow, abbot-priest.”

  With that, their talk was over. Geirmund watched Torthred as he watched Krok’s men drag his sister back into the woods, but the priest held his tongue and showed no weakness until he had come down from the wall. Then he began to shake, and his eyes watered with rage, pain, and fear.

  “They will do nothing to her,” Geirmund said, trying to calm him. “She is too valuable. You did well.”

  Torthred bent at the waist and blew several deep breaths, palms braced against his knees, and then stood upright again. “And now come the infernal hours of our waiting,” he said, and while they waited, they prepared.

  The monks went about loading carts with everything they would take with them to Wessex, their books, their crosses and relics, some furniture, and food for themselves and the animals they planned to bring. Geirmund ordered his warriors to also pack up whatever they did not want to leave behind, and then asked Torthred for six of the monk-robes with deep hoods. The abbot seemed somewhat doubtful about that, but fetched them, and then Geirmund explained to Torthred what he needed to say when Krok returned. Lastly, Brother Almund brought forth a large empty wooden chest into which the abbot poured several pounds of shining silver coin, and with that they stood ready.

  Dawn the next morning found them back at the western gate. Geirmund wore one of the monk-robes, as did Rafn and Vetr. Brother Almund had also insisted on joining them, and based on how well the baker had wielded his staff Geirmund did not object.

  When Krok returned, Torthred led his true monk and three robed Danes through the open gate, which closed behind them, leaving Birna, Steinólfur, and Skjalgi on the inside of the wall. Brother Almund carried the chest of silver and set it down upon the ground several fathoms from the enemy, while Geirmund kept his face hidden within the deep shadow of his hood, the rising sun at their backs as he had planned.

  “Where is your leader?” Torthred asked. “Where is Krok?”

  Those questions caused Geirmund to risk lifting his head, and he saw that his true foe had not returned. Instead, four Danes stood before them with the abbot’s sister, and Geirmund searched the treeline at the edge of the clearing beyond them for signs of Krok and his eight remaining warriors.

  “He sent us in his stead,” one of the enemy Danes said, a man with a forked beard. “Do you have the silver?”

  “It is here.” Torthred gestured towards the chest on the ground.

  “We must see it,” the forkbeard said.

  Torthred gave a nod to Brother Almund, who lifted the chest and carried it a few paces, then set it back on the ground. After opening its lid, he slowly backed away withou
t taking his eyes from Krok’s warriors, and as the baker returned Geirmund’s frantic thoughts searched for what to do now that his plan had gone awry. He needed to kill Krok, and kill him quickly, or else they would all be in greater danger than before.

  The forkbeard approached the chest, looked down, and then gave it a kick that jangled the coins. “What is this?”

  “It is five pounds of silver.”

  “You agreed to twenty-five–”

  “So I did, but I do not trust you.” Torthred pointed at the chest. “That wealth belongs to God, not to me. I will pay you silver for my sister’s life, but I will not risk losing both. The other twenty pounds of silver are inside the gate behind me. I will give it to you only after you have released your prisoner and she is safe.”

  It seemed clear the Danes had not expected something like that from the priest. They said nothing for several moments, and then one of them near Tova pulled a knife and pressed its blade against her neck. Torthred took a step forward, but Geirmund put an arm out straight to hold him back.

  “Ask yourself which is worth more to you.” The forkbeard looked down at the chest. “We’ll gladly take this silver and cut the girl’s throat, but we’d much rather take the twenty-five pounds we came for and leave her with you.”

  Torthred opened his mouth but seemed to have no words to fill it. If Krok had come, the Dane would already be dead and done with, and now the abbot floundered. Geirmund needed to act before it all went utterly to shit.

  “We will get your silver, Dane,” he said, making his manner of speech like that of a Saxon. Torthred looked over at him, and Geirmund gave him a nod, then glanced at Rafn and Vetr. “Come, my brothers.”