Raven: Sons of Thunder

by Giles Kristian

  ‘The church of the blessed Saint Mary!’ Egfrith gasped, his arms outstretched. ‘Will you just look at it!’

  ‘The emperor must be richer than every English king and lord together,’ Ealdred said, stroking his moustache thoughtfully.

  ‘And you will have not one silver penny of it because you are a treacherous, snot-eating worm who murdered his own boy,’ Penda snarled as we followed Egfrith towards a huge bronze door on the western side of the church. The monk was barely strong enough to push it open, but Cynethryth helped him. The mournful sound of Christ monks’ singing oozed from the place as Ealdred and Penda followed Cynethryth inside.

  ‘Come on, Floki,’ I said, turning to the Norseman, whom I had sensed pull back as the great bronze door had begun to close behind Ealdred. But Floki shook his head, his dark brows woven together above his malevolent eyes.

  ‘It is not for me, Raven,’ he said. ‘I will not go in there.’ I could see that his hand was clutching the long knife beneath his tunic, which he had kept hidden from the city guards and now relied on to ward off the Christian magic of the place.

  I nodded, knowing there would be no changing his mind, then I turned and walked into the lord of Christendom’s sixteen-sided, treasure-filled church, my guts twisting and knotting because I was afraid.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I HAD NEVER BEEN NEAR SUCH A PLACE, LET ALONE INSIDE ONE. None of us had. The vast interior shimmered with golden light from more guttering candles than there are stars in the sky. We stood in the middle of an enormous barrel-shaped stone building and I felt as though I were drowning. The voices of more monks than I knew existed swam around the waxthickened air in dismal song. The sharp, chipping sound of stone being cut fought against the monks’ cheerless moaning as groups of craftsmen worked away in nooks and high up on wooden supports that were themselves ingeniously made. And you could not help but look up. High up, so high that the back of my head pressed into my shoulders and swallowing was almost impossible. Above a long row of arched windows through which the last light of the setting sun filtered, there glittered a massive image of the White Christ.

  ‘The Lord Christ is surrounded by all the worshipping denizens of Heaven who offer their crowns to Him for He is the King of Kings,’ Egfrith said proudly.

  It was not like any picture of the nailed god I had ever seen. This was not the usual weakling, tormented and sad and pathetic. This Christ was golden, his face strong and austere. This was a king’s god and that told me much about this emperor of the Franks. ‘It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,’ Cynethryth whispered and I cringed to hear her say it, wondering how she could think this mosaic, as Egfrith called it, was more beautiful than Serpent or Fjord-Elk. Other mosaics ran along the lower walls too, Biblical scenes. They made me squirm, for I felt uncomfortable standing there, the study of so many dead men’s eyes.

  I had not even heard the approach of the monk who now stood before Egfrith. The man was tonsured like Egfrith and wore the brown habit, but unlike Egfrith he was fat and had several plump warts on his red-cheeked face. He glanced at Penda and me disapprovingly, for we did not need swords at our hips for him to know we were warriors, and then he and Egfrith gabbled at each other in Latin. It was clear that Egfrith was introducing Ealdred as a rich Christian lord, because the Frankish monk’s eyes flickered greedily across the Englishman’s face before coming back to Egfrith, who was opening the small sack strung over his shoulder. Then the Frank looked back to Penda and me as though he suddenly understood why a monk and an English lord and his daughter kept such rough company. A silver trickle of saliva leaked from the corner of his cracked lips as he watched Egfrith pull out a dark, fist-sized lump of wood which I suspected was a piece of the old cart with the broken wheel we had come across in the woods. I could not imagine what Egfrith was scheming or why this other monk was drooling like a dog with a fleshy bone at the sight of the worthless lump. The Frank’s eyes swelled, almost jumping from their sockets, and then he waddled off, smoke and incense billowing in his wake.

  ‘What are you playing at, Egfrith?’ I hissed. Before he could reply, the Frank was back with another monk, a white-haired old man who carried himself with quiet authority. A breeze blew from somewhere so that what was left of the man’s silver hair fluttered about his ears. Sharp blue eyes in a wrinkled face shone at Egfrith from under white brows as the two talked. Then, carefully and reverently, Egfrith handed this old man the lump of wood. Still dribbling, the fat monk made the sign of the cross and Egfrith nodded solemnly, turning everyone’s focus on to Ealdred as though we should all be as grateful to the ealdorman as if it was down to him that we had been born with our balls in a bag. The fat monk sent two cowled figures scurrying off, their bare feet slapping the cold stone floor, then White Hair inclined his head to Ealdred, blinking slowly in recognition of the moment’s import. The gloomy singing stopped now, the monks peering with curious pale faces at their silver-haired master who bore the lump of wood away with the care of a man carrying a polecat or some other creature that is liable to bite. Another monk, shielding a candle with his hand, introduced himself to Egfrith and before we knew what was happening we were following this young man back outside, where I found Black Floki throwing pebbles into the fountain. The Norseman joined us and we were led through the pillared passage, past a green holly bush shaped like a cross, to a short stone building with a newly thatched roof. Inside, the floor was laid with fresh reeds and two lines of straw-filled kips ran the length of the room. Apart from the general cleanliness, the place could not have been more at odds with the richness of Saint Mary’s church.

  ‘The abbot says we may sleep here tonight,’ Egfrith said as the young monk floated around the place lighting candles made from tallow, not beeswax like those in the church. ‘This is where important pilgrims and guests of the priory stay.’

  ‘Then we are lucky to find it empty, Father,’ Cynethryth said.

  ‘I suspect luck has nothing to do with it, my dear,’ Egfrith said, glancing at the young monk who was rearranging the straw and furs in one of the kips. Nearby, Penda tested his kips for comfort and I remembered the two monks who had scuttled off. Whatever Egfrith had done, it had put someone out on their arse for the night.

  ‘If I have to ask you again, monk, I’ll pull out your tongue and nail it to the wall,’ I said. Egfrith’s little face puckered at that mind picture.

  ‘He gave the abbot a treasure, Raven,’ Ealdred said, one eyebrow cocked.

  ‘He gave him a rotten lump of wood from a broken cart,’ I said. Ealdred grinned then and I wanted to smack those teeth through the back of his head.

  Egfrith sniffed. ‘To you and me, it was just a piece of old wood,’ he said, ‘but to the abbot and the monks of Saint Mary’s Church and Priory it is a fragment of the True Cross on which Christ the Saviour died for our sins.’

  It took a moment to sink in. ‘They believe that steaming pile of vomit?’ I asked, glancing at Penda who looked as appalled as I was astonished.

  ‘Why would they not believe a lord of Wessex?’ Egfrith said. ‘It is not as though we tried to sell it to them. It was a gift and in return the monks will say prayers for Ealdred’s soul. Because this city is Heaven-blessed those prayers will reach the Lord’s ear on swifter wings than those spoken by monks in darker lands.’

  ‘Pilgrims will come. They’ll want to see the True Cross for themselves,’ Penda muttered, scratching his scarred face, ‘and the priory’s chests will fill with silver.’

  Cynethryth stared at Egfrith in disbelief, but the monk simply shrugged his little shoulders. ‘I take no pleasure in the deceit,’ he lied, ‘but I have my reasons.’ He closed his eyes and whispered something to his god, then opened them and looked at each of us in turn. ‘Soon, perhaps even in the morning, you will all understand.’

  He was right. Next morning we were fed and watered and Abbot Adalgarius told us to wait outside the west door of the church of Saint Mary at midday, for a man would meet us th
ere. That was all he would say, though he did warn us not to be late. We waited and eventually a little man shuffled up to us. Old and shrivelled, his small face shadowed by a threadbare cowl, the man said his name was Ealhwine, which told us he was English before he had spoken twenty words.

  ‘Though the Franks call me Alcuin,’ he said, ‘and I speak for my lord Charles, or Karolus if you prefer, emperor of the Romans.’ I thought the Romans had been dust for hundreds of years but I said nothing, as Alcuin went on to introduce himself as the abbot of the monastery of Saint Martin of Tours, Master of the Palace School and chief adviser to the emperor himself. If Egfrith had not gripped Cynethryth’s arm he would have fallen over.

  ‘The Almighty is munificent indeed that He should let me meet the esteemed Alcuin of York,’ Egfrith said. ‘Your fame flies far and wide.’ I stared at Egfrith and judged him to be telling the truth for a change.

  Alcuin nodded wearily, his watery eyes lingering on me for a moment before looking back to Egfrith, who was introducing Ealdred and his daughter. ‘A beautiful young woman,’ Alcuin said, smiling at Cynethryth, ‘the future of us all.’ Then he turned back to Ealdred. ‘My lord, you have given us a precious gift,’ he said in a tired, raspy voice. ‘Of all the portions of the True Cross scattered throughout Christendom, that which you have so kindly granted to us is surely the exemplar.’ There was a knowing look in those eyes and it was clear that this Alcuin was no fool. ‘Word of your charity has already reached the imperial ear. His gracious lord would like to thank you in person, if you will follow me to the palace?’

  ‘It would be the highest honour,’ Egfrith said, pressing his palms together and shaking his head in wonder. Ealdred bowed his head soberly, and I looked at Cynethryth who half smiled because at that moment we understood that Egfrith had been as cunning as Loki. We had been in Aix-la-Chapelle for less than a day and we were on our way to an audience with the emperor.

  We walked up the slope towards the palace, which loomed like Thór’s own hall Bilskírnir, passing many stone buildings that Alcuin explained were the homes of court officials and princes. We passed knots of imperial soldiers in their blue or white cloaks, some of them training with sword and spear, and a large group of children sitting silently before an old monk who was reading from a heavy-looking book. Black Floki poked a finger in my back, drawing my attention to what seemed to be a warrior on a horse, though both man and beast had been turned to stone by some powerful seidr. Before we could speak of it the palace doors were heaved open and we were surrounded by soldiers and herded inside. Two boys held brass bowls full of water in which we washed our hands and faces, and tapestries hung here and there creating many separate cells, each well lit with candles, in which men talked in low voices. In one, three monks hunched over books, scratching away on sheets of vellum. In another, a group of men grey with stone dust argued over a charcoal drawing of a building on a large cloth of white linen.

  We followed Alcuin up a wooden staircase worn shiny and smooth, and emerged into a great hall dominated by two massive mead tables made of oak, dented and gouged by years of raucous feasting. Huge silver jugs inlaid with gold, cups and platters were set out along the length of the tables as though the gods themselves had been about to sit down to feast before some momentous event had called them away. Paintings of warriors in ancient armour covered the walls and beneath these heroes’ blades their enemies – some dark-skinned or with strange-shaped eyes and weapons which I had never seen before – suffered and begged and died.

  ‘This king likes to fight, I think,’ Black Floki growled in Norse and I tensed and shushed him because the last thing we wanted was for these Christians to realize that there were heathens amongst them.

  At the end of the hall, behind a large square table of solid silver, stood a throne carved from white stone and in that throne sat the emperor himself, watching us as we shuffled awkwardly into a line before him. Two hard-looking warriors stood either side of the throne, their spear blades glinting by the light of the candles mounted behind. The emperor’s hair was blond, his eyes were lively and his nose was long. He wore his moustache long but had no beard and even seated he was a tall man, solidly built and powerful. He emanated another power too, as though an invisible mantle, woven from all the deeds and triumphs and hardships of his long life, cloaked him and would shrug off lesser men the way an oiled skin shrugs off the rain. As for his clothes, they were the simple garb of a wealthy merchant or thane: linen shirt and breeks, a red woollen tunic fringed with silk, and shoes of soft leather.

  ‘Karolus gratia Dei rex Francorum et Langobardorum ac patricius Romanorum,’ Alcuin stated tiredly as though he had spoken the words times beyond counting, and for his part the emperor seemed equally bored by his own formal title. Then Alcuin introduced Father Egfrith and Ealdorman Ealdred and when he got to the part about Ealdred’s bestowal of a piece of the True Cross on the church of Saint Mary, the emperor’s intelligent eyes flashed and bored into the ealdorman like augers.

  Sweat cooled on my back and stung my eyes. My jaw ached from clamping my teeth together, for I knew we walked a knife’s edge. All Ealdred had to do was expose us and seek the emperor’s protection and we would die there and then. But Black Floki knew this too, for he moved, almost imperceptibly, closer to Ealdred who half turned, sensing the Norseman’s presence.

  ‘You honour my church with such a gift,’ the Emperor Karolus said in good English. ‘We brothers of the faith have a duty to preserve such relics, Ealdred. You can be sure that precious vestige will rest safe here long after we of frail flesh are forgotten.’ I had expected a mighty voice, the one that had roused thousands to fight beneath his banner and sent equal thousands to their deaths. But it was a voice no different from any man’s. Ealdred dipped his head respectfully.

  ‘I wonder,’ began Alcuin, one wispy grey eyebrow arched suspiciously, ‘perhaps, if something else brings you all the way from England to our great city. Something other than a good Christian’s propriety and a worthy lord’s beneficence.’ I got the feeling that the old scholar was probably one of very few men of the emperor’s court who would speak his mind whenever he felt compelled to do so, and Karolus clearly respected the man’s intuition, for he sat back in his chair, bringing a ringed knuckle to his lips.

  His eyes lingered on Cynethryth awhile, then were riveted once more to Ealdred. ‘Is there something else which brings you here?’ the emperor asked, sweeping his other hand through the fragrant air.

  ‘My lord,’ Ealdred began, flicking his eyes to Egfrith, who nodded, ‘I have a book unequalled in consequence. It is a rare and most precious treasure, for it is the holy gospel book of Saint Jerome, lost for many generations but now, by the grace of Almighty God, recovered.’

  ‘I have heard of this book,’ Karolus said, leaning forward in his fur-cushioned throne. ‘My old teacher spoke of it when I was a boy.’

  ‘Jerome ranked first amongst the ancient exegetes,’ Alcuin said, frowning. ‘His knowledge of the Good Word was consummate. How, Lord Ealdred, did you come into possession of this . . . work?’

  Ealdred clasped his hands together solemnly. ‘The book had fallen into the hands of an unworthy king, my enemy Coenwulf of Mercia. What worthy Christian could abide such an aberration?’ he asked, extending his arms. ‘I took it as my duty to rescue the book.’ I almost believed Ealdred myself. The worm was slithering well. ‘Since recovering the gospel I have been hoping to see it safe in the hands of a Christian lord who can keep it away from avaricious men.’ Now Ealdred shook his head. ‘But I am just an ealdorman. I am not a rich man, my king. I cannot keep such a treasure safe from the iniquitous for ever.’

  ‘You want to sell it to me?’ the emperor asked, flicking his fingers to a servant, who filled a silver cup with wine and handed it to his lord.

  ‘It would ease my conscience to know the book was in your safe keeping, my lord,’ Ealdred admitted, stroking his long moustache. ‘The kings of England fight like dogs over scraps. Nothing is
safe.’

  ‘You have the book here?’ Karolus asked, sipping the wine, his eyes never leaving Ealdred’s. Beside him Alcuin was staring at me, one eye half closed but the other sharp as a rivet’s point, and I felt the sudden need to empty my bowels. I was sure the old man could tell me for a heathen and I feared the accusation was crawling up his throat and was almost on his age-cracked lips.

  ‘It is at the river wharf with my men who guard it,’ Ealdred said. ‘Forgive me, but I dared not bring it across the country. I am a stranger to this land and it is a fool who bears a sacrosanct treasure into the unknown.’

  Karolus nodded. ‘I see that beneficence, prudence, and . . .’ he paused a moment, ‘ambition,’ he said, half smiling, ‘dwells in your heart as surely as the Holy Trinity dwells at the heart of our faith.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ Ealdred squirmed. ‘You honour me and the people of the kingdom of Wessex.’ His eyes flicked to Father Egfrith, then back to the emperor. ‘The treasure is yours, my lord,’ he said. ‘For a fair price. After all, I have lost much in recovering it.’

  Karolus leant back in his throne, still studying the Englishman before him. ‘I have need to go to Paris,’ he said, ‘for I must inspect the work that has begun on my coastal defences. If it were not enough that I have to deal with the Saxons in the north, my shores are still plagued by the godless Danes, may the Lord scour them and their heathen kind from this world. On my way to Paris I’ll find you at the wharf and I’ll see your gospel book for myself. If it is the treasure you claim, we will do business. You will not find me an ungenerous man, Ealdred.’ Ealdred fell to one knee and Egfrith hissed for us to do the same, which we did. ‘Now leave me,’ the emperor commanded, frowning as though suddenly struck by the aches and irritations of old age. I for one was eager to be gone from that place of enormous stone buildings and enchanted water before our ruse was uncovered. Father Egfrith was disappointed not to have had the opportunity to try the hot springs he had been telling us about, but the success of our undertaking more than made up for that – a success which owed much to the monk’s own cunning. We took our horses and collected our arms, then left the city of Aix-la-Chapelle as the pale sun rolled westward across an autumn sky.