Raven: Sons of Thunder

by Giles Kristian

  ‘If there is a good-looking one amongst them I might,’ Penda said, earning a scolding look from Egfrith.

  ‘Cucullus non facit monachum,’ Egfrith muttered, cocking an eyebrow. ‘The hood does not make the monk.’

  We left our mail behind because the habits were tight as it was and because the iron rings might be heard rattling beneath, but we wore our swords and long knives and hoped that their hilts would not be visible against the wool. Then, because we were humble monks, we left our horses with Floki and Halldor and set off on foot, passing the old boundary ditch and gazing up at the city walls which loomed before us, reflecting the last of the sun. Even from a distance as we walked amongst the clutters of smoke-wreathed dwellings, I could hear the birds in the rookery far behind, their parched, leathery rasping sounding like a tavern full of drunken men.

  ‘It doesn’t get any less impressive, does it?’ Penda said, the tilt of his cowl betraying the focus of his unseen eyes. The city wall dominated the landscape, its stone construction mocking the timber-built houses without, mocking even us men who were, after all, mere flesh and mortal. For they would stand long after our names had dissolved like smoke in a gale. Like Bjorn’s rune stone, I thought.

  ‘It is a monument to civilization in a barbarous world, Penda,’ Egfrith said, casting a blessing at a woman who was milking a goat by the path. The woman dipped her head gratefully.

  ‘This civilization you speak of beats young women who have done no wrong, monk,’ I growled, touching the All-Father amulet at my neck. Egfrith wanted to say that Cynethryth had been wrong to kill Ealdred, but he thought better of it and held his tongue.

  The imperial guards manning the gate did not ask questions this time, for they were used to monks and their vows of silence, but one of them did pull his head back and look Penda and me up and down. I wondered if I could get to my sword before they ran me through with their spears. I doubted it. But then Egfrith took out his small wooden cross and touched it to the guard’s forehead and spouted a stream of Latin, which turned the man’s suspicion to confusion. He nodded stiffly to Egfrith and waved us on, muttering under his breath to the other man, who seemed amused and relieved to have escaped the monk’s attention.

  ‘Benedictine brothers do not tend to have shoulders that could take a yoke,’ Egfrith muttered once we were inside the walls. I could see his point. The rowing and the training had made me as broad as the other Norsemen, broader even than some of them, and I wondered if my real father, whoever he had been, had had big shoulders and strong arms from ploughing the whale road. And though I felt horribly conspicuous in a Christ slave’s habit, it seemed that to the folk of Aix-la-Chapelle I was invisible. The merchants and the children and the whores let us alone so that we walked the gangplanks above the mud, following the wall westward and avoiding the seething heart of the city. Hearth smoke stung my eyes. Delicious smells made my mouth water one moment, only for some foul stench to bring a lump to my throat the next, and I was glad of the cowl because it felt like a refuge from the chaos around us, giving my thoughts room to breathe. And my thoughts were of Cynethryth.

  The city was in shadow when we came to the Convent of Saint Godeberta. The pasture beyond the western wall would still be flush with twilight, but the city walls defied the setting sun so that imperial soldiers were going round lighting fires in braziers atop iron poles. These flames gave instant life to stuttering shadows and attracted moths by the hundred, whilst cockroaches and rats scurried for the darkness beneath the bulwarks.

  The convent had walls of its own, though the whitewashed stone was crumbling in places and it could be climbed easily enough as a last resort, though I did not relish that prospect. There were too many guards walking the streets and we would not last long in monks’ habits instead of brynjas.

  ‘Remember,’ Egfrith warned after thumping three times on the gate, ‘keep your mouths shut and your heads down.’ After a while Egfrith thumped again, harder this time, and soon there was a commotion from inside, followed by the drawing of a bolt. A face appeared at a shutter, the eyes suspicious if not angry, followed by a stinging rattle of Frankish, which I could not make head or tail of. Calmly, Egfrith replied in Latin and the eyes widened. ‘You are the English monk,’ the nun accused. Then she giggled and I was surprised to hear that sound from a Christ bride. ‘You are the one who tried to baptize the heathen jarl and nearly drowned,’ she said, her English so good she might have come from Wessex.

  ‘I did not nearly drown,’ Egfrith insisted irritably. ‘I assure you, sister, I swim like a fish. Now are you going to let me in?’

  Within the dark space of her wimple the nun’s eyes narrowed again. ‘What business have you here with the sisters at this late hour? It is compline, Father Egfrith, the sisters are at prayer.’

  ‘I am well aware of the hour, sister, but I have been sent by Bishop Borgon, who believes I may be of some help to the Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Help?’ the nun said suspiciously. ‘Help with what?’

  ‘I really do not see it as any business of yours, sister, but since you seem to share a pig’s bent for rooting around I will indulge you with this acorn. The girl Cynethryth. I am told she is not . . . cooperative.’

  The nun frowned. ‘That one’s lost as a coin dropped in a tavern,’ she said. ‘Abbess Berta says she has spent so long with the heathens that the good Father has turned His back on her. She struck the abbess.’ Her eyes betrayed a hint of amusement at that. ‘Can you imagine that, Father? But the sisters made her pay for it.’ I was about to break down the door when I felt Penda’s hand grip my arm.

  ‘And yet despite the sisters’ efforts I hear the girl is still full of wickedness,’ Egfrith said, shaking his head sadly.

  ‘We pray for her soul, Father Egfrith,’ the nun said.

  Egfrith wagged a finger before her eyes. ‘Facta, non verba,’ he said. ‘Sometimes what is needed is actions, not words, my dear child.’ He swept a little arm back. ‘I have brought brothers Leofmar and Gytha who, as you can see, possess the strength to challenge Satan for the poor girl’s soul. Bishop Borgon believes they will be more . . .’ he paused, ‘persuasive than the good sisters, who are after all but sweet and gentle creatures. Now, please let us in so that we may begin our work.’

  The nun peered at Penda and me through the slit as a trickle of sweat ran down my back. Then she unbolted the gate, which creaked with complaint to be opened at such a late hour. We walked into a courtyard of grass upon which shadows danced, born of flaming torches that seethed quietly. Round the edge of the grass ran a covered walkway of polished oak in which faces and crosses had been carved with great skill. Somewhere the nuns were praying, their voices deadened by stone walls, and I fixed the sound to a small church on the east side of the courtyard. Other buildings of varying sizes surrounded the grass, some of wood but most of stone, which the nun who had let us in took pleasure in naming as we passed each one: the kitchen, the buttery, the refectory, the library, the chapter house, barns, bakeries and store houses. There was a peacefulness about the place that weighed heavily on me, making my chest tight as a full mead skin. I could feel the White Christ breathing down the neck of that coarse monk’s robe.

  ‘Beyond the workshop on the far side we have vegetable gardens, grain fields, and even an orchard,’ she announced proudly.

  ‘A safe harbour in a world of sin, sister,’ Egfrith said with a solemn smile.

  ‘You will have to wait in the guest house until Abbess Berta has finished compline,’ the nun said, addressing Egfrith but staring at me. I kept my hands clasped, my head bowed and my mouth shut. Then the woman showed us to a stone building with a thatch roof, opening the door and ushering us inside as though she was suddenly afraid of the other nuns seeing us. ‘I will have wine brought and maybe some bread if you and the brothers are hungry.’

  ‘Thank you, sister,’ Egfrith said, ‘and God bless you, child.’

  The nun swept away and Penda shut the door behind her, leaving us a
lone in that place in which the heavy darkness was illuminated by sweet-smelling beeswax candles. I could also smell freshly baked bread and the faint aroma of fennel.

  ‘Stirs the juices being here,’ Penda said, scratching the long scar on his face, ‘being walled up with all these women.’

  ‘Where is Cynethryth, Egfrith?’ I asked, instinctively touching my sword’s hilt through the thick wool of my habit.

  He sniffed loudly. ‘I believe they will have her in a cell in the dorter,’ he said, ‘but we need to move now, before compline ends and the sisters go to their beds.’ His eyes were wide and sweat was beading on his bald pate. ‘Are you both ready?’ I looked at Penda, who nodded, then the Wessexman opened the door and we stepped into the flamelit cloister to find Cynethryth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EGFRITH LED US ALONG THE WOODEN CLOISTER, OUR FOOTSTEPS thumping and clumsy, it seemed to me, in this place of White Christ brides. But there was no sign of the nuns as we passed the rancid-smelling latrine and then the infirmary from which leaked a low moaning mingled with the soft cooing of another woman. Swallows arrowed across the shadowed courtyard and bats flitted between the wooden arches of the cloister, snatching moths from the air.

  ‘Here,’ Egfrith hissed. My heart was hammering and my mouth was as dry as smoke at the thought of seeing Cynethryth. The dorter building was next to the stone church and we could clearly hear the nuns in prayer now, which meant we still had some time. Egfrith lifted the latch and we went inside. I felt myself grimace as the wooden staircase creaked underfoot, but we soon came to another door, which Egfrith pushed open gently, stepping into a narrow corridor in which Penda and I had to stoop. Off to both sides were doors open to small cells. Each contained a bed and stool and nothing more but for a few personal effects such as wooden crosses, wimples and habits. At the end of the corridor another staircase led down into darkness, but before that on the right was another cell, whose door was shut.

  ‘I’ll wager she’s in there,’ Egfrith said, pointing. ‘It is locked,’ he confirmed a moment later. ‘Cynethryth,’ he called softly against the thick oak. ‘Cynethryth, my girl, are you there?’ We put our ears to the door but heard nothing.

  ‘Maybe they are keeping her in one of the other buildings,’ Penda suggested. Just then we heard a door open out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘We must go,’ Egfrith rasped.

  ‘But you think she’s in there?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know where else they would put her,’ he hissed, ‘but we have no time.’

  I pushed him aside and leant back and with all my strength I kicked the door so that either the lock or my leg had to break. Luckily for me it was the lock. The splintering crack brought several gasps from up ahead, but we were inside and there was Cynethryth. She was tied to a bed and gagged, her bare arms and legs scraped raw by the coarse ropes. ‘Holy mother, you poor, poor creature,’ Egfrith whined as I took my knife and cut through the bonds. Cynethryth was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was a matted clump, her eyes were black holes and the skin of her face was stretched thin and looked brittle as old parchment. She did not seem to recognize me.

  ‘You’re safe, my peregrine,’ I whispered in her ear, lifting her into my arms.

  ‘What in the name of the Blessed Virgin is going on?’ a voice boomed and we turned to see a woman who could only be Abbess Berta herself standing in the doorway. By Óðin she was a big bitch. Behind her stood several nuns, whose eyes were plump with shock. ‘Father Egfrith? What do you think you are doing?’ Berta thundered.

  ‘I am taking this poor girl away from here, Reverend Mother,’ Egfrith snapped.

  ‘But she is in danger, Father! Her soul is black and we are trying to wrest it from the Dark One.’ As big as any Norseman, she blocked the doorway, gripping its frame, her craggy, death-white face trembling with rage.

  ‘You are a cruel old hag!’ Egfrith declared, pointing a bony finger at this woman who was thrice his size. ‘We’re leaving.’ Some of the nuns were clattering back down the stairs, probably going for help, so we had no more time to waste.

  ‘Give her to me, lad,’ Penda said, ‘and do what needs doing.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m a Christian.’

  I put Cynethryth in Penda’s arms and then I strode over and punched Abbess Berta in the jaw, dropping her like a sack of stones.

  ‘Raven!’ Egfrith exclaimed. The nuns screamed and fought each other to get away from us, bouncing along the corridor, and we followed them down the stairs and out into the night where I took my knife and cut slits up the front and back of our habits. Then we ran, our legs free now, straight across the grass courtyard for the main gate. Once through that we were out and clumping along the gangplanks skirting the city below the convent walls. As yet there was no sign that we were being followed. Aix-la-Chapelle was quiet but not deserted. Drunken men stumbled through the streets, jeering at by-passers and whores. Small groups of imperial soldiers patrolled, their scale armour reflecting the crackling flames of braziers. Dogs fought for scraps in the mud, unseen cats shrieked in the shadows, roof thatch rustled with mice, and we ran.

  When we saw the towers of the west gate we stopped and I took Cynethryth from Penda who was puffing like a carthorse. ‘There are too many guards,’ I said, eyeing the blue cloaks. There were two in each tower and eight more standing by the barred gates, talking and laughing. ‘They will ask too many questions.’

  ‘Can she walk?’ Penda asked, looking doubtfully at Cynethryth. I looked into her eyes, which were heavy, their lids falling closed for long stretches. She had not said a word.

  I shook my head. ‘She’s exhausted, Penda,’ I said.

  ‘Then we’ll have to take the chance,’ he said, making for the gate.

  ‘Wait!’ Egfrith said. ‘There.’ He pointed to a leatherworker’s shop – a timber lean-to whose thatch roof sloped up to meet the city’s west wall. It was a little higher than the lean-tos on either side and the reach to the top of the wall was less than a spear’s length. We pushed over the leatherworker’s rain barrel and upended it against the eaves, then Penda clambered up on to the thatch and I passed Cynethryth up to him, which was easy because the poor girl weighed no more than a sack of flour. Then Penda left Cynethryth at the apex against the wall whilst he leapt for a handhold and missed. On the second attempt he cursed like Thór. His right foot had crashed through the thatch and now came a surprised cry from inside the dwelling. The Wessexman yanked his foot out just as the door clattered open and I looked down from the barrel to see a big man standing there in nothing but his linen breeks, his hair and moustache as wild as his eyes. He grabbed Egfrith round the neck and began to strangle him. I leapt down and when he saw me he tossed Egfrith aside and came.

  ‘Help Penda!’ I yelled at Egfrith, who was coughing and spluttering. The Frank swung a fist but I blocked it with my forearm and stepped inside, ramming my forehead into his face. He staggered backwards, blood spurting from his nose, and I ran up and swung my boot into his groin so that his eyes almost burst with pain as he toppled sideways and curled up in the mud like a dying dog, teeth gritted. Another yell tore the night and I heard boots stamping along gangplanks.

  ‘They’re coming, Raven!’ Penda shouted. I jumped up and together Egfrith and I lifted Cynethryth up to Penda, who was straddling the city wall, his spiky hair silhouetted against the dark blue night sky.

  ‘Reach up to Penda, Cynethryth,’ I said, and she said nothing and I thought she had not heard me, but then she stretched her wasted arms up and with a great heave Penda hauled her on to the wall. Soldiers were shouting and I did not know if they were angry because we had climbed on to the leatherworker’s roof or because they had learnt about our raid on the convent. But I knew they would kill me for hitting that cow Abbess Berta and so I was up that wall like a cat up the side of a butter churn. ‘I’ll go first, Penda,’ I said, easing myself over the wall and then taking Penda’s hands so that, lying flat, he could lower me as far as possible
to shorten the fall. It was still a drop of some ten feet, but the ground was wet and soft and the fall did no damage. I was about to tell Cynethryth not to worry, that I would catch her, when she jumped, and somehow I caught her, wincing at the impact of her thin bones and hoping none had broken.

  ‘Now you, Father,’ Penda said, as an arrow whipped close to his head. The next thing I knew he and Father Egfrith were down and I had Cynethryth in my arms and we were running between the close-packed houses then out across the moon-silvered pasture. Up ahead the woods were a dark mass and somewhere amongst those trees Black Floki and Halldor were waiting with horses. If we got to the trees we would be safe.

  Behind us the gates of Aix-la-Chapelle clunked open and the next sound I heard chilled my soul and turned my bowels to ice. It was the sound of galloping hooves on damp earth. I did not dare turn and look but pumped my legs harder. In my arms Cynethryth bounced horribly. The Franks were yelling and it sounded as though there were a hundred of them.

  ‘Wait. Penda, you must take Cynethryth,’ I said, stopping and crouching with Cynethryth in the dewy grass. The others squatted too and the whites of their eyes shone ferally. My chest heaved. Every breath was a tortured rasp.

  ‘I’ll not leave you, lad,’ Penda said with a shake of his head. I looked at Egfrith.

  ‘Then you will have to take her,’ I said, to which the monk nodded without a heartbeat’s hesitation. ‘Get to the trees, monk. Whatever happens.’

  ‘But I see no torches,’ Egfrith said, looking to the tree line.

  ‘That’s because they know we are being followed,’ I said. ‘Black Floki will find you. Now go. We will keep them off you.’ I do not know where the monk found the strength, but he took Cynethryth in his little arms and ran, his white legs and the girl’s pale face reflecting the moonlight as he carried her off.

  Penda and I drew our swords and threw back our cowls. I grinned at him in the moonlight. Then I roared the name Óðin Spear-Shaker, jarl of the gods, and we ran towards the horses and the men carrying flames.