There was fighting directly in front of her peephole. She heard the clang of metal on metal, caught a brief glimpse of yellow cloth, the gleam of an uplifted sword. A body thumped down heavily. The fighting moved off to the side, and she was looking straight down the nave toward the cathedral entrance. The heavy doors stood ajar, propped open by a grotesque jumble of bodies.
The Norsemen were herding their victims away from the entrance toward the right side of the cathedral.
The way stood clear.
Now, she told herself. Run for the doors. But she could not bring herself to move; her limbs seemed to be locked.
A man appeared at the edge of her narrow field of vision. He looked so wild and disheveled that for a moment she did not recognize him as Odo. He was lurching toward the entrance, dragging his left leg. In his arms he clutched the huge Bible from the high altar.
He was almost to the doors when two Norsemen intercepted him. He faced his attackers, holding the Bible aloft as if warding off evil spirits. A heavy sword sliced through the book and took him directly in the chest. For a moment he stood, astonished, clutching the two halves of the book in his hands. Then he fell backwards and did not move again.
Joan shrank back into the darkness. The screams of the dying were all around her. Hunched in a ball, she buried her head in her arms. Her rapid heartbeat sounded in her ears.
THE screaming had stopped.
She heard the Norsemen calling out to one another in their guttural tongue. There was a loud noise of splintering wood. At first she did not understand what was happening; then she realized they were stripping the cathedral of its treasures. The men laughed and shouted. They were in high spirits.
It did not take them long to complete their plundering. Joan heard them grunting under the weight of their loot, their voices receding into the distance.
Rigid as a post, she sat in the dark and strained to hear. Everything was quiet. She inched toward the opening of the reredos until she reached the edge of the narrow crack of light.
The cathedral lay in ruins. Benches were overturned, hangings were torn off walls, statuary lay in pieces on the floor. There was no sign of the Norsemen.
Bodies lay everywhere, piled in careless heaps. A few feet away, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the altar, Fulgentius was sprawled beside the great wooden cross. It was splintered, the gilded crosspiece broken and wet with blood. Beside him lay the bodies of two Norsemen, their skulls crushed within their shattered helmets.
Cautiously, Joan crept forward until her head and shoulders were out of the reredos.
In the far corner of the room, something moved. Joan shrank back out of the light.
A pile of clothing twisted, then separated itself from the heap of bodies.
Someone was alive!
A young woman rose, her back toward Joan. She stood, shakily, and then began to stagger toward the door.
Her golden dress was ripped and bloodied, and her hair, torn loose from its cap, tumbled over her shoulders in auburn coils.
Gisla!
Joan called her name, and she turned, swaying unsteadily, toward the reredos.
There was a sudden burst of laughter outside the cathedral.
Gisla heard and wheeled to run, but it was too late. A group of Norsemen came through the door. They fell on Gisla with a jubilant shout, lifting her above their heads.
They carried her to an open space beside the altar and spread-eagled her, pinning her down by the wrists and ankles. She twisted violently to free herself. The tallest of the men dragged her tunic up over her face and dropped full length on her. Gisla screamed. The man dug his hands into her breasts. The others laughed and shouted encouragement as he raped her.
Joan gagged, clamping hand over mouth to mask the sound.
The Norseman stood up, and another one took his place. Gisla lay slack and unmoving. One of the men took hold of her hair and twisted it to make her jump.
A third man took her, and a fourth; then they left her alone while they retrieved several sacks piled near the door. There was a ringing of metal as they hoisted them; the sacks must have been filled with more of the cathedral’s plundered treasure.
It was for these that they had returned.
Before they left, one of the men strode over to Gisla, pulled her up, still limp and unresisting, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
They left by the far door.
Deep inside the reredos Joan heard only the eerie, echoing stillness of the cathedral.
LIGHT coming through the front seam of the reredos cast long shadows. There had been no sound for several hours. Joan stirred and crept cautiously through the narrow opening.
The high altar still stood, though stripped of its gold plating. Joan leaned against it, staring at the scene around her. Her wedding tunic was splattered with blood—her own? She could not tell. Her torn cheek throbbed with pain. Woodenly, she picked her way through the jumbled bodies, searching.
In a pile of corpses near the door, she came upon the farrier and his son, their arms sprawled as if each had tried to protect the other. In death the boy looked shrunken and old. Only a few hours ago, he had stood beside her in the cathedral, tall and ruddy and full of youthful strength and vigor. There will be no marriage now, Joan thought. Yesterday that thought would have filled her with profound relief and joy; now she felt nothing but numbing emptiness. She left him lying beside his father and continued her search.
She found John in the corner, his hand still gripping the Norseman’s sword. The back of his head had been smashed in with a heavy blow, but the violence of his death had left no mark on his face. His blue eyes were clear and open; his mouth was drawn back slightly in what appeared to be a smile.
He had died a soldier’s death.
SHE ran, stumbling, toward the door and pushed it open. It swung away from her crookedly, the hinges broken by the Norsemen’s axes. She rushed outside and stood gasping, breathing the fresh, sweet air in great gulps, ridding herself of the stench of death.
The landscape was bare. Smoke curled upward in lazy spirals from heaps of rubble that only this morning had been a lively clutter of homes and buildings surrounding the cathedral.
Dorstadt was in ruins.
Nothing stirred. No one was left. All the townspeople had been gathered in the cathedral for the mass.
She looked east. Above the trees obscuring her view, black smoke mushroomed skyward, darkening the sky.
Villaris.
They had burned it.
She sat down on the ground and put her face in her hands, cradling her wounded cheek.
Gerold.
She needed him to hold her, comfort her, make the world recognizable again. Scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes, she half-expected him to appear, riding toward her on Pistis, red hair streaming behind him like a banner.
I must wait for him. If he returns and does not find me, he will think I was carried off by the Norsemen, like poor Gisla.
But I can’t stay here. Fearfully she surveyed the ruined landscape. There was no sign of the Norsemen. Had they gone? Or would they be back, looking for more plunder?
What if they find me? She had seen what mercy an unprotected female could expect from them.
Where could she hide? She started toward the trees that marked the edge of the forest circling the town, slowly at first, then at a run. Her breath came sobbingly; at every step, she expected hands to grab her from behind, spinning her around to face the hideous, metallic masks of the Norsemen. Reaching the safety of the trees, she threw herself on the ground.
After a long while, she forced herself to sit up. Night was coming on. The forest around her was dark and foreboding. She heard a rustle of leaves and flinched in fear.
The Norsemen might be nearby, camping in these woods.
She had to escape from Dorstadt and somehow get word to Gerold about where she had gone.
Mama. She longed for her mother, but she could not go home. Her fathe
r had not forgiven her. If she returned now, bringing news of the death of his only remaining son, he would have his revenge upon her, that was certain.
If only I were not a girl. If only …
For the rest of her life she would remember this moment and wonder what power of good or evil had directed her thoughts. But now there was no time to consider. It was a chance. There might never be another.
The red sun glittered on the horizon. She had to act quickly.
She found John lying as she had left him, sprawled in the dim interior of the cathedral. His body was limp and unresistant as she rolled him onto his side. The death rigor had not yet set in.
“Forgive me,” she whispered as she unclasped John’s mantle.
When she was done, she covered him with her own discarded cloak. Gently she closed his eyes and arranged him as decently as she could. She stood, shifting her arms, adjusting to the weight and feel of her new clothes. They were not so different from her own, except for the sleeves, close-fitted at the wrists. She fingered the bone-handled knife she had taken from John’s belt.
Father’s knife. It was old, the white bone handle darkened and chipped, but the blade was sharp.
She went to the altar. Loosening her cap, she placed a mass of her hair upon the altar. It curled thickly over the smooth stone surface, almost white in the dimming light.
She lifted the knife.
Slowly, deliberately, she began to cut.
AT TWILIGHT, the figure of a young man stepped from the door of the ruined cathedral, scanning the landscape with keen gray-green eyes. The moon was rising in a sky quickening with stars.
Beyond the rubble of buildings, the eastern road shimmered mackerel-silver in the gathering darkness.
The figure slipped furtively out of the shadow of the cathedral. No one was left alive to watch as Joan hurried down the road, toward the great monastery of Fulda.
12
THE hall was crowded and clamorous, jammed with people who had traveled from miles around the small Westphalian village to witness the proceedings of the mallus. They stood shoulder to shoulder, jostling, scuffling the clean rushes that had been scattered across the beaten earth floor, uncovering the ancient accumulation of beer, grease, spittle, and animal excrement that lay beneath. The rank odor rose into the hot, close air. But no one gave it much mind, such odors being common in Frankish dwellings. Besides, the focus of the crowd’s attention lay elsewhere: on the red-haired Frisian count who had come as missus to render judgment and deliver justice in the Emperor’s name.
Gerold turned to Frambert, one of the seven scabini assigned to assist him in his work. “How many more today?” The mallus had convened at first light; it was now midafternoon, and they had been hard at it for over eight hours. Behind the high table at which Gerold sat, his retainers drooped wearily over their swords. He had brought twenty of his best men, just in case. Ever since the death of the Emperor Karolus, the Empire had been sinking into disarray; the position of imperial missi had become increasingly precarious. They were sometimes met with bold-faced defiance from wealthy and powerful local lords, men who were unused to having their authority questioned. The law was nothing if it could not be enforced; that was why Gerold had brought so many men, though this had meant leaving Villaris with only a handful of defenders. But the manor’s strong wooden palisades were sufficient guarantee against the depredations of the solitary thieves and brigands who had been the only threat to the peace and security of the surrounding countryside for many years.
Frambert checked the list of complainants, written on a strip of parchment eight inches wide, its segments stitched together end to end to form a roll some fifteen feet long.
“Three more today, my lord,” Frambert said.
Gerold sighed wearily. He was tired and hungry; his patience for dealing with the endless stream of petty accusations, countercharges, and complaints was wearing thin. He wished he were back at Villaris, with Joan.
Joan. How he missed her—her husky voice, her rich, deep laughter, her fascinating gray-green eyes, which regarded him with such knowledge and love. But he must not think of her. That was why he had agreed to serve as missus after all—to put distance between them, give him time to regain control of the ungovernable intensity of emotion that had been building inside him.
“Call the next case, Frambert,” Gerold commanded, putting a check on his errant thoughts.
Frambert lifted the roll of parchment and read aloud, straining to be heard over the buzzing crowd.
“Abo complains of his neighbor Hunald, that he has unlawfully and without just compensation taken his livestock from him.”
Gerold nodded knowingly. The situation was all too common. In these illiterate times, rare was the property owner who could keep written account of his holdings; the absence of such records left his fields open to all kinds of thievery and false dealing.
Hunald, a big, florid-faced man, dressed ostentatiously in scarlet linen, stepped forward to deny the charge.
“The beasts are mine. Bring me the reliquary.” He pointed to the box of holy relics on the high table. “Before God”—he posed dramatically, raising his arms toward Heaven—“I will swear to my innocence on these sacred bones.”
“They are my cows, my lord, not Hunald’s, as well he knows,” responded Abo, a small man whose quiet demeanor and simple dress made him a study in contrast with Hunald. “Hunald can swear as he likes; it will not change the truth.”
“What, Abo, do you question God’s judgment?” Hunald remonstrated. His voice registered the correct note of pious indignation, but Gerold caught the undertone of triumph. “Mark it, my lord Count, this is blasphemy!”
“Have you any proof the beasts are yours?” Gerold asked Abo.
The question was highly irregular; there were no laws of witness or evidence in Frankland. Hunald glowered at Gerold. What was this strange Frisian count trying to do?
“Proof?” This was a new idea; Abo had to think for a moment. “Well, Berta—that’s my wife—can name every one, and so can my four children, for they have known them since they were babes. They can tell you which ones have a temper when milked, and which prefer clover to grass.” Another thought struck him. “Bring me to them and let me call them; they will come to me readily, for they know the sound of my voice and the touch of my hand.” A tiny flicker of hope ignited in Abo’s eyes.
“Nonsense!” Hunald exploded. “Is this court supposed to accept the unthinking actions of dumb beasts before the sacred laws of Heaven? I demand just trial by compurgation. Bring the box of relics and let me swear!”
Gerold stroked his beard, considering. Hunald was the accused; he was within his rights to request the oath taking. God would not permit him to swear falsely with his hand on the holy relics, or so said the law.
The Emperor set great store by such trials, but Gerold had his doubts. There were certainly men who, caring more for the solid advantages of this world than for the vague and insubstantial terrors of the next, would not hesitate to lie. If it came to that, I would do it myself, Gerold thought, if the stakes were high enough. He would swear to a lie on a whole cartful of relics to protect the safety of anyone he loved.
Joan. Again her image rose irresistibly to his mind, and he forced it aside. There would be time enough for such thoughts when the day’s work was done.
“My lord.” Frambert spoke quietly into his ear. “I can vouch for Hunald. He is a fine man, a generous man, and this claim against him is falsely brought.”
Below the level of the table, out of sight of the crowd, Frambert played with a magnificent ring, an amethyst set in silver, engraved with the figure of an eagle. He twirled it round his middle finger so Gerold could see how it gleamed in the light.
“Ah, yes, a most generous man.” Frambert slipped the ring off his finger. “Hunald wished me to tell you that it is yours. A gesture of his appreciation for your support.” A small, tentative smile played at the corners of his lips.
Gerold took the ring. It was a magnificent piece of work, the finest he had ever seen. He handled it, admiring its weight and the perfect workmanship of its artisan. “Thank you, Frambert,” he said decisively. “This makes my judgment easier.”
Frambert’s smile widened into a broad, conspiratorial grin.
Gerold turned to Hunald. “You wish to submit yourself to the judgment of God.”
“Yes, my lord.” Hunald swelled with confidence, having witnessed the exchange between Gerold and Frambert. The servant with the box of relics stepped forward, but Gerold waved him back.
“We will seek God’s judgment through the judicium aquae ferventis.”
Hunald and Abo looked blank; like everyone else in the room, they knew no Latin.
“Kesselfang,” Gerold translated.
“Kesselfang!” Hunald blanched; he had not thought of this. Ordeal by boiling water was a well-known form of trial, but it had not been employed in this part of the Empire for some years.
“Bring the caldron,” Gerold commanded.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the room dissolved into a chaotic bustle of conversation and activity. Several of the scabini rushed outside to search the nearby houses for a pot with water already on the boil. Minutes later they returned, carrying a black iron caldron, deep as a man’s arm from top to bottom, filled with steaming hot water. Placed on the hearth in the center of the room, the water soon foamed and bubbled.
Gerold nodded, satisfied. Given Hunald’s talent for bribery, it might have been a smaller pot.
Hunald scowled. “My lord Count, I protest!” Fear had rendered him indifferent to appearances. “What about the ring?”
“My thought exactly, Hunald.” Gerold held the ring up for all to see, then threw it into the caldron. “On the accused’s suggestion, this ring shall be the servitor of God’s judgment.”
Hunald swallowed hard. The ring was small and slippery; it would be hellishly difficult to retrieve. But he could not refuse the trial without admitting his guilt and returning Abo’s cows—and they were worth well over seventy solidi. He cursed the foreign count who was so inexplicably immune to the mutually beneficial exchange of favors that had characterized his dealings with other missi. Then he took a deep breath and plunged his arm into the pot.
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