Startled, Gerold stepped backwards. His foot struck another body, and he almost fell. He looked down. At his feet lay Dhuoda, her body twisted as if she had tried to dodge her attacker’s blow. With a groan, Gerold dropped to his knees beside his daughter’s body. Gently he touched her, stroking her fine, soft child’s hair, rearranging her limbs so she rested more comfortably. He kissed her cheek and passed his hand over the vacant eyes, closing them. It was all wrong. She should have been the one to perform these final respects for him.
With leaden expectation, he rose and resumed his grisly search through the sprawled bodies. Joan must be there somewhere, among the others; he had to find her.
He traversed the room, staring into every one of the cold, dead faces, recognizing in each of them the familiar features of a townsman, neighbor, or friend. But he did not find Joan.
Could she have somehow, miraculously, escaped? Was it possible? Gerold scarcely dared hope. He started to search the room again.
“My lord! My lord!” Voices rose urgently outside the cathedral. Gerold reached the door as the rest of his men came riding up.
“Norsemen, my lord! Down by the river! Loading their ships—”
But Gerold was already out the door, running toward Pistis.
THEY rode hell-bent for the river, their horses’ hooves drumming on the hard earth of the road. They gave no thought to surprise; reckless with grief, they were fixed only on revenge.
Rounding a corner, they saw a long, shallow-drafted ship with a high wooden prow carved in the shape of a dragon’s head with gaping mouth and long, curving teeth. Most of the Norsemen were already aboard, but a score remained onshore guarding the ship while the last of the booty was loaded.
With a great wordless battle shout, Gerold spurred forward, leveling his spear. His men followed close behind. The unmounted Norsemen dived and stumbled to get out of the way; several fell screaming beneath the trampling hooves. Gerold raised his barbed javelin, taking aim at the nearest Norseman, a gold-helmeted giant with a yellow beard. The giant turned, lifted his shield, and the javelin landed in it, shuddering.
Suddenly the air was filled with arrows; the Norsemen were shooting at them. Pistis reared wildly, then lurched to the ground, a feathered shaft in his eye. Gerold jumped clear, landing awkwardly on his left leg. He drew his sword and ran limping toward the giant, who was struggling to cut the javelin free from his shield. Gerold placed his foot on the butt of the javelin as it trailed on the ground, pulling the Norseman’s shield down and away. The giant looked at Gerold with surprise and lifted his ax, but it was too late; with a single stroke Gerold took him through the heart. Without waiting to see him fall, Gerold whirled and struck at another Norseman, cleaving him through the head. Bloody shreds of tissue spattered Gerold’s face, and he wiped his eyes to see. He was in the thick of the fighting now. He raised his sword, striking all around him with reckless exhilaration, the tightly coiled emotions of the past hour sprung forth in a welcome delirium of killing and blood.
“They’re leaving! They’re leaving!” The shouts of his men sounded in Gerold’s ears; he looked toward the shore and saw the dragon-headed ship pulling away, its red sail fluttering in the wind. The Norsemen were fleeing.
A riderless black-maned bay danced nervously a few feet away. Gerold leapt on his back. The horse panicked and reared, but Gerold stayed with him, hands firm on the bridle. The bay turned smartly and headed for the shore. With a shout to his men to follow, Gerold rode straight into the water. An unused spear dangled from the saddle. Gerold withdrew the spear and hurled it with a force that almost propelled him over the neck of the bay. The spear sliced the air, its iron tip shimmering in the sun, and dropped into the water just short of the grinning dragon’s mouth.
There was a burst of jeering laughter from the ship. The Norsemen called out derisively in their rough tongue. Two of them hoisted a golden bundle for display, only it wasn’t a bundle, it was a woman hanging limply between them, a woman with auburn hair.
“Gisla!” Gerold shouted in an agony of recognition. What was she doing here? She should be safe at home with her husband.
Dazedly Gisla lifted her head. “Father!” she screamed. “Fa-therrrrrr!” Her cry resonated in the fiber of his being.
Gerold spurred the bay, but he whinnied and backed off, refusing to advance any farther into the deepening dark water. He jabbed him in the hindquarters with his sword to force him to obey, but it only panicked him; he bucked wildly, his hooves flailing. A less skilled rider would have been thrown, but Gerold held on determinedly, fighting to bend the bay to his will.
“My lord! My lord!” Gerold’s men were all around him, grabbing the bridle, pulling him back.
“It’s hopeless, my lord.” Grifo, Gerold’s lieutenant, spoke clearly in his ear. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
The red sails of the Viking ship had ceased fluttering; they curved smoothly as the ship glided rapidly away from shore. There was no way to pursue it, no boats anywhere, even had Gerold and his men known how to sail them; the craft of shipbuilding had long been forgotten in Frankland.
Numbly, Gerold allowed Grifo to lead the bay to shore. Gisla’s cry still echoed in his ears. Fatherrrrrr! She was lost, irretrievably lost. There had been reports of young girls taken during the Norsemen’s increasingly frequent raids along the coast of the Empire, but Gerold had never thought, never imagined …
Joan! The thought struck him with the force of an arrow shaft, robbing him of breath. They had taken her too! Gerold’s disordered thoughts spun round, seeking another possibility, but found none. The barbarians had abducted Joan and Gisla, stolen them away to unspeakable horrors, and there was nothing, nothing he could do to save them.
His eyes fell on one of the dead Norsemen. He leapt off the bay, grabbed the long-handled ax from the dead man’s clenched hand, and began striking at the corpse. The limp body jumped with every blow. The golden helmet came off, revealing the beardless face of a young boy, but Gerold kept striking, raising the ax again and again. Blood spurted everywhere, drenching his clothes.
Two of his men moved to stop him, but Grifo held them back.
“No,” he said quietly. “Let him be.”
A few moments later Gerold released the ax and dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands. Warm blood coated his fingers, sticking them together. Sobs rose explosively in his throat, and he no longer tried to resist. Brokenly and un ashamedly he wept.
13
Colmar | June 24, 833
The Field of Lies
ANASTASIUS pulled aside the heavy curtains covering the opening of the Pope’s tent and slipped inside.
Gregory, fourth of that name to occupy the Throne of St. Peter, was still at prayer, kneeling on the silken pillows placed before the exquisite carved ivory figure of Christ that occupied the place of honor in his tent. The figure had survived the perilous journey over ruined roads and bridges, through the high and treacherous passes of the Alps, without a scratch. It gleamed as brightly here, in a crude tent pitched on this alien Frankish land, as it had in the safety and comfort of Gregory’s private chapel in the Lateran Palace.
“Deus illuminatio mea, Deus optimus et maximus,” Gregory prayed, his face alight with devotion.
Watching soundlessly from the entryway, Anastasius wondered, Was I ever so simple in my faith? Perhaps once, when he was very small. But his innocence had died the day his uncle Theodorus had been murdered in the Lateran Palace before his eyes. “Watch,” his father had told him then, “and learn.”
Anastasius had watched, and learned—learned how to conceal his true feelings behind the mask of manners, learned how to manipulate and deceive, even betray, if necessary. The rewards of that knowledge had been gratifying. At nineteen, Anastasius was already vestiarius—the youngest man ever to hold so high a position. Arsenius, his father, took great pride in him. Anastasius meant to make him prouder still.
“Christ Jesus, give me the wisdom I need this
day,” Gregory continued. “Show me the way to avert this unholy war and reconcile these rebellious sons to the Emperor their father.”
Is it possible that he does not know, even yet, what he stands to lose this day? Anastasius could scarcely believe it. The Pope was such an innocent. Anastasius was only nineteen, less than half Gregory’s age, and already he understood far more about the world.
He is ill suited to be Pope, Anastasius thought, not for the first time. Gregory was a pious soul, there was no denying that, but piety was an overrated virtue. The man had a nature better suited to the cloister than the papal court, whose subtle politics were forever beyond his reach. Whatever had Emperor Louis been thinking of when he had asked Gregory to make the long journey from Rome to the empire of the Franks to serve as mediator in this crisis?
Anastasius coughed discreetly, to attract Gregory’s attention, but he was lost in prayer, gazing at the Christ figure with a look of exaltation.
“It is time, Holiness.” Anastasius did not hesitate to interrupt the Pope’s devotions. Gregory had been at prayer for over an hour, and the Emperor was waiting.
Startled, Gregory looked around, and seeing Anastasius, nodded, crossed himself, and stood, smoothing the bell-shaped purple paenula which he wore over the papal dalmatic.
“I see you have drawn strength from the Christ figure, Holiness,” Anastasius said, helping Gregory put on the pallium. “I too have felt its power.”
“Yes. It is magnificent, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Especially the beauty of the head, which is large in proportion to the body. It always reminds me of the first Epistle to the Corinthians: ‘And the head of Christ is God.’ A glorious expression of the idea that Christ combines in His person both natures, God-hood and manhood.”
Gregory beamed appreciatively. “I don’t think I have ever heard that thought so well expressed. You make a fine vestiarius, Anastasius; the eloquence of your faith is an inspiration.”
Anastasius was pleased. Such papal praise might well translate into another promotion—to nomenclator, perhaps, or even primicerius? He was young, it was true, but such high honors were not beyond ambition. Indeed, they were but way stations on the path to the single overarching ambition of Anastasius’s life: to be Pope himself one day.
“You overprize me, Sire,” Anastasius said with what he hoped was becoming modesty. “It is the perfection of the sculpture, and not my inadequate words, which deserves your praise.”
Gregory smiled. “Spoken with true humilitas.” He put his hand fondly on Anastasius’s shoulder and said gravely, “It is God’s work we do this day, Anastasius.”
Anastasius studied the Pope’s face. He suspects nothing. Good. Obviously, Gregory still believed that he could mediate a peace between the Emperor and his sons, still knew nothing of the secret arrangements that Anastasius had so carefully and quietly carried out, following his father’s explicit instructions.
“Tomorrow’s dawn will see a new peace in this troubled land,” Gregory said.
That is true enough, thought Anastasius, though the peace will not be of the kind you envision.
If all went as planned, tomorrow at dawn the Emperor would awake to find that his troops had deserted in the night, leaving him defenseless before the armies of his sons. It was all agreed upon and paid for; nothing that Gregory said or did this day would make the slightest whit of difference.
But it was important that the papal mediation occur as planned. Negotiating with Gregory would allay the Emperor’s suspicions and distract his attention at this crucial juncture.
It would be judicious to offer Gregory some encouragement. “It is a great thing you do today, Holiness,” Anastasius said. “God will smile upon it, and upon you.”
Gregory nodded. “I know it, Anastasius. More surely at this moment than ever before.”
“Gregory the peacemaker, they will call you, Gregory the Great!”
“No, Anastasius,” Gregory reproved. “If I succeed in this day’s work, it will be God’s doing, not mine. The future of the Empire, upon which Rome’s security depends, hangs in the balance today. If we win through, it will be with His help alone.”
Gregory’s selfless faith fascinated Anastasius, who regarded it as a freak of nature akin to having six fingers on one hand. Gregory was a genuinely humble man, Anastasius decided—but then, considering his talents, he had every reason to be humble.
“Accompany me to the Emperor’s tent,” Gregory said. “I would like you to be there when I speak with him.”
Everything is going smoothly, Anastasius thought. When this was over, he had only to return to Rome and wait. Once Lothar was crowned Emperor in his father’s place, he would know how to reward Anastasius for the work he had done here.
Gregory went to the door of the tent. “Come then. Let us do what must be done.”
They walked out onto the open field crowded with the tents and banners of the Emperor’s army. It was hard to believe that by tomorrow morning the colorful riot of activity would all be gone. Anastasius tried to imagine the look on Louis’s face when he stepped outside his tent and found the quiet fields stretching bare before him.
Passing the royal guard, they arrived at the imperial tent. Just outside, Gregory paused to murmur one last prayer. “Verba mea auribus percipe, Domine …”
Anastasius watched impatiently while Gregory’s full, almost feminine lips soundlessly formed the words of the fifth psalm: “… intende voci clamoris mei, rex meus et Deus meus …”
Pious fool. At that moment Anastasius’s contempt for the Pope was so strong that he had to make a conscious effort to keep his voice respectful.
“Shall we go in, Sire?”
Gregory raised his head. “Yes, Anastasius, I am ready.”
14
Fulda
IN THE shadowy predawn moonlight, the brothers of Fulda descended the night stairs and walked serenely in single file through the inner courtyard to the church, their gray robes merging seamlessly with the darkness. The quiet slap of their plain leathern sandals was the only sound to break the profound silence; even the larks would not awaken for several hours. The brothers entered the choir and, with the sureness of long habit, moved to their assigned positions for the celebration of vigils.
Brother John Anglicus knelt with the others, shifting knees with practiced, unconscious movements to find the most comfortable place on the packed earth floor.
Domine labia mea aperies … They began with a versicle, then moved on to the third psalm, following the form laid down by St. Benedict in his blessed rule.
John Anglicus liked this first office of the day. The unchanging pattern of the ceremony left the mind free to roam while the lips mouthed the familiar words. Several brothers were already starting to nod, but John Anglicus felt marvelously awake, all senses quickened and alert to this little world lit by flickering candle flames, bounded by the comforting solidity of the walls.
The feeling of belonging, of community, was especially strong this time of night. Daylight’s sharp edges, so quick to expose individual personalities, likes and dislikes, loyalties and grudges, were submerged in the muted shadows and the resonant unison of the brothers’ voices, hushed and melodic in the still night air.
Te Deum laudamus … John Anglicus chanted the Alleluia with the others, their bowed, cowled heads as indistinguishable as seeds in a furrow.
But John Anglicus was not like the others. John Anglicus did not belong here among this renowned and distinguished brotherhood. It was not through any defect of mind or character that this was so. It was an accident of fate, or of a cruel, indifferent God, that set John Anglicus irrevocably apart. John Anglicus did not belong among the brothers of Fulda, because John Anglicus, born Joan of Ingelheim, was a woman.
FOUR years had passed since she had presented herself at the abbey foregate disguised as her brother John. “Anglicus” they named her, because of her English father, and even among this select brotherhood of scholars, poets, and
intellects, she soon distinguished herself.
The very same qualities of mind that as a woman had earned her derision and contempt were here universally praised. Her brilliance, knowledge of Scripture, and quick-wittedness in scholarly debate became matters of community pride. She was free—no, encouraged—to work to the very limit of her abilities. Among the novices, she was quickly promoted to seniorus; this gave her greater freedom of access to the renowned Fulda library—an enormous collection of some three hundred and fifty codices, including an extraordinarily fine series of classical authors—Suetonius, Tacitus, Virgil, Pliny, Marcellinus, among others. She ranged among the neatly rolled stacks in a transport of delight. All the knowledge of the world was here, it seemed, and all was hers for the asking.
Coming upon her reading a treatise of St. Chrysostom one day, Prior Joseph was surprised to discover that she knew Greek, a skill no other brother possessed. He told Abbot Raban, who immediately set her to work translating the abbey’s excellent collection of Greek treatises on medicine; these included five of Hippocrates’ seven books of aphorisms, the complete Tetrabiblios of Aëtius, as well as fragments of works by Oribasius and Alexander of Tralles. Brother Benjamin, the community physician, was so impressed with Joan’s work that he made her his apprentice. He taught her how to grow and harvest the plants in the medicinal herb garden, and how to make use of their various healing properties: fennel for constipation, mustard for coughs, chervil for hemorrhages, wormwood and willow-bark for fevers—there were curatives in Benjamin’s garden for every human ailment imaginable. Joan helped him compound the various poultices, purges, infusions, and simples that were the mainstay of monastic medicine, and she accompanied him to the infirmary to tend the sick. It was fascinating work, exactly suited to her inquisitive, analytical mind. Between her studies and her work with Brother Benjamin, as well as the bells that rang regularly seven times a day, calling the brethren to canonical prayers, her days were busy and productive. There was a freedom and power in this man’s existence that she had never experienced before, and Joan found that she liked it; she liked it very much.
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