The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I’ll get the axe,” said Wulf. “He can show us a trick or two.”

  “Please,” Peter said, “those stories are exaggerated.”

  “You must have tricked them,” declared Robert. Heavy thinking crumpled his brow. “I’ve heard of warriors feigning fear before, cringing at the approach of a foe and then launching a surprise attack. Is that what you did?”

  Wulf grew wary. “Is he a berserk?”

  “That’s a good guess,” said the third. “His red hair marks him. People say he’s half Dane.”

  Robert snapped his fingers. “Odo he said was born in Ireland. A Northman raped his mother. But I don’t think he went berserk.”

  “Let’s have a match,” said Wulf. “I need practice against a Danish axe man.”

  The idea horrified Peter. He had seen knights training, how they banged each other with their wooden practice swords. He backed up. The three husky youths followed.

  Luckily, Count Odo showed up. “Aha! Gerold was right.”

  Peter glanced around the three young bravoes. The Count wore a silken cape, black gloves and shiny black boots. He limped toward them, smiling, with his long hair tied by a knot of calf-leather.

  “Is this the monk you’ve been talking about?” asked Robert.

  A flicker of annoyance touched Odo’s smile. “I found him wandering the forests, yes.”

  “He had an axe, right?” said Wulf.

  Odo made a vague gesture. “He survived his abbey’s burning. The abbey lay in Gozlin’s jurisdiction. So I brought him back for the Bishop as a favor.” Odo appeared puzzled. “To what do I owe this visit, Peter? Did the Bishop send you?”

  Peter was about to say that he knew very well why he was here, but he caught a look from Odo.

  “I have a private message for you, milord.”

  “Oh,” Odo said. “Then if you would come this way.”

  “When he’s done with you we would like him to join us,” said Wulf. “We want him to show us some axe-tricks.”

  “Hmm, only if Peter has the time,” Odo said. “The Bishop might not approve.”

  “What do we care about that?” said Wulf. “Gozlin can—”

  “Oh but we do care,” interrupted Odo. “We must defend Paris in union, not disunion. Remember what I showed you the other day. You broke one stick—and that rather easily—but you couldn’t break five tied in a bundle. We must fight together and thus not unduly annoy each other.”

  Wulf touched his invisible mustache, considering the words.

  Odo guided Peter down a corridor, away from the three young knights and with his silken cape aflutter. Peter had never seen so much silk. A bishop once had a mantle of silk over his vestments and he’d seen ribbons of silk tied into a lady’s hair, but an entire cape! No doubt, a Jewish merchant allowed into the Umayyad Emirate of Cordoba had brought it over the Pyrenees Mountains.

  Odo hissed over his back, “You shouldn’t have come here. That was a mistake.”

  Before Peter could reply, the Count propelled him into a smaller room, shutting the door behind them. A shelf of books stood at one wall and tacked onto the opposite wall was a great cowhide map. It showed in charcoal outline Paris, the Seine and the surrounding countryside. Parchments lay on a desk and inkbottles and several quills. An open window looked out into the house’s garden, dominated by a big but leafless oak tree. The first snowfall was probably only weeks away. Odo closed the shutters. Light still penetrated through chinks in the wooden slats, but the room became gloomy but for an oil lamp.

  “You didn’t think,” Odo said. “What will Gozlin say when he discovers that you’ve visited me?”

  “Why should he know?”

  Odo scowled and gestured Peter toward a stool. He leaned near the window and crossed his arms. “Now my brother and his friends have seen you. You’ve touched their fancy, I vow, and that means they’ll make jests concerning you.” Odo shook his head. “Gozlin has his spies, just as I have mine. He’ll learn of this visit and maybe begin to wonder about you. It was a mistake coming here. You can’t do it again.”

  Trying to appear contrite, Peter withdrew the parchments from his sleeve. Half of the first page was damp, wrinkling it; the first A and a few of the other letters looked as if they’d been bleeding. He set the bundle on the desk.

  Odo forgot his scowl as he pulled off his gloves and limped to the desk. He drew the oil lamp closer and scanned the first page. “Good, good.” He counted them. “No, I need more. You must bring me more.”

  “Are you certain you can read them? I’m afraid I blotted too many of the letters.”

  Odo rechecked the pages. He shrugged. “Your handwriting is better than most. Hmm, I suppose you’ve written more legibly.” He shook the papers. “I need more, brother. You must copy the entire book!”

  Peter rubbed his eyes. He was so tired. “Milord, I’m writing fast as I can.”

  “And I appreciate that. You will be rewarded, never doubt it.”

  “The reward is Willelda, milord.”

  A subtle change altered the Count, freezing the smile, making it brittle. “She must be a wonderful girl, and certainly she must still be alive… We both hope that. Yet there is the possibility of tragedy. The Northmen are notoriously cruel. It grieves me to bring that to your attention. In such a terrible event… of course I would be honor-bound to reward you in some other fashion.”

  Peter shook his head as cramps knotted his gut.

  “This is a treasure that you given me,” Odo said, touching the parchments. “So treasure I will give you in return. Silver, gold—”

  Anguish laced Peter’s words: “I desire no wealth, milord.”

  “Of course not, you’re a monk. I’m not trying to tempt you with personal gain, but I believe I’ve heard you say something before about rebuilding your abbey. That takes wealth, does it not? I would feel honor-bound toward paying the cost of its construction, or most of the cost, in any case.”

  “Milord, the agreement was Willelda’s freedom.”

  Odo nodded. “She will be freed—if it’s humanly possible.”

  Peter’s cheek twitched. He was damned. His sins cursed him.

  “Look, my friend,” Odo said, “this is war. The greatest host of Northmen ever assembled lies near our city. The very life of the kingdom is at stake. I want to free your girl—”

  “Milord, you must free her now.”

  Odo pursed his lips.

  The twist in Peter’s gut tightened.

  “Sigfred has gathered his plundering warbands,” Odo said. “The Northmen are through ravaging the countryside. I’ve learned—if you can believe this—that among their company are Northmen who have been to Constantinople and back, and have fought against the Eastern Emperor and learned many of their cunning Greek tactics. They fashion rock-throwing engines. The Northmen sharpen their swords and make hundreds of bundles of arrows. Soon they will sail upon Paris. What this means, brother, is that their encampments, practically speaking, are unapproachable.”

  “But you promised, milord. That’s why I’ve been copying these pages.”

  “I understand. I’ve attempted her rescue—”

  “When?” Peter said. “When have you done this? I tried and failed horribly, but when have you tried?”

  Count Odo fell silent. He stared at Peter, not in rage, not glaring, but in a studied, penetrating examination.

  Peter tried to match that stare but couldn’t. He was a fool to have trusted a noble, a gullible fool. Oh, how could he rid himself of these dreadful sins? He needed God’s help in rescuing Willelda. He knew that. He knew that deep in his soul.

  “I appreciate your love for this girl,” said Count Odo. “You have greatly assisted me. I don’t deny that for a moment. I commend you for it, and I will reward you for your precious labor. Yet we must be reasonable. Paris, perhaps all of Neustria, is about to be swallowed by the Northmen. This isn’t just any city. It used to be the capital of the Merovingian kings. Perhaps more importantly, it
holds a key, a strategic position in the river-ways. If Paris falls and the Northmen can hold it as a fortress… their position becomes overwhelming. This isn’t just any reaver raid, Peter. I’ve counted their numbers. It’s staggering. The Roman Empire fell to barbarians, to my ancestors. Perhaps our empire is now about to fall to new barbarians. But if we can hold Paris, if we can stop them here.”

  Peter looked up. His heart hurt. He should have used the axe and followed the Northmen into the woods that first time. He had seen her, had almost been able to touch her.

  “We will free her,” Odo said.

  Peter shook his head. “Your father died fighting Northmen. He tried to stem the tide. Now you will die in the same—”

  “No!” Odo said. He slammed a fist onto the desk.

  It startled Peter.

  “No,” Odo said, more softly.

  Peter spoke without considering his words. “Your father died facing Northmen. Now you’re trying to complete what he couldn’t.”

  The Count no longer stared at him the way a fox studies a raven with a grape in its beak. There was something grim and deadly in the stare, something elemental and dangerous.

  Peter gestured feebly.

  Count Odo rose. He limped to the window, opening the shutters. As he peered into the garden, he withdrew from his belt and donned the black gloves.

  This is betrayal, Peter told himself. The stomach cramps lessened as cynicism warped his tongue. “What if I’m unable to finish the book, milord? Will you sacrifice Judith in trade for De Re Militari? Will you give up of yours what you have so freely given up of… others?”

  Count Odo regarded him.

  “All in order to save Neustria, of course,” Peter said.

  “You have a right to be bitter, but you must not speak to me like that. I am Count Odo. I rule here. The book has taught me that leaders must be harsh and demanding and at times make soul-devouring decisions. I have sworn to defeat the Northmen. I will see their bodies burnt and butchered. I will hold Paris.” Odo pursed his lips. “If it is possible, I will free your Willelda. Nor will I ever hold it over you that a monk has a lover.”

  If that’s true, why bother mentioning it? Peter thought.

  “Bring me the rest of the book, brother. I will reward you greatly by whatever means lies at my disposal.”

  Before Peter could respond, there was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” Odo said curtly.

  The door opened and a woman in white entered the room. She caught Peter’s breath. She shocked him. She wore gold dust sprinkled slippers on her dainty feet; each had a silver buckle. She wore rich garments and a red scarf around her throat. She had long, golden hair that cascaded to the middle of her back. Her face was so white that faint tracing of blue under the skin made her seem angelic.

  “Judith, dear,” the Count said. “I’m almost finished here.”

  She turned to Peter and he felt the force of her gaze. Here was Helen of Troy. Oh, now he understood the Iliad. He understood how a face could launch a thousand ships. No, he didn’t think Count Odo would return her to the convent, not even for the book.

  “You are Peter the Monk?” she asked.

  “Yes… milady.”

  “I’ve heard of you.”

  “And I you, milady,” Peter said.

  Odo cleared his throat.

  She curtsied in his direction. “May I ask him a question, milord?”

  Odo hesitated until at last he nodded.

  “Did you truly take up an axe, brother?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Peter said, not with his usual weary sigh at such a question, but almost with a hint of pride.

  “You picked it up in service for your lady?” she asked.

  Peter darted a sharp glance at Odo.

  The Count mumbled something about letting it slip.

  “I am well able to keep a secret,” she told Peter.

  He wondered how many other people would learn of his secret and keep it to themselves before it damned him forever.

  “You charged the Northmen as they carried her away?” she asked.

  “Yes, milady,” Peter whispered.

  “How truly noble,” she said. “I commend you.”

  Peter shifted uneasily.

  “You’re embarrassing him,” Odo said.

  She shut the door and approached Peter. He rose from his stool. He felt like a fool. This woman had a most feminine power. It weakened his knees. As a monk, he knew he should flee. As a man, he could not.

  She took one of his hands and raised it to her lips, gently kissing his fingers. Count Odo stirred, frowning. She said, “Love conquers even the monk’s heart. I find that comforting. May I quote you Scripture?”

  Peter nodded as if in a trance.

  “These are not my words,” she said. “They are the words of Saint Paul. Do you think he would lie?”

  “Never,” Peter whispered.

  “Then listen to his words,” she said. “He wrote: If they cannot control themselves, they should marry, for it is better to marry than to burn with passion.”

  Peter’s cheeks burned. He jerked his hand out of hers. “I’m a monk, milady. I have taken vows. I-I can never marry.”

  “Please do not think ill of me, brother, but I think you burn with passion. Therefore, according to Saint Paul, you should marry.”

  “Judith,” Odo said. “You’re embarrassing him.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But sometimes truth is embarrassing.”

  Peter could no longer look upon such beauty. He felt naked before her, his heart an open and lust-filled parchment.

  “Do also you burn with passion, Count Odo?” Judith asked archly.

  Odo laughed.

  “I often wonder why men are so foolish,” she said. “Love is so fragile and so tender and beautiful. Men, even monkish men, must—”

  Peter heard no more, for he blundered out of the room and hurried down the hall. Satan spoke through her. Just as Eve had led Adam into temptation now this Helen led him down an evil path. He almost sobbed. Oh why, why did women fill him with such consuming passion? Why couldn’t he control his urges like a true and holy monk? He burst out the main door and ran slipping and sliding into the muddy streets of Paris.

  24.

  Two days later found Peter hard at work in the Bishop’s house. He sat on a tall stool and rested his elbows on his writing board. Other monks scratched their quills. Two open windows admitted the cloudy light. From one Peter saw the Saint Etienne bell tower. Two doves sat together on the tower railing, each in turn preening the other’s head. Everyone knew that artificial light such as candles and lanterns hurt parchments. Unfortunately, the open windows admitted a cold breeze. Every time it gusted, Peter shivered. An iron stove in the middle of the room radiated heat. Peter and the others rose from time to time and huddled over it, rubbing their hands.

  At the board, he pricked and ruled sheets. With an iron ruler and a punctorium, he punched a series of tiny, vertically placed holes. When finished, he used the stylus and ruler and made horizontal furrows, lines across the parchments. These tiny holes and furrows helped insure straight sentences.

  A priest hurried into the room and straight for Peter. He thrust parchments at him.

  “The Bishop wants three copies made. Make sure it’s your best work, too. Address them to Archbishop Fulk of Rheims, Duke Hugh, Lord Protector of Neustria, and Bishop Hunald of Rouen.”

  “The Northmen sacked Rouen,” Peter said. “Is Bishop Hunald still alive?”

  “He fled to Chartres and from there to Tours. He petitions the Duke on our behalf.” The priest shook the parchment. “His Grace sends riders this afternoon for Tours and wishes two of these ready. Your best work now.”

  Peter nodded and set away his punctorium and ruler. The other monks glanced his way. He ignored them, spread out the letter and read. Foul murder and intrigue in the Church, and Emperor Charles raged! Peter reread it, appalled.

  After being crowned West Fran
kland’s King early this summer, the Emperor had left and gone to Frankfurt. There he had called a diet of his East Frankish magnates. He had commanded them to elect his bastard Bernard as heir. The Emperor was childless by his lawful wife. The magnates had refused. In his devilish wrath—according to the letter—the Emperor had sent for Pope Hadrian. There the intrigue had all fallen apart, the Pope secretly hammered to death by a member of his household.

  Peter could hardly read on. The cardinals of Rome acclaimed one of their own as the new Pope. The Emperor had been furious. It was his right to acclaim popes.

  The Emperor fears for his heir: stated the letter. He believes Pope Stephen will not do for him what Hadrian so supinely had agreed. The Emperor has sworn to march on Rome and pull ‘this cardinal’ from his lair. He has sent ahead his chancellor, but there is little hope of peace. They say the Emperor is in a violent rage and with his iron-cane has beaten senseless two of his pages and broken the nose of his wine steward. ‘By what right do they crown popes without my Imperial consent and confirmation? They think to shovel me aside as dung. No! By Satan and all his succubae, I will not allow it!’ The Emperor’s impious rages are well known, and I fear it bids disaster for us all.

  Filled with unease, Peter bushed the parchment, readying it for ink. If the Emperor marched for Rome… how could he march to Paris and defeat the Northmen? Both Gozlin and Odo had appealed to the Emperor. They had each pleaded with Charles to raise the Imperial Banner and gather Frankland’s hosts as he had done three years ago at Elsloo, but hopefully with more decisive results. Peter dipped the quill into ink, compressed his lips and forced steadiness into his hand.

  ***

  Bishop Gozlin examined the letters. He was a lean old man with an aristocratic bearing. His fine linen robe was spotless, his veined hands scrubbed so they shone with purity. A lone gold ring reflected a spot of firelight. The Bishop of Paris had long ago purged both doubt and dirt from his person. He had been a monk at Rheims under the great Hincmar, an abbot of Saint Denis and chancellor to Charles the Bald. He was bald (he had joked in honor of his former liege) had intense green eyes that seemed to look right through flesh and into a person’s soul (the gaze had been wilting Peter) but his nose—the nose marred the Bishop’s noble perfection. For much of his life Gozlin had warred against the Northmen. Like many churchmen, he had raised armed bands and led them in person. Alas, many years ago, Northmen had captured his brother and him and held them for ransom. While in the hands of Northmen, he had not been able to curb his imperious ways. One vicious Dane had grown weary of it, picked up his axe and with the flat of it had hit Gozlin in the face. It had crushed the nose, broken bones and spread it. So even now, it lay flat and misshapen and forever gave his voice a stuffed nose quality. It was a blot against perfection, ‘a reminder from God,’ he often said, ‘that he curb his sinful pride.’