The Miracle Thief

by Iris Anthony

  “And you did all this by yourself?”

  “I was with her, Your Majesty.”

  It was a great relief when the weight of my father’s attention shifted from me to Andulf.

  “You say I have been deceived, then.”

  Andulf merely bowed his head.

  Father looked at those gathered around and pinned the archbishop with a stare. “I treated with the Danes according to your counsel, because I trusted you.”

  The cleric blanched and came forward, stammering.

  “And you—Robert!”

  That nobleman appeared as if conjured, when the crowd about him melted away.

  “Why, in all of your speeches and all of your dealings, did you not happen to mention you had promised my daughter to the Dane long before talk of the treaty?”

  The count’s eyes sought the archbishop’s.

  “Why was I given to believe you spoke with me in honesty, that you were loyal to my throne when, in fact, you sought to block my alliance with Burgundy or Aquitaine?”

  The count bowed his head. “I do not know, Your Majesty, how you have come by such information. The pagans are not to be trusted. They must have misrepresented—”

  “Enough!”

  The count swept forward, dropping to one knee at my father’s feet.

  “Explain.”

  As he tried to account for himself, my father broke in. “And why did you keep Gisele from her pilgrimage?”

  “It’s so late in the season, Your Majesty. I did not think that—”

  “And you allowed the Danes to go as well!”

  “The idea was not to keep the princess from her inquiries. If Saint Catherine approved, we knew she would not mind leaving the abbey for the cathedral at Rouen.”

  “And how could you believe the Danes would not destroy the abbey in their zeal to come by the relic?”

  “It was not my idea, sire. It was the Dane who suggested it.” Robert stayed there, bent in two, hands clasped on his knee, looking for all the world as if he expected some blow to fall upon his shoulders.

  But finally, my father sighed. “What is done is done. What has been promised has been promised.” I cried out in protest, but he only put out a hand toward me. “I will send a messenger to the abbey to see what has become of them.”

  From his position on the floor, I saw the count exchange a glance with the archbishop.

  My father seemed oblivious to the depths of their treachery. He was exulting that he had returned from Lorraine as King of Lotharingia. I tried once more to speak to him, but he only pushed my concerns aside. “If I can get the Burgundians to come over to our side, then I will have no more need to rely upon Robert and his contingent. The Count of Paris’s days of influence are on the wane.” His thoughts had clearly left me and had taken up residence in the fabled land of Charlemagne. I despaired they might never return.

  In the days that followed, Andulf certainly proved himself my friend. He escorted me, he waited upon me, he dogged my every step. What he did not know was that he tortured me with his every glance, his every word. But did I pray for the misery to stop?

  I did not.

  The Dane grew restless. Each day he demanded a private audience. Each day, the request was granted. And each day, he insisted he must leave to return to his lands and that he wanted to take me with him.

  My father contended that we must wait for the canon’s return.

  I began to think the cleric might never come and that I had been freed from the treaty, when one evening, without any warning, the canon walked into the hall.

  The counselors ceased their talking, and the knights ceased their carousing, and soon, the only one not aware of the canon’s presence was the juggler. He kept on with his antics, throwing up one ball after the other until he turned and saw the hall had gone still. Then all the balls dropped at once, as if whatever magic had kept them floating had collapsed beneath them.

  This canon was a man much changed from the one who had left. He who had started down the road toward the abbey was vain and much given to arrogance. The man who came down the hall toward us looked weary and worn. His habit was torn, his face dirtied, and his shoes were missing entirely.

  To my father’s right, the Dane shifted, his gaze sweeping the empty hall behind the cleric.

  My father gestured toward the canon.

  The archbishop stepped forward and offered his hand. The canon grasped the man’s fingers and kissed his ring.

  “Rise. The Lord has blessed you.”

  But the canon did not move, nor did he release the archbishop’s hand.

  My father leaned toward them. “Tell us: are we to welcome Saint Catherine?”

  The Dane, still gazing beyond the canon toward the back of the hall, pushed to his feet. “My men?”

  The canon rose, clasped his hands before him, and gazed at the bare toes that peeked out from the hem of his habit. “Saint Catherine did not wish to come. The rest of the men who accompanied me are gone—burned up in a fire.”

  Had he—what had he just said? My father turned to the archbishop. “Saint Catherine did not wish to come. There will be no wedding.”

  “My men!” The Dane pounded the table with the flat of his hand.

  In the midst of the chaos and general uproar, as all eyes focused on the Dane and his venomous rage, the canon was forgotten. He simply turned and walked away.

  But I was not about to let him go so easily as that.

  Slipping from the table, I caught him at the back of the hall. “What happened?”

  “I do not yet have the words to speak of it. But know this: there were miracles and signs and wonders. The weak were made strong, and the proud were humbled…myself among them.”

  “But Saint Catherine?”

  “Saint Catherine stayed at the abbey.”

  And my mother? That was the question for which I truly wanted an answer. “Were any others harmed?”

  “The abbess met her death, but a new one has been elected.”

  “And the abbey?”

  “It is being rebuilt.”

  Which meant it had been damaged. Guilt plucked at the chords of my soul. I had not wanted to destroy the only place I had ever truly loved.

  ***

  The archbishop ground his teeth at the news, even as my father marveled at the wonder of it all; Saint Catherine had vanquished even the mighty Danes. And then he congratulated me, commending me for my great faith.

  That spring, the Dane was baptized, and the Count of Paris’s land was ceded to him. As we left Rouen in March, not one of our household looked back. My father and his counselors rode ahead as the rest of us followed, more slowly, behind. And I was not surprised when my father did what he always had done. He took my knight to be his own.

  I did not stop him.

  Andulf found me the morning my father and his retinue were to ride on into Lorraine without us. After a glance about the courtyard, he caught me by the hand and drew me into the stables. “Forgive me for taking such liberties, but are you unhappy with me, my lady?”

  “No.” I closed my eyes. To the contrary, I was deeply and profoundly, most assuredly, blissfully happy with him.

  “And yet you send me away. I do not wish—”

  I put a hand to his lips to silence him. I wished he would…do I know not what. Take me into his arms? Kiss me?

  He did none of those. Dropping to one knee, head bowed, he cupped his hands around his other knee. “If I have done anything to displease you, only tell me what it was, and I will correct it.”

  How I longed to feel his arms about me once more. “You have done nothing but—”

  He lifted his head, searching my eyes.

  “Nothing but—” There was no word for everything he had done. “You have…you have protected me and rescued me and…a
nd loved me.”

  He bowed his head again at those last words.

  “So how can I expect you to stay with me? If it is not the Dane I marry, it will be some other man. I would not want you to there, to be party to my shame in giving myself to another.”

  He stood, holding my eyes with his own. “I ask you, I beg you, to reconsider. One word from you, and I know the king would replace me with another.”

  “As you were forever reminding me, you are my father’s man. It is only proper you should go with him.” I tried to smile. “You will gain his esteem as you have gained mine, and he will see you deserve to be given your father’s lands. And then you can go to your mother.” I could not bear to look into his eyes, but yet I could not deny myself that final pleasure. To be known, to be loved, if only for a season. “I would like to be remembered, by just one person”—I took a ragged breath as I attempted to stop the pain that stabbed like a knife within my breast—“by you, not as a princess, not as the natural daughter of the king, but as myself.”

  “How could I ever think of you otherwise?”

  Dear God in heaven! This was not going to work. I was not going to be brave enough. I was not strong enough. “Better yet, perhaps, not to remember me at all.”

  “Do not sacrifice yourself this way.”

  “You mistake me for some virtuous maiden. I am being most selfish. If you stay with me, if you go with me when I wed, do you not see that I would only diminish myself in your eyes?”

  “You could never diminish yourself—”

  He must not talk. To hear his voice, to gaze into his eyes, would only sway me from what I knew I must do.

  “My lady, you ask the impossible.”

  “But you have done the impossible. You have given me faith when I had none. You have returned to me my honor.” How I wanted to stroke that fine, strong jaw, to kiss that beloved cheek. But I would not do it. Not now, not at the last. I could not ask him for more than was mine to demand.

  Nostrils flaring, he gazed into the distance above my head, past the door into the morning’s sun. Though not so bright as the sun of summer, still it had the ability to dazzle. Perhaps that’s why there were tears in his eyes when he returned his gaze to me. “If you wish it, my lady.”

  My chin trembled as my throat bobbed with tears unshed. I did not wish it. I did not want it. “I cannot see any other way.” No other plan would allow him to keep his honor and me to keep my virtue. If he stayed with me, he would give up the chance to ask my father for his estates. He would forfeit everything that mattered to him, and in the end, he would not even gain me for his efforts. He would sacrifice everything, and I would sacrifice nothing, and we would both be debased by the result.

  Bowing swiftly, with a nod of his head and a swirl of his mantle, he took himself away.

  Saint Catherine may have saved my life, but I had lost my heart in the end.

  The queen came into the stables as I was standing there, mourning the vision of a bleak future, where Andulf would most probably often be present but could never again be mine.

  She gave me a keen look. “Do you miss Rouen already? Is that why you cry? We can return. You should not distress yourself so.”

  “What other reason would I have to weep?”

  “Your father spoke of you before he left. He thought perhaps you might journey to the abbey at Rochemont this summer, since you did not get to go this autumn past. Would that please you?”

  “Yes.” Tears began to stream from my eyes once more. “That would please me very much.” I would write a letter to my mother and enclose it with a note to the abbess. Perhaps she would not mind passing it on for me. I wanted to tell her…everything. But most of all, I wanted to thank her. She had been right. In spite of everything that had happened and anything that might come to pass, I knew I must not despise the life I had been given.

  “I do not know what the appeal is. It’s very remote, and the way, I have been told, is treacherous. I offered that it would be better for you to stay in Lorraine with us, but your father thought it might profit you to visit.”

  “He was right. I think it will.”

  She eyed me with a dubious frown. “I cannot see how.”

  The beginnings of a smile stirred within in my heart. “It will. I know it will. I have great faith.”

  Character Notes

  THE WOMEN

  Juliana’s character is fictitious, but if the old stories are correct, King Charles had a natural (illegitimate) daughter quite early in his reign. If the child’s mother was not Juliana, then it was someone very much like her. But by 907, King Charles was apparently free enough from romantic attachments to marry the Lotharingian, Frederuna.

  Anna’s character is also fictitious, but obvious deformities were considered a punishment from God during the period. Pilgrims like Anna trod the roads during the Dark Ages, visiting shrines in search of a miracle that would heal them. Records from those shrines record hundreds of miracles, some perhaps easily explained by coincidence or modern science, but others are of such an astonishing nature that “miracle” seems the only term to apply.

  The queen mother, Adelaide of Paris, had many reasons to be bitter. Her husband, Louis the Stammerer, was forced to repudiate the woman whom he had secretly married at age sixteen (Ansgarde of Burgundy, who was twenty years his senior and by which he had four children) in order to marry her. When Louis was crowned king, the pope refused to crown her queen. And when Louis died, a battle for the throne ensued. Ansgarde called Adelaide an adulteress, while Adelaide called Ansgarde a whore. Soap opera is a modern term, but the concept stretches back to the dawn of history. Combine the fact that Adelaide was not her husband’s first choice, with the possibility that she saw her son follow in her father’s footsteps, and it is little wonder the queen mother hated Juliana, who was both chosen and loved. And how ironic these patterns would assert themselves once more in the possibility of Gisele’s marriage to a man who already had a wife (in the most practical sense of the word). I could not have plotted these relationships better if I had made them up!

  French records don’t record Gisele ever marrying Rollo, while the Norman histories do. One theory holds that Norman chroniclers confused an earlier Gisele with Rollo’s Gisele. This “real” Gisele, they claim, was a daughter to an earlier king and was also married to a Dane. For centuries, the chief argument denying the existence of King Charles’s Gisele has always been the age of the king. He was born in 879. At the time of his meeting with Rollo, he would only have been thirty-two. For Gisele to have been of an age to marry at that point, she would have had to have been born early in her father’s teenage years. Earlier centuries, apparently, found this inconceivable, but I had no problem imagining the possibility. In any case, no one knows what happened to her after Rollo’s baptism, and she figures in no genealogy from the period. If she did indeed exist, she would have been a natural daughter conceived from a relationship Charles had as a youth.

  THE MEN

  It might surprise you, as it surprised me, that Frankish kings weren’t French at all. They were German. If there was any capital during those troubled times, it was not in Paris. It was to Charlemagne’s old palace in Aachen that King Charles the Simple aspired. In the interest of not confusing the narrative of the story by recounting the tumultuous politics of the time, I simplified the tale of Charles’s ascension to the throne. Suffice to say that Charles had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  It’s unfortunate King Charles III has come down through history to us with the moniker “The Simple.” He was straightforward, honest, and sincere, but he was not stupid. With a fractured empire and numerous enemies—Magyar invaders approaching from the east, Danes from the north, and the threat of Saracens ever constant in the south—it was impossible to fight on all sides at once. And Charles did not just want to preserve the kingdom he had been left; he want
ed to restore it to the glorious empire created by Charlemagne. He let his nobles defend the edges of the empire, and then he did what many men in similar situations have done: he made a bargain with the devil. And he followed a pattern well established in the ancient world by seeking to seal the agreement through the irrevocable bonds of marriage.

  Charles achieved what previous kings had not: he reunited Charlemagne’s beloved kingdom of Lotharingia with his own kingdom of West Francia. He must have considered that year of 912 a good omen of things to come. After having been crowned King of Lorraine, he moved his court and his entire attention to its affairs. But as he rode away from Rollo’s baptism in Rouen, he had unknowingly given away his destiny. The future of Europe lay not with him but with Rollo, the father of the future dukes of Normandy, and young Hugh, father of the future Capetian kings. The bargains Charles made and had been forced into allowed his nobles to build empires of their own, which would not be surrendered until a painstaking reconsolidation undertaken by a later dynasty of kings.

  In 922, nobles who were tired of King Charles’s obvious affection for the Lotharingians gave his crown to Robert, the Count of Paris. In 923, with the support of the Normans, King Charles was captured in battle as he fought to retake his throne. He was literally left to rot in a prison and died there in 929. His only truly loyal retainer of that period turned out to be Rollo, who fought faithfully against every advance by the Count of Paris against King Charles’s kingdom.

  Originally Viking denoted an excursion, not a people. From their homeland in current Scandinavia, sometimes men would go on a viking, sailing off to foreign lands, seeking gold and treasure as they sowed fear in the hearts of people everywhere. For centuries, they were known as Danes. But this designation was not technical. Danes during that period might have come from Denmark or Sweden or Norway. In fact, the actual nationality of Rollo (as well as his lineage and his very name) is still debated. Rollo’s descendants became the dukes of Normandy, and his great-great-great-grandson William became known as the Conqueror in 1066. Perhaps most ironic of all, Rollo became a relic collector himself. He was not, however, a convincing convert to Christianity. Legend has it he ordered the beheading of one hundred Christian men upon his death bed.