“To one of the Franks’ temples just across the river. He says someone is waiting there. Someone who wishes to see me.”
“A Frank?” Torvald asked.
I nodded. “He says Genevieve, the count’s daughter, is there.”
Torvald was silent for a time, as though pondering what I had told him. “I do not think I understand,” he finally said. “Why are you so heavily armed? She was a small woman, and did not strike me as being particularly fierce of disposition.”
“She will not be there. I believe this is a trap. In fact, I am certain of it,” I told him. “And I thank you for coming with me.” I was truly glad to have his support, for I did not know how many enemies awaited me. “If we are forced to kill any Franks this day, Hastein and Ragnar are more likely to believe we had to if it is you who tells them.”
But when we reached the church, only a single person was visible inside. Torvald walked the entire length of the church, from rear doors to altar, just to be certain no one else was hiding. Then he told me with a smirk, “I believe I will return to the fort now. I do not think you need my help here after all.”
Genevieve had been watching Torvald with a puzzled expression ever since he and I had arrived. Neither of us had yet spoken to the other. I was too dumbfounded at seeing her to know what to say.
Finally she broke the silence as Torvald left. “What was your friend, the giant, looking for?” she asked. “And why are you armed? What did you expect to find here?”
“Enemies,” I answered, and felt foolish as soon as I said it.
Genevieve glanced over at Gunthard with a puzzled frown. He, too, looked confused. “What did Gunthard tell you?” she asked.
“He said you were in this church and wished to see me.” She glanced again in the direction Torvald had gone, but said nothing. After a moment, I added, “I did not believe him. I did not think you would be here.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I saw the way you looked when you recognized me in the abbey.”
Genevieve glanced away when I told her that. After a moment she turned her gaze toward me again. “Why did you come there that day?” she asked me. “Why did you come to the abbey?”
“I knew our warriors would loot it. They were going to every church and monastery in Paris. I feared for your safety.”
“That is why?” she asked. I could not read the expression on her face—it told me nothing. I shrugged my shoulders in answer. That was why I’d gone. At least in part. But I had also just wished to see her again. I certainly did not intend to admit that to her, though.
My answer apparently did not satisfy her. “Why did you care?” she pressed me. “Why did you care for my safety? Your promise to me had been fulfilled. While I was your prisoner, you honored your word and never harmed me. But my father had already ransomed me. I had already been returned to my people. You owed me nothing.” After a moment she added, “We are enemies.”
Yes, we were enemies. That was the heart of the matter, was it not? I had not been wrong when I’d said I’d expected to find enemies here, in this church. To her, I was just a Northman and a pirate. I was a murderer—a ruthless, cruel killer. She had called me all those things before. Why had I been surprised when she was horrified to see me again?
“Is that why you asked me to meet you here?” I said. I could not keep my voice from sounding brusque. “You were curious to know why I came to the abbey? I only wished to make certain you were safe. That is all. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to the fort.”
I turned to leave. “Wait,” she said. “I did not mean to appear ungrateful. I thank you, not just for myself, but for all the sisters in the abbey. Had it not been for you, who knows what might have happened to us. Even the abbess said you were not what she expected a Northman to be.”
That was faint praise. “You are welcome,” I said and started to leave again.
“In the abbey, when I saw you,” Genevieve said. I turned back toward her. Her face was very pale, but when our eyes met she blushed, and turned aside, so her mantle hid her features. “I had thought you were dead,” she murmured.
I tried to make sense of her words, but could not. “I do not understand,” I told her.
“The battle,” she explained. “My father was wounded, and barely escaped with his life. My brother Drogo was killed, or so we believe. It is certain he was not among our soldiers who escaped. We heard that many, many died on both sides. I do not know why, but I believed you were among them. I believed you were dead. And then I saw you.”
I still did not understand.
“I thought you were dead,” she said again, her voice catching. “And then you were there, standing before me.”
“Why did you care?” I asked, shaking my head in surprise.
“Why did you come to the abbey?” she countered, looking into my eyes. “Why did you care what happened to me?”
Neither of us answered the other’s question. Not that day, at least. There are some things too fragile, too delicate, to be put into words. They are like thin ice. To venture directly onto it would risk destroying it.
In the weeks that followed, Genevieve found reason to venture out of the abbey nearly every day. She paid frequent visits to her mother and father—to comfort them, she said. They had been forced to live in greatly reduced circumstances within the island fort, due to our army’s takeover of the palace and her father’s continued status as a hostage. From what I knew of their relationship, I wondered if Genevieve’s visits came as a surprise to her parents. Perhaps they thought that becoming a servant of the White Christ had evoked in her a new sense of appreciation for them.
Even though the terms of the treaty forbade any Dane from molesting the peace of the inhabitants of Paris, it was still not a place where an attractive young woman—even a nun—could wander the streets safely alone. On her daily walks from the abbey to the fort, Genevieve was always escorted by Gunthard. It came to be our practice that I would usually accompany Genevieve when she returned to the abbey, while Gunthard trailed a discrete distance behind.
I found our walks to be a pleasant diversion during the weeks of enforced idleness while our army waited for the tribute to be paid. They gave me an opportunity, for the first time in my life, to have a comrade—no, more than that, a friend, for that was what Genevieve came to be—my own age. And although we came from vastly different backgrounds, I came to realize that Genevieve and I had more in common than just our age. Neither of our lives had ever truly been our own to live.
I had been a slave for most of my life. And now I was bound by my oath to devote myself to avenging the deaths of Harald and the others. I had sworn not to rest until Toke and his men had paid for their treachery with their lives.
And Genevieve? Her father had considered her as merely a valuable commodity to be bartered for his own gain. When she had tried to resist and live her own life, she had been given to the Christian priests and priestesses, as if she was a piece of property. She now faced a long and lonely life as a servant of the White Christ.
But during these days while the Danish army was quartered in Paris, during this brief season of peace, she and I stole a few hours of each day for ourselves.
Rarely did we plot a direct course back to the abbey. Instead, we wandered together about the town. It was an opportunity for me to learn about Paris, a fascinating place unlike any I had ever seen. For me, it provided a window into the distant past, into the histories of entire peoples and ancient times when mighty empires had risen and fallen. And Genevieve was an enthusiastic guide, who knew much about the town’s history and was eager to share it with me.
She told me of the Parisii, the ancient tribe who had lived on the island in the river before the Romans came. She explained how the Romans had built a city here after they’d conquered Gaul, and had patterned it after distant Rome itself, filling the town with great monuments and buildings such as the forum—the name she called the great, half-ruined marketplace that
I’d passed that first morning I’d entered Paris—huge public bathhouses, and an arena.
“What is an arena?” I asked.
She took me there. A huge, stone-lined circular pit with sloping sides had been built beyond the fringes of the town on the lower eastern slope of the hill—which Genevieve called Mount St. Genevieve, though it was hardly a mountain. The jagged remnants of thick walls loomed around the stone-lined crater, hinting that once a great structure had towered above the ground. Stepped, evenly spaced rows of stone benches lined the sides of the pit’s interior.
“The spectators sat on those benches,” Genevieve explained. “And before the arena fell into ruin, there were many additional rows of seats above ground level. Thousands at a time could watch the performances here.” She shuddered. “The Romans could be very wicked. They made men fight each other—or fierce beasts—to the death, for their entertainment.”
It must have been enormous before it had fallen into ruin. Genevieve was right—it did seem an evil thing to build so vast a structure for no purpose other than to watch men kill each other. Killing was not meant to be entertainment.
“What happened to this place?” I asked, looking at the crumbling walls.
“For hundreds of years, this was a land of peace under the Romans’ rule. Towns such as Paris did not have walls, because they did not need them. Then tribes of barbarians attacked the borders of the empire, and Rome’s armies could not keep them out. Paris was sacked more than once by bands of barbarians raiding into Gaul. In desperation, the citizens of the town used stone from this arena, and from the forum in the center of town, to build the walled fortress on the island, where they could take refuge in times of danger.”
“But they never attempted to build a wall around the town itself?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Once the Franks conquered Gaul, peace came to the land again. It has been hundreds of years since an enemy threatened Paris.”
Or looted it, I thought. That is why the plunder we took was so rich.
“Did the Franks drive away the barbarians, the ones who’d sacked Paris? Did they fight and defeat them?” I asked her. It seemed a thing worth knowing. If the Franks had once before managed to conquer foreign raiders who’d threatened their land, they might do so again.
“No,” Genevieve said. “It was the Franks who had raided Gaul and sacked Paris. They themselves were the barbarians. But in the time of Clovis, one of the greatest kings of the Frankish people, they finally conquered Gaul and settled here. It was King Clovis who led the Franks to convert to Christianity. He built the Church of St. Genevieve here in Paris, and he is buried there. Since the time of Clovis, the peoples of Gaul—Romans, Gauls, and Franks—have been one and have lived together in peace.”
I thought it an amazing story. I wondered if Ragnar knew it. It made his dream of finding a kingdom to rule through war and conquest seem almost plausible.
It was a carefree time, the happiest I had ever known—happier even than the brief period when Harald, Sigrid, and I had lived together as family. For most of my life, the only feeling of belonging I had ever experienced was of belonging to Hrorik, my father, as his property. After I was freed—and before Harald was killed—I had for the first time been part of a real family. I’d had a brother and sister who had cared about me, and had taken care of me and showed me more kindness than I had ever known.
Yet I always knew Harald’s and Sigrid’s feelings toward me had been based in large part on what I was, rather than who I was. After all, I had lived in the same household with them for my entire life, but they had not cared about Halfdan the thrall. It was not until I became a legitimate member of their family, until I was acknowledged as Hrorik’s son and their brother, that their feelings toward me changed.
With Genevieve, it was different. The feelings she’d initially felt toward me, the fear and mistrust, had changed despite the fact that what I was—a Northman, a pirate, an enemy—had not. Her feelings toward me were based on who I was: on the man who was Halfdan. I asked her about it one day.
“Do you not think it strange,” I said, “that we have become friends?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“It is not just that we are different peoples—that you are a Frank, and I a Dane. I stole you from your own people, and held you for ransom.” And, I thought, I killed your cousin when he tried to stop me. I did not say that, though. I did not wish to call that memory back to her mind.
She was quiet for a few moments, reflecting on what I had said. Then she answered, “What you say is true. But there is another side to it. No one has ever shown as much true care for me, for my well-being and safety, as you have. My father and mother, whom I once believed loved and cared for me, would have wed me to a hateful man whom I despised, in the hope that Father might one day gain his lands. Surely a father and mother should care more for their own child than that. Yet you, who should be my enemy, who owe me nothing, have repeatedly honored and protected me. I find it strange that you have, but I am grateful for it.”
The look in Genevieve’s eyes, the warmth of her manner when she told me those words, made me imagine she found it more than merely strange. She made me feel that she enjoyed and valued my company. I, in turn, was grateful for her time and attention. She did not have to make her daily excursions from the abbey to visit her family. They surely did not expect it. I knew she did it so she could spend time with me. It was, at the same time, both a very pleasing feeling and an uncomfortable one. I was not used to finding so much enjoyment in the company of a woman.
My mixed feelings were exposed one day when she took me to see another of the great Roman buildings of the town. This one, like most of the ancient stone structures, was very tall, with high, arching windows and vaulted ceilings. “During Roman times, this entire building was a great bathhouse,” she told me. I was impressed. I’d thought the low, single-room bathhouse my father Hrorik had built onto the side of his longhouse a fine and comfortable place to bathe. This building looked as though half the population of Hedeby could have washed in it at the same time.
“Later, King Clovis used this as his royal palace,” she continued. It was certainly big and fine enough to be a palace. I had noticed that many of the Franks—particularly the common folk—did not seem all that familiar with the practice of bathing. It did not surprise me that a Frankish king would think so grand a building wasted as a mere bathhouse.
The thought of bathing carried my mind back to the river below Ruda. As I looked at Genevieve now, in my mind I was recalling how she had looked in the water: her beauty revealed by her thin, soaked shift; her long hair billowing in the water around us. She caught me staring at her.
“What are you thinking?” she demanded. “Why do you look at me like that?”
Embarrassed, I blushed. “I was, it was…nothing,” I stammered. “I was just thinking. My mind, my thoughts, were elsewhere.”
“I do not believe you,” she said. “The redness of your face reveals that you are not being truthful. I thought we had become friends. Is something troubling you?”
I summoned up my courage. “When you told me this was a bathhouse,” I said, “my mind traveled back to the day when I took you to bathe in the river below Ruda.”
Now it was her turn to blush. “You should not think of such things,” she said. “It is wrong.”
“I cannot help it,” I admitted. “I cannot forget the way you looked that day, in the water…” And the way she had felt in my arms, her body against mine, when I had rescued her, though I did not say that. “I do not feel it is wrong.” She blushed again, and turned away, looking troubled.
“It is getting late,” Genevieve told me, and began walking quickly up the hill. “I must return to the abbey now.”
13 : The Gift
I was waiting at the fort’s town-side gate for Genevieve. She’d come once again to the island to visit her parents. Einar had seen me standing near the gate, and had come over to talk. I
was feeling distracted and wished he would go away.
“Have you seen Snorre yet?” he asked. I shook my head. I had not even thought about him recently. My mind had been consumed with thoughts of Genevieve.
“The ships from Ruda arrived yesterday. He and his men are quartered here on the island now, in the palace. You should be careful.”
I appreciated Einar’s warning, but I did not wish to think about Snorre just now. I was trying to plan what I would say to Genevieve when I saw her.
“It is surely fate that has brought Snorre to Frankia,” Einar continued. “It is a sign that the Norns wish to help you fulfill your oath of vengeance.”
My oath. I realized with shock and great shame that in the past few weeks I had completely forgotten about it. I had forgotten that I had sworn to avenge the deaths of my brother, Harald, of his men, and of all who had died in Toke’s attack on the Limfjord estate. Back when I’d sworn the oath, I had even prayed to Odin, asking for his help. My prayer came back to me now: “Let my heart not feel peace until my oath is fulfilled.”
I had been wrong, very wrong, to allow the pleasure of Genevieve’s company drive my duty from my mind.
I did not want Einar to realize that I had been neglecting my oath. I did not wish him to lose respect for me. I mumbled some excuses and promised that although I did not have time now, we would speak more later. We agreed to meet in my quarters at the end of the afternoon.
When she finally appeared, Genevieve seemed somber.
“What is the matter?” I asked her. “You look as though something is troubling you.”
“My father told me today that King Charles has completed gathering the silver he needs to pay the tribute to your army. The king’s men will be bringing it to Paris within a matter of days.” She looked at me and forced a smile. “I suppose I feel sad,” she added. “Soon my friend will sail away forever.”
I was surprised to learn of the news her father had given her. I’d spoken with Torvald earlier that morning and he’d said nothing of this. I felt certain that if Hastein had known of it, Torvald would have also—and he’d have told me. Although we had confined Count Robert to the fort on the island, apparently he still somehow had access to Frankish spies and to the news they carried from their king.
The Road to Vengeance Page 19