Fenrir

by MD. Lachlan

  ‘We are not foreign dogs,’ said Leshii; ‘we—’

  ‘No,’ said Moselle, ‘you are not even that; you are the corpses of foreign dogs.’

  He drew his sword but Aelis put up her hand. ‘These men have rescued me.’

  Moselle looked at Leshii and the wolfman. ‘That one is a northerner,’ he said, pointing to Sindre.

  ‘Some of the northerners have worked for us in the past and still work for the emperor. This man has no allegiance to the Paris Danes.’

  Moselle made a tight little nod.

  ‘Tell them to get down from their horses. A merchant and a pagan should not be riding fine animals like that.’

  ‘Fine animals?’ said Leshii. ‘This is a common pack mule!’

  ‘Too good for you,’ said Moselle.

  Aelis gestured to Sindre. ‘He killed the Viking king.’ She knew no Frankish warrior would accept that a woman had killed Sigfrid. In fact, to suggest it would be to mock them, to say that she had achieved what they could not.

  Moselle nodded again. ‘And Sigfrid gave him a blow for his pains, by the look of it.’

  ‘He took an arrow. It’s still in him. Can you draw it?’

  ‘Fiebras!’ Moselle turned in his saddle and shouted.

  ‘He’s a healer?’ said Leshii.

  Moselle snorted at him. ‘He’s a warrior. Just happens to be handier with the pliers than the rest of us.’

  Leshii got down from his horse and helped the wolfman down. Aelis could see he was not best pleased to meet the Franks.

  ‘Your ransom gone, merchant?’ she said to him in Latin.

  ‘I am sure your brother will reward me for my pains.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t give you pains for your reward,’ said Aelis, though her tone was light enough and she intended to see the merchant compensated for the loss of his wares at least. She pulled her cloak up to cover her shorn head but Moselle immediately took a silk scarf from around his neck and passed it to her. In a second she had regained her modesty. Then she went to the bushes and took off the big mail shirt. She rejoined the horsemen and gave the sword to Moselle.

  ‘Give this to my brother from the wild man,’ she said. ‘It belonged to the Viking king.’

  Moselle looked impressed. ‘He was a strong man,’ he said.

  Sindre was on the ground, scarcely breathing. Fiebras, who had produced a big pair of long-nosed pliers from his saddle bag, knelt beside the wolfman.

  ‘Not long for him, lady,’ said the Frank. ‘The kindest thing is to leave the arrow and let him die.’

  ‘Might he live if it’s drawn?’

  ‘Might is a big word,’ said Fiebras, ‘but yes, he might.’

  ‘Then draw it.’

  Fiebras told his colleagues to make a fire, then went to the river and pulled out a reed, which he split with a knife. He put the pieces in his cap and returned to the wolfman. Sindre was secured with a length of rope, bound tight around his arms and legs. Two of the biggest Frankish knights pinned him, one lying across his legs, the other across his chest.

  ‘Why are you doing all this?’ said Aelis.

  ‘I might have to reach down past the shaft of the arrow and crush the barbs on its head,’ said Fiebras. ‘He will not like it, though it’s the right time. The wound has a lot of pus.’

  ‘That’s a good thing?’ said Aelis.

  ‘Our doctors say so. The Arabs disagree.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I do what I can.’

  Fiebras approached the wolfman. Aelis could see Sindre’s eyes were glazed and he was sweating heavily.

  ‘Hold him,’ said Fiebras.

  He pushed one of the split reeds into the wound, wrapping it around the shaft of the arrow. The wolfman bucked but the men on top of him held him firm.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Fiebras displayed only mild irritation. This was, after all, the sister of his lord who was asking the questions.

  ‘I’m covering the arrowhead. If we can push aside the flesh it might come out. The reed stops the head from causing more damage.’ He gave a gentle tug at the shaft and Sindre twisted. ‘Keep him still,’ said Fiebras, ‘or it will be worse for him.’

  He tried again. This time Aelis thought Sindre would lift off the ground and two more Franks knelt to hold him down.

  ‘Strong,’ said the fat one lying across his legs.

  ‘Have you no wine for him?’ said Leshii. ‘In my country we give men wine before such procedures.’

  ‘Wine is for Franks, not foreigners,’ said Fiebras. He gave another tug on the arrow and Sindre cried out. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s stuck.’ He withdrew the bloody reed and threw it to the ground. ‘Are you sure you want him to go through this, lady?’

  ‘If he can live, I want him to live.’

  Fiebras picked up the pliers. They were long and at the tips splayed out like a duck’s bill. ‘My father bought these off an Arab twenty years before. They’re the best tools for the job. Malger, heat some oil.’

  From a flask a stout Frank poured oil into a pan and put it into the fire they had made.

  ‘Now,’ said Fiebras, ‘hold him as firm as you can.’

  The men bore down on Sindre as Fiebras worked the pliers into the wound. Sindre was delirious now. He was shouting in Norse, but his words were unintelligible even to Leshii.

  Fiebras had the pliers about the arrowhead. Sindre fainted and the stout Frank got off his legs with, ‘Thank the Lord for that.’ The biggest man they had was a barrel of a country knight in a yellow tunic. He squeezed on the pliers as hard as he could. Fiebras called for the oil and took over again. As he worked the arrow free, the oil was poured into the wound.

  Aelis could not watch this and turned away, offering a prayer of thanks that Sindre was unconscious. Finally he was bandaged and left to recover. She took him some water and used it to wet his lips. Her countrymen looked at her strangely but she did not care. She owed this man her life, she was sure.

  Her euphoria at finding her own people receded and she began to think clearly. She remembered the wild-eyed boy in the peasant’s house raving about the bird that had been sent to bewitch him and suddenly felt afraid. Leshii came to sit beside her.

  ‘Not near the lady, old man, you understand?’ said Moselle.

  ‘Let him approach,’ said Aelis.

  The knight shook his head and turned away. Aelis adjusted the scarf on her head, emphasising her modesty. She had to regain the esteem she had lost by allowing her hair to be cut.

  ‘You should tell them,’ he said, ‘about the ravens. These men are a danger to us if they become enchanted.’

  ‘My people are apt to blame the person who is pursued by such things as much as the pursuer,’ she said. ‘They might wonder what devils I had conjured to spark the interest of hell.’

  She thought for a second. ‘It is heresy to believe in witchcraft, but there might be a way.’

  She stood and approached Moselle, then drew him to one side. ‘Knight,’ she said, ‘I am about to entrust you with information that may seem incredible to you but is true. Can you keep a secret and relay it to your men in a way they will find palatable?’

  ‘I will try, lady.’

  ‘You may know that Father Jehan from Saint-Germain came to see Count Eudes just before I was attacked and fled.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘The confessor had one of his visions …’

  ‘God blesses him with many insights.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, this is what was revealed to him. I am in grave danger of dying in a very unusual way. The birds of this country carry disease, and Confessor Jehan told me he had seen one peck at me in his vision and cause me to fall ill, die even.’

  ‘Yes.’ Moselle looked serious.

  ‘For this reason no bird can be allowed to approach our camp.’

  ‘No bird ever does, not unless it wants cooking.’

  ‘Exactly so. But the confessor has proved correct many times before. So, if yo
u could alert your men to be on their guard against birds. It is necessary to set a watch in the night too.’

  ‘A bird will never come by night. I never heard of anyone getting attacked by an owl.’

  ‘Nevertheless, this is what I want, and as my brother’s sister what I command.’

  Moselle shrugged. ‘As you wish, lady. It will be an easy thing. No bird will come near.’

  ‘Then the task should not trouble your men.’

  Moselle gave his instructions without offering an explanation. However, the horsemen were not a military unit in the old Roman army style. Three or four – the ones Aelis recognised – were Eudes’ vassi dominici, or at least that was the title they would adopt if he became king. They were his vassals, members of powerful families, and not accustomed to obeying orders blindly. But war had taught them the value of recognising a leader, at least in the field, so Moselle received polite enquiries, rather than an interrogation. However, the more noble riders would not demean themselves by watching for birds and Leshii was given the job. Aelis had to argue strongly that it was important someone else kept watch at night too and the merchant could not do it all himself, and in the end it was agreed that the lesser knights would take it in turns.

  The sun was already setting, so they made camp. To Aelis’s delight the Franks had tents with them, and she was given a whole one to herself. They carried no poles but cut them as required. She crept beneath the heavy hemp cloth, its musty smell reminding her of the garden at Loches where she and her cousins had slept the summer nights as children. Apart from privacy for Aelis, the tents also gave everyone some protection from the ravens. Only the sentries would be outside.

  Sindre was a barbarian and lay beneath the stars. At least the night was dry and Aelis put a horse blanket over him. Leshii was not given shelter either, so would keep the fire going beside the wolfman. She also warned the merchant against taking the blanket.

  Wrapped in the Viking king’s cloak Aelis sank to sleep and to dreaming. She was back at Loches and the girls around her were in a state of high excitement. The little tent they played in had something inside it. She stood by its side and listened. An erratic flutter. Something was trapped in the tent. What was making that noise? She knew! The sound, she realised, was the panicked beating of a bird’s wings.

  37 What Happened at Saint-Maurice

  Jehan held up his cross and walked towards the monastery below the great cliff, towards the walls and the buttresses of the church, which rose above him like a headland from the sea.

  No one came to greet him. The squat villa outside the walls that served as a guest house was empty save for some chickens sheltering from the cold. This wasn’t odd in such a season – pilgrimages wouldn’t start until the threat of winter had subsided. Only the very, very holy or the very, very mad would try to cross before the snows melted. With the country at war – northerners to the west and the north, Bavarians and Slavs stirring in the east, and infighting between the emperor and his nephew all around – there would be few even when they came.

  He went across to the doors in the monastery wall. They were strong and thick, though wide enough to drive a cart through. Cut into them at the bottom was a smaller door to admit pedestrians. Jehan knocked. There was no answer. He turned the handle and pushed at the door. It was open. Jehan felt a sense of disquiet, although he wouldn’t have expected the door to have been barred. The monastery was far from the sea and access to it was through well-defended lands. The door would only be locked at times of threat.

  He looked back at the Vikings. They were scarcely visible in the mist. They’d get restless soon enough and go into the guest house, he thought. They weren’t the sort of men to freeze to death for fear of offending anyone. He stepped inside the doorway. The church was in front of him, the arches of the cloister stretching away to his left, but there was no one at the gate. More worryingly, he could hear no singing. The song of ages should have been coming from the church. It was a building of pale stone with towers at either end. Into the wall facing Jehan were cut four arched windows, glazed and patterned with rich blue glass. Jehan remembered how wealthy the monks of Saint-Maurice were said to be and barred the door behind him.

  He walked to the church. The door to that was open too and he went inside. His eyes took a second to adjust to the dark of the interior. That smell was there again – deep, sour, appetising. Jehan couldn’t place it at all. What was it? Some sort of dough? Incense? There was another smell too, slightly incongruous – a powerful scent of horse.

  He passed through a vestibule, which was plain and unadorned. This was clearly the poor door. The main and nobles’ doors would be on the other side of the church. He continued through into the church proper. The light from outside was weak and at first the arches of glass looked like doorways of light floating in a black void. To his left, an arched walkway curved around behind the altar; in front of him were the aisles where the monks stood before the splendid altar of gold and silver topped with an image of Christ on the cross. The light on the gold seemed to dance and swim like the shimmer of bright coins in a fountain.

  Why had that image come to him? There was a fountain at his monastery, and visitors could never be dissuaded from throwing small coins into it. The monks tolerated the practice but Jehan disapproved. It was a tradition left over from the Romans, he knew, and therefore not far from the worship of idols. It was his last childhood memory before the Virgin had taken his sight away.

  He became aware of a noise. Someone breathing. Or rather something. There was movement beneath the altar. He peered into the darkness. The light was fading further, the windows just dim blurs now. He could see very little of the interior of the church.

  He went to a branched candlestick and took up the flint and tinder beside it. In a few moments he had a flame and lit a candle and then another, until all four candles on the holder were alight. He walked forward. At the altar he stopped and held up the light. There was movement and a snort, and then a different kind of lustre to the gold of the altar, a deep chestnut brown. Behind the altar, tied up next to a font, was a horse. It was calm but noisy as all horses are. Its blowing and stamping had been so incongruous and unexpected in the church that he’d failed to realise what it was. A saddle lay on the floor – it had a high cantle and pommel in the Frankish style – along with a healthy pile of shit. Jehan felt his anger rise that someone had chosen God’s house as a stable. A Frankish knight would never do that.

  He considered leading the animal outside but something was very amiss in this place. Should he get the Vikings? He looked at the gold on the altar. No, they’d have torn it off and be halfway to the coast with the rest of the monastery’s treasures by morning if he did.

  He went to the rear of the church, taking the candlestick with him, and the horse went back to staring into nothing. The door to the night stair leading to the monks’ dormitory was in front of him. It too was open. He walked into the cold air outside. The dormitory was a large two-storey villa he could just make out in the light of his candles. There was no light leaking from it, though that was no surprise. He was going to look stupid and be very unpopular if he woke the monks. Perhaps keeping animals in the church was a Burgundian custom, though he doubted it.

  He walked down the stairs, the candles guttering as he moved. He was cold and decided that the best chance of finding anyone awake was to go to the warming house, the only part of the monastery other than the kitchen that would be allowed a fire. Monks were supposed to live an austere life, but it would not be unusual to find half the monastery asleep by the fire in really cold weather like this. He guessed the warming house was on the ground floor of the dormitory building, so the heat would rise into the sleeping area.

  To his right was a low building with a tiny door cut into it. He knew instinctively that this was the sacristy, where the holy vessels for celebrating mass would be kept. The snow by the doorway was a different colour, almost black in the weak candlelight. Someone had dragged some
thing from the sacristy, and it had left a long dark trail on the white of the snow. It smelled of something deep and sour. Without thinking, he put his hand down and scooped some up. The snow melted in his fingers, leaving them strangely sticky. Jehan licked his fingers and felt a cold thrill go through him. The snow tasted delicious. Had someone spilled some food there? If it was food, it was none he had ever tasted. It seemed to carry a sensation of the frost inside it, and sent a tingle rippling over the skin of his arms and back.

  He looked around him and breathed in. The taste of the snow filled him up, prickling the hairs on his neck, causing him to swallow, jolting his mind as if he had suddenly woken from dozing at the side of a fire.

  Jehan walked on, following the trail. Away from the wall more snow had fallen to cover the stain but the smell didn’t go away. He put his hand through a knuckle’s depth of snow. The sticky stuff was beneath it. He put down the candlestick. Then he cast his arms about him, scrabbling at the ground. It was as if the whole surface of the inner courtyard was covered in the dark goo, just under the sheet of freshly fallen snow.

  Jehan smeared the goo onto his face, scooped handfuls into his mouth, lay down in the snow and lapped at it like a dog. He had never been so hungry. It was as if all the days without food, the meals where he had watched uninterested as the Vikings cooked their fish and game, came back to him now and sent him into a wild hunger for whatever it was beneath the snow.

  He didn’t know how long he had lain and lapped like that but the sound brought him to himself. Again, it was horses. He stood, soaked and shaking though not cold, not cold at all. His mind seemed a thing of many parts, as if he couldn’t quite get his reason to engage, as if his normal patterns of thought were there but unavailable to him, as useless as a book to a blind man. He picked up the candlestick. Only one candle remained alight and he used it to light the other three. Then he went through another open door into the large building to his right. It was the refectory, the large dining hall of the monastery, benches pushed to one wall, a long table overturned next to them. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, offered a prayer for guidance to help him think and slowly he regained his clarity. There were the horses, six of them. This time he noticed that, though the horses were good riding animals, the saddles stacked in the corner of the room were all pack saddles. Or rather, two of them had been fine Frankish riding saddles but they had been adapted to carry big baskets at either side. Jehan had seen enough horses before his affliction to know that animals as fine as these should not be used for hauling. You could buy five nags to carry your pack for the price of one of these animals. Norsemen, he knew, were neither great riders nor judges of horseflesh.