M. Lachlan: Fenrir

The voice he had heard called Holmgeirr said, ‘Look, it’s as black as Garm’s arse in here. Get a light, will you?’

The confessor continued to pray for the life of the Norsemen’s souls and the death of their bodies.

‘Never mind that. What are we going to do about this lot outside? I tell you, they’ll burn us out. We’ll have light enough then.’

‘They’ll never burn their own holy place, that’s our job. Relax. It’s built like a mountain anyway, I doubt you could burn it. The worst that can happen is that you’ll die by the sword.’

‘Looked on like that, what am I worried about?’

‘Actually, the worst that can happen is we get caught.’

‘I ain’t getting caught.’ It was a fourth voice, low and rough.

He heard the sound of a flint being struck, some blowing and puffing and then: ‘Hang on a minute, who’s this?’

A sword was drawn.

‘A beggar.’

‘No, look at his hair — he’s a monk. I’ll tell you who this is, boys: it’s our passage out of here. It’s their crippled god. It’s the god Jehan they’re always on about.’

‘Not God,’ said Jehan in deliberately bad Norse. He decided that the less the Norsemen thought he understood of their tongue, the better for him. However, the suggestion that he was a god had forced him to deny it.

‘He’s a healer, they reckon.’

‘Doesn’t seem to have done a very good job on himself, does he?’

‘Here, god, do my arm. Your boys gave it one hell of a whack.’ The confessor guessed the arm must be broken. The Norsemen liked to make light of their wounds whenever possible. The man wouldn’t have asked unless he was in dire pain.

‘Need to set it,’ said the confessor.

‘Can you do that? Do you have the skill?’

‘My hands bad but can tell you,’ said the confessor, ‘if you come to Christ.’

He felt his heart pumping and scolded himself for it. These northerners were not afraid to die, whatever lies they believed. Why should he be so?

‘I’ll come to any god who’ll fix this bastard arm,’ said the Dane. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘Baptism, water.’

‘Careful, Holmgeirr,’ said one of them. ‘They eat human flesh that lot, it’s well known.’

‘Don’t the Ravens do that too, and they follow our gods?’

‘Odin ain’t my god. A god of the living beats one of the dead.’

‘I’ve made plenty of corpses following Lord Thor, but I’ve never eaten one, nor has the god ever asked me to.’

‘Odin doesn’t demand that; it’s the Ravens who offer it.’

Confessor Jehan felt a jab in his side. ‘You, Christ God, I’ll suffer a broken arm for a year rather than eat anyone.’

‘Never mind that,’ said another voice. ‘Open that door and tell them we want a chat. Tell them we’ve got their god in here and if they want to ever see him alive again they better let us out.’

‘You go out and tell them. They’ll stick an arrow in whoever opens that door.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said the one who Jehan had heard called Ofaeti. ‘Ask for Tyr’s protection in this one. Stick close behind me.’

‘Not you, you fat bastard. If they’ve got bowmen out there they’ll never miss someone of your size.’

‘You want to do it?’

‘Second thoughts, you’re the ideal man for the job. Keep your shield low, mate. After you.’

Jehan felt a strong arm around him and he was lifted into the air. Someone had picked him up as if he was a child. He felt the man draw out a knife and knew what was going to happen.

The door was opened and he heard Eudes shout, ‘Hold!’

The Norseman screamed at the top of his voice, so loud it made the confessor wince, ‘We’re taking your god out of here. Stay your hand if you want him to live.’ Then he spoke to Jehan: ‘You, tell them to give us free passage back to our camp if you want to live.’

The confessor’s voice was calm. He spoke in the high language of Francique so people would know his words were intended for the Frankish leaders. The time for praying for his enemies’ souls was over. They had refused to convert and set themselves outside God’s mercy.

‘These men are enemies of God and I have hope of heaven. Strike, and if I die, know that it was with the Lord’s name on my lips.’

Jehan heard the Franks step forward. A knife pricked the skin at his neck, but then Eudes was shouting, ‘No, no, stand back. Stand back, put down your weapons.’

Jehan heard a voice, close at his ear. ‘Thanks for that, god. I guessed what you said and you can be sure you’ll pay for it when we get you back.’

‘Give them passage,’ shouted Eudes. ‘Set your ransom and we’ll want him back intact, northerners. Come on, let these men past.’

‘Cut them down!’ shouted the confessor. He couldn’t work out why Eudes wouldn’t attack. He would have thought the count would have been glad to get rid of a troublesome churchman, particularly one who was not amenable to bribes or threats.

‘My name is Ofaeti. Bargain with none but me!’ shouted the Norseman and carried him out into the night.

As Jehan was carried towards the bridge, he realised that the count was a more subtle politician than he had given him credit for. The king and the dukes of the Carolingian empire might refuse to come to the aid of little provincial Paris, but could they refuse to come to the aid of a saint?

Leshii had almost hated to cut the girl’s hair. She was very beautiful and her hair was an almost white blonde. However, there were two advantages to slicing it off. The first was that it would help disguise her from the Danes who were looking for her, enabling him to claim a good ransom from the wolfman — or rather via the wolfman from the rather richer Prince Helgi. The second was that he could sell the hair to a wig maker. A crop like that was a rare capture; it was even clean. How much? he wondered. Ten dinars? Two good swords’ worth at least.

She had understood what he wanted to do but instinctively objected. ‘The Bible says it is a disgrace for a woman to cut her hair.’

‘And for a woman to be raped and murdered by Norsemen? Surely your god would prefer a lesser evil.’

Aelis saw his reason and held still while he worked. The cutting was notable for speed rather than finesse, and her remaining hair was reduced to clumps. The merchant had the severed tresses inside his pack in an instant — along with the lady’s rings — and, just as quickly, produced some wide trousers, gathered at the knee, and a long kaftan.

From down the slope they heard a dog barking and the calls of the men following it.

Aelis kicked off her soaking dress and stuffed it into a bush. Down to her hose and undershirt, she went to put the kaftan on but the merchant stopped her and passed her a rough shirt, no more than a tube with holes in.

‘Better not to wear the wet one,’ he said, ‘it might provoke questions.’

Aelis was deeply reluctant to undress in front of this man, so she went a few paces into the woods. She stripped off her hose and tunic and put on the new clothes. They stank of horse and, worse, of man. Suddenly his hands were on her.

‘I will die before you take me.’

‘You have a taste for drama,’ said the merchant. ‘You are to be a boy; best cover the things that announce you, very much, as a woman.’ His eyes bulged as he said this in a self-mocking acknowledgement of his sauciness. ‘I know you Franks and Neustrians have no conception of real buttons.’

One by one, he pushed the twelve buttons at the front of the kaftan through their loops. Aelis was glad he did, as she would have had no idea how to put on such a strange garment herself. Then he put a rough cap on her head and smeared dirt all over her face. She looked like she was meant to, a young male slave, his hair cut short as a sign of his subjugation.