M. Lachlan: Fenrir

So, though the monk who carried him went carefully, Jehan found himself bumped and scraped into the city.

He was carried up the steps. He heard the gate close behind him, footsteps and murmured questions to his companions. The wet scent of the spring river was replaced by the damp and piss of the tight alley and the astringent, strangely pleasant note of boiling pitch and hot sand as they reached the top. Clearly, if the Vikings were to try their luck at night by that gate then the defenders were ready for them.

The monk lowered Jehan to his pallet again and he felt himself lifted up. The pallet moved through the narrow lanes. They had come at the dead of night to hide from their enemies but also from their friends. With so many sick in the city, so many desperate souls, the confessor’s progress would have been impossible by day — too many seeking his healing touch.

They came to a halt and Jehan felt himself lowered. A light breeze brought the stench of rot. He had heard that there was nowhere to bury the dead now and that corpses lay out in the streets awaiting a time they could be properly buried. If that was the case, he thought, it would do the people good. It was spiritually useful to confront the reality of death, to see the inevitable end and to think on your sins. He felt sorry for them, nevertheless. It must be hard to lose a loved one and to pass their mortal remains as you went about your business every day.

The confessor knew there was a chance he could be marooned on the island. A section of both banks of the river had held against the Danes, making resupply of the walled city, and expeditions like his own, risky but possible. However, the people were weak and dispirited from nearly four months of struggle. If the Norsemen attacked the city outside the walls, instead of concentrating on the bridges barring their progress upstream, the banks would fall and there would be no resupply, no coming and going even for a small unlit boat in the middle of the night.

‘Father?’

He recognised the voice.

‘Abbot Ebolus.’

‘Thank you for coming.’ The voice was near his ear — the abbot had bent to Jehan’s level. The confessor could smell the sweat of battle on him, the smoke and the blood. Up close, the warrior-monk reeked like a butcher’s shelf. ‘Do you think you can help her?’

‘Surely it is we, not she, I am here to help.’

Ebolus shifted on his haunches. Jehan heard the jingle of mail. The abbot was still in his armour.

‘You know why you are here?’

‘Count Eudes sent for me so I came. His sister Aelis is afflicted.’

‘Just so. She is at the father’s house at Saint-Etienne. She claims sanctuary there.’

‘From what, an ague?’

‘It is not an affliction of the body, rather one of the mind or spirit. She has taken to the great church and will not come out. Eudes feels it’s bad for the sentiment of the people. They need to see the nobility confident and healthy.’

‘Take her out and tell her to smile. There’s no sanctuary for a woman from her relations who wish her to come to table.’

‘She claims to be pursued, and as such my men will not force her from the house of God.’

‘Pursued by what?’

‘She will not say. She says something is coming for her and that she can only be safe from it in the church.’

The confessor thought for a moment.

‘Is she a woman of the court?’

‘No, she was raised half wild down at Loches on the Indre.’

‘Then it’s likely some country fancy has come into her head. There are plenty in that area who dance naked before bonfires in the night, only to go to church when the sun rises.’

‘Aelis is a Christian.’

‘But she’s a woman. She has believed some peasant stupidity, that is all. It’s troubling, I grant you, but is it really worth bringing me over here in the middle of a siege?’

The abbot lowered his voice. ‘There is more,’ he said. ‘Count Eudes has received an offer.’

‘The pagans want money to leave?’

‘No. They want the girl. If she can be persuaded to go to them they’ve sworn that they will leave us alone.’

Jehan rocked back and forth — in contemplation or under the influence of his disease Ebolus could not be sure.

‘A girl, a marriage, brings peace and security, even the possibility of conversion of the pagan. Silver is only like giving a lamb to a wolf — he will be back for more. You are certain the northerners will leave if they have her?’ said the confessor.

‘They have given their oaths, and it is my experience that, when they swear, they swear in earnest.’

‘They gave their oaths when our fat emperor paid them off rather than facing them as Christ’s enemies in the field, but they are back.’

‘I think this is different. We may be wrong about why they are here. There is talk that they came just for her. They have no designs upstream, and if Aelis goes to them then they will retire.’

‘A count’s sister seems a poor prize for a Viking king,’ said Jehan.

‘She is high-born and a famous beauty. A Frankish farmer’s daughter is too good for their highest king.’

‘And yet,’ said Jehan.

Ebolus shifted on his feet. ‘And yet.’

The confessor thought out loud. ‘So the girl can lift the siege, free her people from plague and send their enemies from the land if only she will marry this barbarian, and yet she will not. Is she so full of pride?’

‘There is a problem in that-’

Ebolus was cut short by a stir in the street. Someone was coming. Heavy footsteps approached, ten men at least, thought Jehan, marching in step. Soldiers. The footsteps stopped near to him. Jehan became aware of a presence at his side, someone looking at him, someone for whom every nearby conversation halted, for whom even the animals seemed to stop braying.

‘Monk.’

‘Count Eudes,’ said Jehan.

‘Good of you to come.’ The count’s voice was as Jehan remembered it — curt, brusque, implying that time was short and he had pressing business to attend to.

‘When the count commands, the brothers of Saint-Germain obey.’

There was a short laugh.

‘Not so, or your monks would be here defending my walls instead of cowering in the countryside with their treasures buried more deeply than their sins.’

‘The confessor is still at the abbey,’ said Ebolus.

‘You were there when the Normans plundered it?’

‘No. But I returned after they had. Even Sigfrid can’t burn somewhere twice.’

‘I wish your fellow monks had your courage.’

‘It seems courage would not be required if your sister were made to do her duty and marry this heathen. I would gladly go with her to help bring him to God.’

The count said nothing, and the streets around him seemed to empty of noise in respect to his silence. When he spoke again there was an edge of anger in his voice.

‘They have not said they want her in marriage.’

‘I did not get the chance to elaborate, Confessor,’ said Ebolus. ‘The pagans…’

He seemed to have difficulty continuing.

‘Yes?’ said Jehan.

Ebolus went on: ‘Our spies tell us it’s something to do with their gods.’ The abbot’s voice was almost ashamed.

Jehan fell silent. Somewhere far off a child was crying.

Eventually, the confessor spoke. ‘That,’ he said, ‘changes the complexion of things. A sacrifice? We won’t give up Christian daughters to heathen murder no matter what the cost.’

‘We have no thought of that,’ said Eudes.

Ebolus spoke: ‘Why not? What choice do we have? If the people discover this offer has been made — and discover it they will — then they’ll tear her from the church and throw her to the barbarians, sacrifice or no. You have not seen the streets, Confessor. The plague takes so many that we cannot bury our dead. We have no silver to offer, the king has given it to the Norsemen for twenty years now. We need to buy time and then strike at these heathens.’