Fenrir

35

The way up into the mountains was hard. Rain turned to sleet as they climbed and then to snow. The winter snow had gone and the fresh falls came down on a cold, green landscape. On the lower slopes it didn’t settle. Further up, though, the mountains were shrouded in white.

They rounded a great lake with settlements all along it. They didn’t stop but Jehan cut a staff and made a cross, holding it high before them. Pilgrims were common on that route, if unusual at that time of the year, and the locals seemed reassured. The Vikings sounded their horns and trusted to luck. No one attacked them and they were even able to buy a little bread. Jehan did the talking and the Norsemen kept silent. The mules were loaded with firewood on the advice of the locals. The way into the mountains would be cold and they would need all the warmth they could get when they camped.

The body of the dead brother was dragged on a roughly constructed sled. The smell of rot was becoming unbearable to the Norsemen, though Jehan did not find it unpleasant.

‘We should boil his flesh off,’ said Egil.

‘And where’s the pot big enough for that?’ said Ofaeti.

‘Then burn him,’ said Egil. ‘Hey, monk, is a cooked saint as good as a raw one?’

Jehan said nothing.

As they turned south into the pass the snow set in properly, and the river they were following up began to turn to ice. The berserkers were northern men and so well dressed for such weather, but they had to keep moving throughout the day to keep the cold at bay. The nights were made tolerable, though not pleasant, by a fire, but there was little to eat, save some fish the Vikings had caught in the river and the bread they had bought.

Luckily the dead monk’s body soon froze and the smell abated. The mountains were closing in, dark walls rising up into grey cloud. It was as if they were trapped in a trough between gigantic waves that towered above them as though suspended in the moment before collapse. Five days in and the waves vanished, invisible in the snow. There was little shelter in the valley and the firewood was running low. The tents were a mercy, even though they bulged with the number of men they held. The cramped conditions at least meant they were warm.

They pressed on, faces cast down to the ground. Only the feel of the track beneath their feet, worn smooth by traders and pilgrims, kept them going, though often they stumbled and fell. None of the Vikings complained, though Jehan could see that they suffered. The confessor couldn’t get the face of the child who had watched him from the riverbank out of his mind. He imagined her watching him still, just out of sight. When rocks or icefalls loomed out of the mist, for a second he thought it was her.

On the sixth day the weather relented. The cloud was still low but the snow was lighter and they could see their way forward. Jehan saw Ofaeti looking at him.

‘You are a strong man, monk.’

Jehan kept going.

‘When did you last eat?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Two weeks at least. And yet you stride out like a man on a good breakfast. You don’t even wrap your feet in rags. What is it that drives you on?’

‘God.’

Ofaeti nodded. ‘Tell me about this god.’

So Jehan told him the story of Jesus’ birth, how he had been born among the animals, raised as a carpenter and died on the cross so mankind could live eternally.

The Norsemen loved stories and they all listened with great interest. Ofaeti in particular seemed intrigued. ‘I will try this god of yours. He will sit alongside Tyr in my heart for a while and I will see the luck he brings.’

‘Christ sits alongside no one. You must reject your idol.’

‘That I will not do. Is your god so jealous that he cannot admit another?’

‘Yes,’ said Jehan. ‘If you were baptised but did not reject your devil then God would punish your descendants to the third generation.’

‘For what?’ said Egil. ‘I have a wife, but can’t I lie with another woman if I choose? Will my wife curse me if she hears of it?’

‘Your wife should curse you. You should be bound to one woman only.’

‘I am bound but not so tightly I can’t take a roll in the hay with another if I choose. What woman would begrudge her seafaring man that? Do such witches exist?’

‘The Lord tells us, “Thou shalt not commit adultery.” I will tell you a holy story and see if it can sway your pagan heart.’ Jehan told the story of Moses and how he had brought down the Ten Commandments from Mount Sinai.

Ofaeti and the berserkers laughed.

‘So you Franks believe, “Thou shalt not kill?” How many of us northerners would you slaughter if you went to it without a tender heart?’

‘It is permissible to kill the enemies of God. There is just and unjust killing, the Hebrew makes that clear. The command is closer to “Thou shalt not murder.”’

‘How do you know an enemy of God?’

‘Ordinary men need not worry about such things; the priests can point them out,’ said Jehan.

The Vikings laughed again.

‘A convenient set-up for all, I think. I like this God, he who knows the difference between noble fight and murder,’ said Ofaeti.

‘He is my strength and my light.’

‘And for that reason I’ll think him a good god. He has made you a mighty man.’

‘He has,’ said Jehan, ‘though I would thank him more if he had made me the weakest.’

‘Why?’

‘Because God tests those that he favours. From his own son, he asked the sacrifice of life.’

‘That is not such a great sacrifice,’ said Ofaeti, ‘not to us. You go on to dwell in the halls of the All Father to feast eternally and battle eternally. Death is like moving to another land, as so many of our people do.’

‘In pain, crucified, nailed to a cross?’

‘A funny end for a carpenter,’ said Ofaeti.

‘King Nesbjorn crucified a shoddy boatbuilder once — said he’d teach him how to drive in nails,’ said Egil. ‘Perhaps it was similar.’

Jehan swallowed his anger. ‘He knew what his fate was and went willingly, for our sins.’

‘To be fair,’ said Ofaeti, ‘I’ve got any number of uncles who knew the Valkyries were hovering above them. Heggr and his boys got trapped by a bunch of islanders out west. They could have surrendered and waited for ransom but a man called him a coward — only word the bastard knew in Norse — so they showed them they weren’t. Two out of ten came out alive, but no one in those parts has ever called us cowards again, so it was worth it. A brave man, this Jesus, no doubt, but the world’s full of brave men. Or rather the next world is!’

‘When you are downtrodden, when you are at your lowest, when every one of your fellows has deserted you, my god lifts you up and walks beside you. Does yours?’

‘Tyr likes powerful warriors. He leaves cowards to make their own way,’ said Ofaeti.

Jehan turned to the big Viking and took him by the shoulder. ‘Am I a coward?’

Ofaeti looked into his eyes. ‘I believe you are not,’ he said.

‘No Christian is. Let me tell you the story of this place. Do you know who the black saint was?’

‘No.’

‘A saint is someone perfect in holiness, as Maurice was. He is known as the black saint because that was the colour of his skin.’

‘Black skin!’ said Egil. ‘A dwarf then?’

‘A man of the Roman Theban legion, a descendant of the ancient pharaohs.’

‘The people of those lands are blue,’ said Ofaeti. ‘I know it because it is said that is why they are called Blaumen.’

‘One man’s blue is another’s black,’ said Jehan. ‘The Theban legion was composed entirely of Christians, 6,666 men strong.’

‘That’s a mighty force,’ said Ofaeti.

‘Depending on the mettle of the men,’ said Egil.

Jehan went on: ‘They served the pagan king Maximium Caesar, who ordered them, for the pleasure of his god Mercury, to kill some Christian families who were living in this place. The legion refused.’

‘They were wrong to do so if they had taken an oath to the king,’ said Ofaeti.

‘They had a stronger bond to their god,’ said Jehan. ‘When the news of their refusal came back to Caesar he ordered that one-tenth of their number be killed.’

‘What is a tenth?’ said Astarth

‘A lot.’

‘More than a dozen?’ said Ofaeti.

‘It is 666 of them,’ said Jehan.

‘And their fellows stood by and saw so many slaughtered?’ said Egil.

‘They welcomed martyrdom.’

‘What’s that mean?’ said Egil. ‘Your Latin means nothing to me, priest.’

‘The chance to die for their god.’

‘They’d have been better men if they’d killed for him. It’d be a mighty king who came in and took so many from Rollo’s army, I tell you that,’ said Egil.

‘When the first tenth had died, the emperor sent his orders again. They were refused. And he killed 666 men again, and again, until only six remained. Then he killed them and the whole legion was dead.’

‘Would they not have been better defending these families of their god? The Roman king could now order his other soldiers to slaughter them,’ said Ofaeti.

Jehan ignored the question in order to drive home his point. ‘Six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six men stood and died in this place. Their bones may be beneath your feet. Do you call them cowards?’

‘I don’t know what to call them,’ said Ofaeti. ‘I know what to call a man who fights; I know what to call a man who runs. One who does neither I have no name for.’

‘He said he was called a Saint Maurice,’ said Egil.

Jehan spoke in a low voice: ‘You are less than serious, Egil, and yet you should quake in fear before my god. I am not a warrior. Your idols would not be interested in me. I have been downtrodden, taken from my homeland by savage men, my companions killed, my future promising only death. Do I tremble? No, because my god is a god of love.’ He grabbed the tip of Egil’s spear and held it to his own breast, staring the Viking down. ‘You are brave men, but it is the bravery of fools who do not know what is arrayed against them. You would shake to your boots if you knew his wrath. Yet God wants to love you. He offers you deliverance, asks you to dwell for ever in his house. If you refuse, damnation awaits. You will be tied and pinioned and thrown into the mouth of hell, where the eternal suffering of fire awaits.’

‘Burned for eternity by the god of love?’ said Ofaeti. He seemed puzzled.

‘He offers you his mercy. If you refuse it, you condemn yourself,’ said Jehan.

‘I could do with something to warm me up,’ said Egil. ‘It’s like Nifhelm up here.’

‘Nifhelm?’

‘The realm of the ice giants,’ said Ofaeti. ‘It’s underground, so I’m fairly certain it’s not around here.’

‘It’s a silly myth,’ said Jehan.

Ofaeti shrugged. ‘It is cold, though, isn’t it? There could be white bears here, which wouldn’t be a lot of fun. I’ll tell you what,’ he said: ‘if your god sends us this monastery, a warm bed and a bowl of stew before the night’s out, then I’ll believe in him.’

‘You worship God without conditions. You don’t make bargains with him.’

Ofaeti looked genuinely nonplussed. ‘So what do you do?’

‘Praise him.’

‘Flatter, you mean. Lord Tyr would strike such a man down. You offer him the death of fine warriors in battle, gold and cattle, not words to please a lady. If you can’t bargain with a god then the god is no good to you.’

The mist in the valley was thinning. Jehan peered through the grey air. There was a cliff rising out of the main slope, and beneath it was a structure too regular to be natural. It was just a shape, a darker grey on a field of other greys, but the confessor knew it could only be one thing — the monastery. From along the valley he heard a sound. It was the wind, though it reminded him of what he would soon be hearing. Singing. The monastery was famous for its acoemetae — the sleepless ones. The monks sang in shifts, unceasing for nearly four hundred years now. He looked at the sky. It would be around mid-afternoon, the little hour of nones. They’d be singing the songs of ascents. He recited the words of one of them to himself.

He who goes out weeping,

Carrying seed to sow,

Will return with songs of joy,

Carrying sheaves with him.

The message of the psalm cleared his head and renewed his strength for the struggle to convert the northerners. He had to accept that he was dealing with a simple people. There are many ways to Christ, his abbot had told him. Perhaps he should let the northerners walk theirs. He looked up. The great cliff curved around to his left, the monastery tight to it. Could none of the Vikings see it?

‘If God sends you the monastery, will you renounce your idol?’

‘He’d have to chuck in a whore as well for that,’ said Ofaeti. ‘He’s a god of love; he should have a few at his disposal. But I hear your god doesn’t like whores, begging the question of what he does like.’

The confessor waved his hand. ‘Honest men and good women. Whores are tolerated by some in the Church for they keep the good women of the town chaste. They are not tolerated by me. Pray properly and God will send you a wife.’

‘All whores are thieves too,’ said Ofaeti, ‘but they’re gone by the morning. It’s one thing to get done by a pirate, it’s another to invite him into your house and let him complain when you fart. I’ll have no wife.’

‘You don’t want children, Ofaeti?’

‘Don’t you, monk?’

Jehan snorted and looked to the mountains, just gigantic shadows in the mist. He had often lectured people on the sins of the flesh. What had Eudes said to him when Jehan had warned him that his whoring would see him in hell? ‘It is easy to be chaste when God has made it impossible for you to be anything else.’ Had Jehan known lust? Of course, but he had prayed for it to go and it had, largely. Those feelings were not the hardest ones to control. God had stricken his body, rendered him blind, and Jehan had known why. God had wanted him for Himself. In darkness and constriction he had no closer companion than God, certainly no greater love. But with a touch in the dark of the Viking camp something else had stirred inside him — a longing greater than lust for true companionship, for touches that did more than lift him, wash him, cut his hair or trim his beard. For most of his life he had been alone in the darkness with God. He cursed the ingratitude that made him hungry for something more.

He knew, to his regret, that it was possible there were whores at the monastery. The abbot’s position in recent years had been given to warrior nobles. While a core of monks kept the hours and attended to God’s works, there were many at such places who preferred to eat, drink and satisfy their lusts. They weren’t monks, just lesser sons whose families had nothing better to do with them.

The monastery seemed clearer to him now, and he was surprised none of the Vikings had yet seen it. There was a smell in the air — something sweet, the scent of cooking perhaps. No. Not cooking, but something like it. It was a note he’d never quite noticed before, an alluring aroma like ripe cheese, pungent and strong yet delicious.

‘Hey! Look!’ Varn was flapping his arm. ‘Can you see that?’

‘I can,’ said Ofaeti. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s Saint-Maurice,’ said Jehan. ‘If there’s a whore in there, then your soul’s Christ’s.’

Ofaeti laughed. ‘If she’s a pretty one, then why not? Whatever’s inside, let’s hope it’s a gift from your god and not from mine.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that would be fifty angry monks come to cut our throats,’ said Ofaeti. Jehan recalled the big man’s words in the chapel: ‘Tyr’s blessing, many enemies.’

Jehan glanced at the Vikings. They were not in a good state — hungry, frozen, ice in their beards, their cloaks and blankets tight about them. Were the monks of Saint-Maurice in a belligerent mood, he thought, the northerners would not last long.

It was better to be cautious.

‘You stay here,’ said Jehan.

Ofaeti shook his head. ‘We’re coming with you.’

‘If you do, they’ll think you are bandits and kill you. There are five hundred monks in there, and their house possesses some of the greatest treasures in Christendom.’

‘Got what?’ said Ofaeti.

Jehan realised too late what he had said, but the damage had been done. He was glad he’d exaggerated the number of brothers by at least five times.

‘This place is in the mountains on one of the main routes between Francia and Rome. Do you think they have never seen a bandit before? Or a hundred bandits, or a thousand? You are eleven. If you let me speak, you’ll be in the warmth of their guest house before nightfall. If you don’t, you’ll be spending another night in the cold.’

Jehan would fulfil his oath, he thought: he would put the Vikings’ case to the abbot. But he would not lie. The bones were those of a brother, not a saint. And he knew that when he explained exactly who the Vikings were and that they were pagans, their lives would not be worth much. The abbot of Saint-Maurice was the second son of a powerful and warlike Burgundian noble. Such men were drawn to the Church for the power it offered rather than by piety and weren’t slow to use their swords. He felt sure of the answer the Norsemen would receive. He didn’t want them dead and would argue that they could be brought to Christ, but he knew the outcome of his visit to the monastery would not be good for them.

The Norsemen muttered but Ofaeti knew they had no choice but to accept what Jehan said. However, before the monk went, the big man took him by the arm.

‘You are a hardy man and a brave one,’ he said, ‘but I remind you of your oath. We are offering no threat. If they come to kill us then they will be the Caesar and we the Theban legion saints.’ He prodded Jehan firmly in the chest. ‘“Thou shalt not murder,” so your god says.’

Jehan nodded.

‘And one other thing. This warrior puts his head on a block for no man. If your brothers come, we will bless them.’

‘Bless them?’

‘They want to go to their god, don’t they? We’ll speed them to his side.’

Jehan smiled at him. ‘We spend our entire lives preparing to die,’ he said, ‘but I will seek their protection for you — if you come to Christ.’

‘Protection first, then we’ll see.’

Jehan didn’t move, just looked into the big Viking’s eyes.

‘You are very wonderful,’ said Ofaeti.

‘What?’

‘You look blank when I bargain, so I thought I’d try praise, like you said. Your mother raised a mighty man. Is that not praise enough?’

‘My mother didn’t raise me,’ said the monk, ‘or anyone, as far as I know.’