Fenrir

2

Jehan could smell the plague setting in, the deep note of putrefaction beneath that of the filthy streets, beneath the sour starvation on the people’s breath.

They carried him down from Saint-Germain-des-Pres at night, the smoke of the burned abbey still in his clothes. He felt the cool of the water approaching, the stumble of the monks as they put his pallet onto the boat, the sick rocking that accompanied the journey across. He sensed the tension in the men in the tight silence that they kept, heard the careful movement of the muffled oars, the strokes gentle and few, and then the harsh whisper of a password.

‘Who?’

‘Confessor Jehan. Blind Jehan.’

The gate opened and the perilous part began — the transfer from the little boat onto the narrow step. The brothers tried to keep him on the pallet at first but it was quickly obvious that would be impossible. He solved the problem himself.

‘Carry me,’ he said. ‘Come on, hurry up. I am light enough.’

‘Can you climb on my back, Confessor?’

‘No. I am a cripple, not a monkey — can you not see?’

‘Then how shall I carry you?’

‘In your arms, like a child.’

The men escorting him were new to the monastery — warriors sent from a brotherhood to the south to help Saint-Germain defend against the Northmen, much good that the two of them had done. They were unused to Confessor Jehan and he could feel their uncertainty in the way he was taken from the boat. The warriors had never touched a living saint before.

It was a tight squeeze through the Pilgrims’ Gate. The walls of the city had been built by the Romans nine feet thick. The passage through them on the city’s north side had been cut later, to spare royalty the crush of the market-day crowds. It was not a weakness in the wall but a strength. Any invader breaking in would have to turn his body and sidle into the city, no chance to use a weapon. The passage from the gate was known as Dead Man’s Alley for good reason.

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.’

‘I will not send my sister to the slaughter,’ said Eudes.

‘How many warriors do we put in the way of death? I have lost one brother and expect to lose more. It will be a noble end for her,’ said Ebolus.

‘And what will they say of Eudes?’ said the count. ‘That he is so weak he gives up his only sister to rape and murder. I will stand alone against them with this city a field of ash about me before I let that happen.’

The confessor felt irritation building in him. He felt the need to move, to pace around, to slap the walls, to express the passion God had put within him in a physical way. His body, though, would not allow that.

‘Turn me.’ He spoke to his attendant monk.

‘Father?’

‘My hip is chafing. Turn me.’

The monk did as he was asked, rolling Jehan onto his other side and arranging the cushion beneath him.

Jehan paused for a moment, offering a prayer against wrath, and then spoke: ‘There can be no concession in this way to pagans. It is one thing to marry the girl to a godless king, perhaps even a good thing. That way, through prayer, through devotion and humility, we may hope she will bring the unbeliever to Christ. It is quite another to imperil her immortal soul, to imperil all our immortal souls by knowingly handing her over to the worshippers of idols. Et tulisti filios tuos et filias tuas quas generasti mihi et immolasti eis ad devorandum numquid parva est fornicatio tua immolantis filios meos et dedisti illos consecrans eis.’

He said the words so quickly that Ebolus, though well educated in Latin, strained forward to hear them. ‘What?’

The confessor twisted his head in frustration and said, ‘In plain Roman, moreover thou hast taken thy sons and thy daughters, whom thou hast borne unto me, and these hast thou sacrificed unto them to be devoured. Is this of thy whoredoms a small matter, that thou hast slain my children and-’

Ebolus interrupted. ‘My Latin is as good as yours, Father; if anything it is my ears that fail me.’

‘Then hear this,’ said the confessor, feeling heat come to his cheeks. ‘Give that girl to the Northmen and you will imperil not only her soul but your own. Better a thousand righteous deaths than one that the Lord abhors. You are right to protect her, Eudes. The piety of kings is the protection of their people.’

‘It is a hard god you follow, Confessor,’ said the abbot.

‘It is God, plain and simple.’

‘Then go to her and make her show her face in the streets,’ said Eudes. ‘That’s all I ask.’

‘There might be a way that would satisfy us all,’ said Ebolus.

‘If fat Emperor Charles got off his backside and sent some men down here,’ said Eudes.

Ebolus breathed out heavily. ‘That would take a miracle and the Lord is sparing with those. No. Look, we cannot send the girl to the northerners against her will. That would make us as the Sanhedrin, who brought Christ to Pilate. But she can volunteer. That would make her a martyr. There are plenty of examples of saints who have willingly given up their lives to pagans to defend the faith. And you, Eudes, would not appear weak. You would have a martyr in your family. Will you not allow her the bravery that you show on our ramparts every day?’

‘She is my sister,’ said Eudes.

‘And this is your city. If Paris falls, what will they say of Eudes then? If ever you have ambitions to be king of the Franks, then they will lie in its ashes,’ said Ebolus. The abbot’s eyes met Eudes’s, searching to see the count’s reaction to his words. He saw nothing, which he took for encouragement, so he went on: ‘And there is a precedent. Saint Perpetua was torn to pieces by wild animals in the amphitheatre in Rome for refusing to renounce the Lord. It might be argued that was a pagan ritual, of a kind.’

Jehan felt his body twitch and convulse.

‘This is sophistry,’ he said, ‘and I am not happy that we are using our philosophies to murder this girl.’

‘What would you do, Confessor, if it was your blood they wanted?’ said Ebolus.

‘I would go to them,’ he said.

‘Exactly. Then can you say the lady should not even have the virtues of martyrdom and an eternal reward explained to her?’

The confessor thought for a second.

‘I cannot.’

‘So you will talk to her?’ said Ebolus.

‘Just get her to smile and face the people,’ said Eudes. ‘That will be enough.’

‘But you have no objection to the confessor reminding her of her duties to the city? You will not allow a selfish pride to cloud your judgement of the necessary?’ said Ebolus.

‘I will not have her forced.’

‘No one is talking of forcing her,’ said Ebolus; ‘we are simply seeking to remind her of her Christian duty to put her fellow men before herself. Confessor, can you do this?’

Again, silence from the confessor. After a time, he spoke: ‘I will speak but I will not persuade her. Any decision must be her own.’

‘Then let us not delay,’ said Ebolus.

Jehan felt a strong hand on his arm.

‘Concentrate on getting her to show herself to the people. If I find that you have coerced her in any way, monk, then do not expect to leave this city alive.’

Jehan smiled. ‘I never expect to leave anywhere alive, Count. To do so is to presume too much knowledge of God’s will. But I am an honest man and I will treat your sister honestly.’

‘Then go.’

Jehan was lifted and carried forward on the pallet. They passed through the city. He heard the cries of starving children, the coughs of plague victims, weeping and even some drunken singing. It was, he thought, the music of despair. He longed to silence it but he knew that his powers of healing were very limited. Sometimes he doubted that he did anything at all when he laid on his hands for the cure of pain, made the mad sane or even, in some terminal cases, told the person their time was up and they should depart for heaven. They believed him to be a saint, so they got better for him, came back to themselves or they died, sometimes. The faithful benefited the most. Was God working through him? Of course He was, he thought, what else could it be?

He felt himself ascending a hill, the men carrying him slipping on the straw that had been laid on the cobbles. There was a lot of straw, some fresh-smelling, some stinking of rot. Either variety was no good sign — it was put down as a kindness to the inhabitants of nearby houses, to keep the sound of hooves and wheels to a minimum. This was a courtesy extended only to those on their deathbeds. He prayed for them — yes, that their lives should be spared but mostly that they should come to know God. Death held no dominion over the righteous man.

He had work here, he thought, administering the viaticum blessing, the preparation for the journey after death, absolving sins and getting people ready for heaven. Eudes had said the girl could save the city. No. The city could save itself, kneel down before God, ask his forgiveness and welcome him into its heart. Then physical death could hold no fear for those who lived there, as it held no fear for him.

Straw for silence. It was a symbol, he thought, of man’s useless attachment to earthly things, a wafer-thin reality. Christ would come one day, Christ the wrecker, Christ the down-thrower, Christ who sees all sins and holds us accountable for them. Where would be our pretences and our excuses then, our comforts and our indulgences? They would be as straw before the wind.

And yet the girl could stop the slaughter. He saw the point Ebolus was making. One girl’s life against those of the whole city. It would be better for everyone if she could be persuaded. The confessor’s view was different. One girl’s life and eternal damnation against death with the possibility of salvation. It wasn’t even a choice.

‘Saint-Etienne, Father.’

They were at the great church of Paris. Jehan could almost sense its bulk before him, as if it did something to the air around it, or rather to the dark — intensifying and deepening it, turning it into something Jehan could feel on his skin like the presence of deep water. Since he had been blind, Jehan had come to almost feel the pressures that buildings and even people exerted on the air. He might have been tempted to say he had evolved an extra sense but he was a practical man. So long in the darkness, he thought, his mind simply looked for stimulation in other ways. And of course he remembered the church from before he had been afflicted. It was almost the first thing he’d seen when he came to Paris, brought by monks from the great forest of the Rhine. Perhaps that accounted for the resonance he still felt.

Jehan could recall little of his early life. He’d been a foundling. That building was almost his first memory. He remembered the huge octagonal dome rising above him out of the many-sided base. He had never seen anything like it. The monk who had brought him from the east had gone inside to discuss the boy’s future, leaving Jehan standing in the overwhelming bustle of the Parisian street. He remembered how he’d run his hands all the way around the building and counted its sides — twelve, each bearing a fresco of a man he now knew to be an apostle. He recalled the deep dark windows, the sheer bulk of the stone and, when you went inside, the vaulted ceiling, the marble on the floor so shiny that he had feared to tread on it, thinking it was the surface of a pool. Then, as he’d waited for the brothers of Saint-Germain to collect him, he remembered the sun through the windows in the evening that cast shadows that seemed as deep as pits.

‘Is she alone in there?’

‘Yes, it is very late.’

‘Carry me in and set me beside her.’

The monk was lifted from the pallet and carried into the church. He felt the warrior stumble as he went through the porch.

‘Be careful,’ said the confessor.

‘I am sorry, Father. We are all blind men in here, there is scarcely a light.’

The confessor grunted. Since the siege the church would have given up its candles, and besides, why would it be lit at night?

‘Can you see her?’

‘No.’

‘I am here, whoever it is who looks for me.’ The voice was clear and strong, with that mild note of irritation that royals often employed when speaking to their inferiors. He recognised the tone. The nobility were occasional visitors to his monastery, though the men came more often than the women. Noble ladies, though, were interested to meet saints, and he had received her there when she was around twelve. He had been eighteen. Now she was eighteen and her voice had changed and deepened, but he still knew it. The girl had asked him why he was so ugly. He had replied that it was the will of God and he thanked Him for it.

The confessor breathed in, using the smell of incense and beeswax to calm himself and order his thoughts. What would he say? He had no idea now; he only knew what he would not say, that she must go, it was her duty. No, he would put the alternatives before her and the decision would be up to her.

‘It is Confessor Jehan, lady.’

‘They sent me a saint,’ she said. The voice was not that of a frightened country girl with a head full of devils. It was absolutely that of a lady of the court, one of those educated women who liked to tease the priests with their knowledge of the Bible, to argue even — however demurely — about its interpretation.

‘I am not dead yet, lady, nor would I presume to know the creator’s view of me.’

‘You are a healer, Confessor. Have you come to cure me of my resolve?’

Jehan, used to listening where he could not see, detected a note of fear in her voice. And no wonder, he thought. Her options in life were very unattractive.

‘I have come to speak to you, lady, that is all.’

There was a noise from outside, shouting and screaming, the ringing of bells and the blowing of horns. It was the sound, Jehan knew, of battle.

‘The Norsemen are attacking?’ said the confessor.

‘It would sound as if that were so, Father,’ said the monk carrying him.

There was a great crash quite near the church. The monk gave a cry of surprise.

Jehan said, ‘God smiles on those who fall defending his name, brother. It’s unlikely to be a serious raid; I think they’re just trying to prevent Eudes from repairing his tower. Carry me on, as I said.’

The monk walked on through the vast space of the great building. Jehan heard the scrape of a flint, smelled tinder and the burning beeswax that followed it. He heard too the lady’s intake of breath as she saw him.

‘I’m afraid the years have not improved my looks, Lady Aelis.’

‘I hope they have improved my manners,’ she said. The girl sounded genuinely shocked, and the confessor could hear she was struggling to control her voice.

‘May I sit a while with you, then?’

‘Yes.’

There were more screams from outside. The defenders would be fighting, thought the confessor, largely without armour. There would have been no time to put it on. His whole conversation, he thought, could very quickly become an almost grotesque irrelevance if the northerners got into the city. How many of them were there? Thousands. How many men-at-arms in Paris? Two hundred and fifty? While the towers held they were safe. If they fell then the city would be swamped. There was nothing for it but to proceed and to trust to the will of God, as he had always done.

‘Set me down,’ he said to the monk, ‘then draw your sword and go to the ramparts to perform the office of a faithful man.’

The monk put him down then left, clumping his way from pillar to pillar as he walked out of the candle glow.

‘You are…’ She hesitated.

‘Worse than I was? There is no need to hide from it, lady; it is a plain fact.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Do not be. It is a gift from God, and I welcome it.’

‘I will pray for you.’

‘Do not. Or rather, pray as I pray. Thank God for visiting this condition upon me and the opportunity it has given me to prove my faith.’

Aelis caught the implication of his words. He felt blessed to have been tested in his faith. She should feel the same. She did not, however.

She looked at the figure in front of her in the candlelight. When she had seen him before he had been blind and confined to a chair. Then, she had been struck by his eyes, which didn’t focus at all but ceaselessly scanned the room, as if he was trying to follow the flight of an annoying fly. His face too had been twisted into a permanent grimace. Though she had thought him ugly, she had seen worse deformity on any market day in Paris. Now, she thought, he could be the king of beggars, if he chose. His body seemed to have shrivelled, his arms to have withered and twisted; his head was cast back as if permanently looking upwards. She knew the joke was that he always looked to heaven, but, faced with the reality, she could not find it funny. The monk swayed back and forth as he spoke, like someone in deep contemplation. Aelis found the whole effect very unsettling.

Ever since she had been a little girl, and more since she had become a woman, she had been able to perceive people in a way that went beyond the normal understanding of the five senses. It was almost as if she could hear people’s personalities like music, sense them as colours or symbols. She had grown up around warriors, seen their scars and heard their stories of battle and fortitude against the northerners. When they had spoken, the colour of iron had come into her mind, of swords and armour, and the dark skies of war. Her brother had a presence like a mailed fist, hard, uncompromising, but nevertheless insubstantial compared to that of Confessor Jehan. The monk’s body may have been broken, but his soul, his will, seemed to sit like a great mountain in the dark, solid and immovable.

She took up the candle and went to the altar. The gold of the candlesticks and communion cups caught its flame and glittered as she moved. The abbot would not have them removed — that would be to admit that the Norsemen might get in. There had been hope that the monks at Saint-Germain would send over some of their relics. They could hardly expect the bones of Saint Germain himself, but there had been talk that the stole of Saint Vincent might be sent across. However, the abbot of Saint-Germain had pointed out that the monastery had been sacked by Norsemen three times already and the stole had provided no protection then.

Aelis kneeled beneath the altar.

‘God has tested me too in a smaller way. Should I be thankful?’

Jehan measured his words carefully.

‘We should be grateful for anything that comes from God.’

The confessor was just a voice in the darkness to her.

‘I am not afraid of the Norsemen,’ she said.

‘Then what are you afraid of?’

Aelis crossed herself. Jehan heard her mutter a prayer. Her voice trembled, though she fought to suppress it, not to appear weak in front of a low-born man.

‘Something is coming for me, and I know that if I consent to go with the Norsemen, or even if I leave this church, it will find me and take me. It brings peril for us all.’

‘You can’t stay inside a church all your life,’ said the confessor. ‘What is coming for you?’

She said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘When your blindness came upon you, Confessor, you had a vision?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of the Virgin Mary.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she speak to you?’

‘No.’

‘So how did you know it was her?’

‘I knew. And from the gift she awoke within me.’

‘The prophecies?’

‘Yes.’

Jehan remembered the day that had changed his life. He had been found by hunters in the woods at the age of around five or six, and then deposited at a monastery in the East Frankish lands of Austrasia. He had been delirious. All that was certain was that someone had taught him to speak Roman and he had suffered a great shock that had left him with few memories. He had been taken west to Paris by a travelling monk, where he had been given a place at Saint-Germain by the mercy of the Church. His recovery had been as remarkable as it was quick. By the age of nine he was helping the monks, studying, playing and laughing. In many ways he outshone his peers. His facility for writing would have been surprising in a child who had been raised to it from his earliest years. Languages too came easily to him: the common tongue of Roman, Francique, as spoken at court, Latin for official business, Greek, even the Norse and Saxon that the missionaries taught him. More amazing was his ability at chess. He had watched two monks play the game and then sat to try for himself. In his first game he beat one of the abbey’s strongest players. The boy, it was said, was blessed.

Then the Virgin had appeared to him. It was high summer, the hungry month of July, and he had nothing to do but walk the fields of unripe crops. The sun was over the corn and the sky was a burning blue. When the monks spoke of visions he had always imagined that an angel or the Virgin would appear on a cloud or in a haze. But she had stood beside him so real he felt he could touch her. She had spoken to him, or rather he had heard her voice in his mind, though he had never admitted it to anyone, too unsure of what she had meant. He had pondered her words for years, and he had never revealed them.

‘Do not seek me.’

He had taken it for a warning against the sin of pride, of trying to be too holy and putting himself above other men in piety. Seeking heaven, he felt, was the surest way to lose it.

She had walked away from him and he had run after her, but the blindness fell upon him and he had been discovered wandering by the hives, lucky not to blunder into one and be stung.

His prophecies had been correct — raids along the coast, Rouen in flames, Bayeux, Laon and Beauvais ruined, the sons of the Church executed. The abbot had declared him a saint on earth — a confessor — and God had blessed him with further afflictions and further visions.

‘They made you a saint because you saw her?’

‘Yes. That and the monastery’s desire to have a confessor among its monks. It was just and it was politic,’ he said.

‘What would they make you if you had seen…’ She couldn’t finish.

Jehan was quiet, allowing her to compose herself.

‘Do you need to ask for penance?’

Aelis gave a short laugh. ‘I have nothing to confess, Father, no sin to be forgiven, but if I was to stand in front of the congregation, call what I have experienced a sin and ask a priest for forgiveness, my life might be over before I left this church. Can I ask you privately? Will you swear never to reveal what I have to say?’

‘The sacrament of penance must be conducted publicly,’ said Jehan.

‘I have nothing to be sorry for. Will you swear?’

‘This path is strewn with briars,’ said the confessor under his breath. What if the woman told him she was an adulteress or, worse, a murderer? He could not, in conscience, hold on to a secret like that.

The noise of the fighting was getting closer. Had the Norsemen taken a tower? That was impossible, he thought, without mining. The enemy had already tried that, and to no success.

The cries and the curses focused the confessor on his task.

‘I will swear,’ he said.

‘They made you a saint because you saw the Virgin,’ said Aelis; ‘what would they call you if you had seen the devil?’

‘The common people might cry witch,’ said the confessor, ‘though belief in witchcraft is heresy. Someone might be held a heretic if they declared themselves a witch, but a vision is a vision. Of itself it means nothing.’

‘So what would you call me?’

‘You have seen the devil?’

‘Yes. Am I a witch, unknown to myself?’

‘Christ saw the devil in the wilderness — was he a witch?’

She bowed her head.

Jehan swallowed and began to rock more rapidly.

‘There are many explanations for this sort of thing. An illness, perhaps, a passing brain fever. A dream is often just that, lady, a fancy without any connection to the day-to-day.’

‘I dream him while waking. He is always there.’

More screams. Jehan heard a shouted word in the Norse tongue: ‘Die.’

He didn’t pause. ‘And how do you know him for the devil?’

‘He is a wolf. A man and a wolf at the same time. He comes from the shadows and the side of my sight. He is beside me as I fall to sleep and there in the instant of my waking. He is a wolf and he speaks to me.’

‘What does he say?’

Aelis crossed herself again. ‘He says that he loves me.’

There was a clamour right outside the cathedral. The fighting was close now. Aelis looked up. The darkness around the weak candle glow seemed to swim and to seethe, a liquid black. There was a thump against the door, so hard that it seemed it would splinter.

‘Are we to die, Confessor?’ said Aelis.

‘If it is God’s will,’ said Jehan.

‘Then pray for us.’

‘No,’ said the confessor. ‘Pray for our enemies, that they might find the light of Christ in their hearts before our soldiers kill them and so have a chance of heaven. We are believers and so can be more hopeful we will go to God.’

She stood and Jehan heard her draw in breath. To Aelis the dark had now taken on a different quality. It seemed to bristle, to move and even to shine, like the fur on a hog’s back. Then the shadow at the edge of the candle glow took form, moved and stepped forward into the light.

The lady gasped. There, like a creature of wrapped shadows, stood the figure of the wolfman, his savage head leering down at her from the darkness, his pale skin taut and smeared with blood.

‘He is here,’ she said. ‘He is here!’

‘Who?’

‘The wolf, the wolf! The devil is come!’

Jehan cast his head around. There was a dark, animal scent away to his left. He could hear the breathing of a third person now, hear the girl trying to catch her breath in her panic.

‘We are clothed in the armour of God, Satan; you cannot harm us,’ said the monk. His voice was steady and calm, almost bored, like a teacher speaking to a naughty child.

‘ Domina,’ said the wolfman. He hacked out the word as if it was stuck in his throat, his accent guttural and strange. ‘ Domina.’ Aelis tried to make herself think. She had been taught Latin since her earliest years but she couldn’t even make her mind translate this simple word. The monk, however, was unafraid.

‘Do not call for the lady, devil; your business is with me.’ The confessor spoke in Latin too.

The wolfman ignored him.

‘ Domina. My name is Sindre that is called Myrkyrulf, and I am here to protect you.’

Finally Aelis found her Latin. ‘Against what?’

‘Against this,’ he said, and the doors of the church flew in.