Fenrir

5

The battle in the church had ended. The Vikings had driven the Franks outside and slammed shut the door but now they were trapped. From within, the confessor could hear the Franks assembling in the street, hear their excited cries.

‘They’re inside! They’re inside! We have them.’

The words of the psalm came into his head unbidden, but he would not say them out loud.

‘Arise, O Lord; save me, O my God: for thou hast smitten all mine enemies upon the cheek bone; thou hast broken the teeth of the ungodly.’

That was in him, to call up the god of the Old Testament, the powerful, protecting, avenging god. Instead, he thanked the Lord for his trial and prayed that the heathens might come to Christ’s peace before they died. God’s will, he thought, was all-encompassing and to complain or show weakness before life’s trials was to rail against Him. If things were so, it was because He wished them to be so.

Around him the Vikings were talking. He knew enough of their language from previous sieges and from more peaceful meetings to understand them. The confessor’s ability with languages was remarkable. Norse had come to him as easily as if he had been raised speaking it.

‘We’re stuck in here.’

The confessor could hear the Norsemen pacing around.

‘How many dead?’

‘Of us, none, I think. No one here anyway that I can see. Has anyone got a candle or some reeds?’

‘Sigfrid’s men? How did they do in the fight?’

‘Four. Well, I think it’s four, it’s difficult to tell in here.’

‘It can’t be four. Only four followed us in.’

‘I know. Doesn’t say much for the skills of the king’s warriors, does it?’

‘One of them had a decent sword, though.’

‘You can’t have that, Ofaeti. If his kin see you with it there’ll be trouble.’

‘You’re right. For them.’

Ofaeti. The confessor recognised it as a nickname. ‘Fatty’ was the nearest translation.

‘You’ll have to give it back. I can hardly see in here. Are you not wearing any trousers or shoes?’

‘I’m not, no.’

‘Thank Thor it’s dark, then. Why not?’

‘I was just about to treat one of the camp ladies to the benefit of my expertise when Crow-Arse went up the wall. I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if I stopped to get my finery on before I followed you.’

‘She stole your trousers as soon as you took your eye off her, didn’t she?’

‘You can’t trust whores nowadays,’ said Ofaeti.

Another voice spoke. ‘No wonder the Franks ran away with that dangling at them.’

Laughter.

‘I can’t believe we let ourselves end up in this mess.’ The voice had something of a chuckle in it.

‘Following that shapeshifter was bad luck, for sure.’

‘He would have taken her if we hadn’t. And look on the bright side. We’re surrounded by so many that even you will be able to hit at least one of them, Holmgeirr.’

‘I blame you for this, Ofaeti, this is your god’s doing — Tyr’s blessing, many enemies.’

The voices were light and the men laughed as they spoke. The confessor recognised it for what it was — warrior bravado, but if it was an act, he had to admit it was a convincing one.

‘Let’s face it,’ said the voice belonging to the one who had been called Holmgeirr. ‘The one to blame is that Odin-blind crow-man we followed in here. Where is he now?’

‘He followed the wolfman and the girl.’

‘Oh, terrific. Kiss goodbye to the reward then. Helgi’ll be as likely to nail us up by our nuts as give us anything now.’

‘We might still be in luck. Fastarr and the others went after him.’

‘Let’s hope they skin the bastard if they find him.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t skin them.’

The confessor had not heard the next voice before. It was quieter and more serious.

‘It’s too late. The Raven will have her. He said he would.’

‘Don’t say that, Astarth. That girl’s worth seventy pounds of silver to us alive. What’s he want her for? Sacrifice?’

‘Nothing so fancy; he just wants her dead.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why? When did the servants of Odin ever need a why to want someone dead? Perhaps he’s hungry.’

‘Oh, don’t. No, don’t.’

‘Fair point, though, isn’t it?’

‘I can’t give Sigfrid a pile of gnawed bones, can I?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well. It could be anyone, couldn’t it?’

‘Now there’s a plan,’ said Ofaeti.

The men seemed to find this truly hilarious.

Jehan heard the church door creak open, a shout and then the door was slammed again.

‘Try it, you Frankish bastard, just try it,’ shouted a Norse voice. ‘Come on, see what you get!’

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?