The Great Pagan Army Page 3

  She laughed and dug a finger into his ribs.

  He almost recoiled at the contact, and he almost fell upon her to shower her with kisses. His cheeks burned as he fumbled at his cord, unknotting the wooden kit dangling from it.

  “Over here,” she said, brushing aside cobwebs.

  He glanced at the leather curtain hanging in the doorway. A tear in the leather admitted a ray of sunlight. Tiny particles swirled in the sunbeam. Deeper in the hut Willelda kicked away old rushes, rubbish and knelt where the ray shined. He scowled at the dirt floor, looked about and picked up a ragged cloth. Onto that, he set his wooden kit. He took out parchment, an inkbottle, a quill and a knife.

  She picked up the knife. “It’s so small.” She wrinkled her nose. “Do all monks have such small ones?”

  “It’s a quill-knife,” he said peevishly.

  “A what?” she said.

  He held out his hand.

  She deposited the tiny knife onto it.

  “It’s for sharpening the quill.” To show her he clipped a shred.

  “What kind of feather is it?”

  “Goose, but swan is better.” He noted her interest, the intelligence in her amazing eyes. “You pluck the five outer wing-feathers in spring. That time of year makes the strongest quills. And you pluck from the left wing.”

  “Why the left?” she asked.

  “Because I write with my right hand and this quill curves away from my fingers, making it easier to ink the letters.”

  She nodded. All teasing and laughter had fled. A touch of fear, or awe perhaps, showed on her beautiful face. She gave him a nervous smile. “Show me. Write words.”

  He pried out the stopper, dipped the quill into ink and touched the tip to parchment. With quick, practiced strokes he wrote, his bony fingers alive with skill, with the scratch of sharpened goose quill. He never looked up, but concentrated with what his Benedictine brothers considered terrible intensity. Thus he hardly noticed as her gaze darted from his skilled hand, to his face and then to what he wrote.

  “What does it say?” she whispered.

  With a flourish, he wrote the last letter and then wiped the quill on the rag and bottled the ink.

  “Peter?”

  He lifted the parchment and gently blew upon the letters. If he had been in the scriptorium, he might have dried this by sprinkling sand upon it.

  “What does it say?”

  Only now did he look at her, and the professional twist to his lips changed into a frown. Her dark hair swept forward, half hiding her features. His heart thudded. Oh, to brush aside her hair and shower her with kisses—his breath quickened.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “Did you cast a spell upon me?”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Lupus says writing is.”

  Confusion made him abrupt. “Who is this Lupus?”

  She flicked a strand of hair from her eyes as her small chin lifted. “Lupus fled from Lotharingia, from the Northmen. He said they’re blood drunk. Some wizard of theirs dug up the cup of—” she frowned “—of some ancient Hunnish warlord.”

  “Attila?”

  She shrugged. “Lupus says the Northmen have summoned evil powers. Beasts fight with them, and they call down thunder from the clouds. Lupus fled because the Northmen destroyed his village. My father he said could stay here with us.”

  “I see.”

  Mischief lit her eyes. “He wants to marry me.”

  Peter’s lips pushed outward. They were thin and chapped, with a small red bug-bite at the corner. “Does your father agree to the marriage?”

  She flicked another hair. “I told him you could write.”

  “What?” Peter’s voice climbed the octaves. “You talked to your father about me?”

  “No—Lupus. He says writing is how priests cast spells.”

  “That’s foolish. And I’m not a priest.”

  “You’re a monk,” she said in a tone that implied it was the same thing.

  “Only because when I was a wee lad my mother gave me to the Church. It wasn’t because I decided it.”

  “Lupus says that Northmen carve runes onto rocks. That’s how they call down aid from their gods.”

  “They’re not gods, but devils.”

  Willelda shrugged.

  “You can’t think that—”

  She touched his hand.

  Peter’s chest tightened, strangling his words.

  “What does it say?” she whispered.

  He wet his lips as he gazed at the parchment. He should run away from her as Joseph had when tempted by Potiphar’s wife. Why didn’t he run away? He looked up into her dark eyes, bewitching eyes, and knew the answer.

  “What do the words say?” she whispered.

  In a shaky voice he read, “Ecce tu pulchra es amica mea ecce tu pulchra oculi tui columbarum.”

  “Say it so I can understand.”

  He hesitated. This was against all his vows, but… the moistness of her lips and how they parted for a kiss… he leaned closer and whispered, “Behold thou art fair, O my love, behold thou art fair, thy eyes are as those of doves.”

  Her lips trembled.

  “It-It isn’t a spell,” he stammered. “It’s from Solomon’s Canticle of Canticles.” He saw her confusion. “From the Bible, Willelda, I wrote it from a passage I transcribed for the abbot.”

  “Truly?” she whispered.

  He laid the parchment onto the rag and dared touch her hand. It thrilled him. He twined his fingers with hers, and said thickly, “Truly.”

  “Oh, Peter.” She came into his arms. “It’s like angels speaking.”

  He shook with passion, with urgent need.

  “Say it again,” she whispered.

  He did.

  She nibbled his ear, whispering, “Love me.”

  He lay down with her.

  ***

  Afterward guilt ambushed him. With his shield of passion departed guilt pounced upon him like a cat. Like the devil, it shouted accusations and showed him the penalties that awaited his fornication. As he lay naked with Willelda in his arms, with gnawing guilt, he heard footsteps. In the gloom of the hut, he raised his head.

  “Peter?” Willelda whispered.

  There came a grunt from the entrance. The leather curtain shifted. Hot sunlight poured in. Peter pushed Willelda aside and heaved onto his knees. His heart thudded and his breath stuck in his throat. From within the doorway, with horribly red-rimmed eyes, little, mean, greedy eyes, a boar regarded him.

  “Git!” said Willelda. “Shoo.”

  The boar snorted and snot flew from its bristly nostrils.

  Peter sagged with relief. It was only a pig.

  Then a high-pitched, little girl’s voice shouted: “Stay out of there!”

  Peter moaned.

  “Lay down,” whispered Willelda, her warm hands pressing against his skin. “She won’t see us in the dark.”

  He could no longer look upon Willelda. He had broken his vows and, and—

  “Stay out of there!” shouted the unseen little girl. A switch smacked the boar’s hindquarters. The boar grunted, spun around and ruffled the curtain.

  Peter glimpsed the little girl with her pigtails. Terror knotted his gut. He leaped up, and his feet tangled with Willelda’s feet. He yelled, sprawled onto the dirt and pain stabbed his knee as something wooden cracked.

  The boar shuffled aside. The young girl poked in her blond-haired head.

  “What are you doing?” Willelda shouted.

  The little girl’s eyes widened as Peter—quite naked—flung himself at his habit lying in the dirt.

  “Don’t you dare say a word, Liutgard,” Willelda shouted.

  The little girl darted out of sight.

  Tears leaked from Peter’s eyes as he jammed himself into his habit. It was all the clothing he owned, an unwashed black robe. He picked up his broken writing kit. With a groan, he knotted it to his rope belt.

  “Peter,” Willelda said, rising,
clutching his wrists.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, refused to look at her.

  “Don’t worry. Liutgard won’t tell.”

  He shook his head and tried to pull away.

  Willelda had a strong grip. “We must agree on what to say.”

  “To say?” he whispered.

  “Listen to me, Peter.” She shook him.

  He opened his eyes. There was a red mark on her throat. He well remembered making it. His gaze eased down her throat and to her cleavage and—with a guilty sob, he wrenched himself free and staggered for the door.

  “Peter!”

  He stumbled through the curtain, squinting at the sunlight. He had been a fool. He rubbed his eyes, striding from the hut of iniquity. If the abbot heard about this—his foot squished into something warm and smelly. His eyes popped wide. Fresh dung squeezed up between his toes. Disgust bit into his terror. He glanced about.

  Clay and wooden huts roofed with thatch stood in a village maze. Most of the huts had fenced-off gardens. The nearest had a mound of manure with a chicken at the pinnacle pecking a beetle. Willelda’s little sister switched the offending boar around a corner. Up the lane in the opposite direction, a stout woman scolded a cringing hound. The village men, thankfully, swung their hoes and mattocks out in the fields.

  Peter wiped his foot, refusing to think about the sweetness of Willelda’s kisses. He refused thinking about her father, and he refusing thinking about this Lupus and what the serf might do if he learned what Peter had done. With his gut in turmoil and as he kneaded his fingers, Peter hurried down the lane.

  Then he took a better look at the stout woman with the stick. His footsteps faltered. It was Ermentrude, known hereabouts as the storm-maker’s wife. She was huge, with a blazing yellow kerchief around her doughy head. She had a wart on her chin. She held a vast basket, the handle pressing against her fleshy forearm. Peter knew that Ermentrude hated him, and she looked up, staring at him.

  ***

  A foot crashed into Peter’s ribs. It abruptly woke him from his daze and tore him out of his memories. He groaned, twisted like a worm.

  A huge Northman laughed down at him before stumbling deeper into the grove.

  Peter’s side throbbed, but he was grateful the Northman hadn’t chopped off his head or speared his torso. Beasts, these marauders from the North were beasts.

  Peter tried moving his hands. Agony flared in his shoulders. He deserved the pain. He understood that. Yet he wanted to escape. He wanted to live.

  What about Willelda? Is she safe? Has anyone warned the villagers about the Northmen?

  Lupus must see them. He was out there in the woods. At least Lupus had been out there waiting for his coins. Lupus would know what to do. Lupus… the cunning Lotharingian with his unholy greed and thick neck… he was surely clever enough to keep free of the Northmen.

  Yesterday, Ermentrude had watched him, Peter, hurry from the hut. Ermentrude had seen Willelda flee from it. Ermentrude had grinned at him with horrible malice. She was the storm-maker’s wife and hated Peter because Peter had convinced the abbot that storm making was gross superstition. The abbot had preached against it and Ermentrude’s husband had lost favor with the serfs. Ermentrude had blocked his path yesterday and had demanded to know what he had been doing in the same hut alone with Willelda.

  Of course, Peter had lied.

  Ermentrude hadn’t believed him and had kept shouting until a crowd circled him. The village elder, Willelda’s father, had soon asked Peter the same question, so had Lupus with his black teeth and thick neck. In the end, Willelda had saved him.

  Willelda had shouldered through the crowd until she stood beside her father. She had lofted the scrap of parchment and turned it in her thin fingers so all could see the inked words. She had told them it was prayer to Saint Genevieve so the saint would protect the village from pestilence. She told the crowd that she had shown Peter the evil of pestilence, and in his mercy, the monk had penned the prayer.

  It had been a clever lie, especially as none of the serfs could read. Peter had breathed relief. He had also been careful not to look over at Willelda and show the relief.

  That’s when Lupus had spoken up. The Lotharingian serf had offered to take the scrap of parchment to the abbot and have him confirm the words.

  It was as if the Lotharingian had punched Peter in the stomach. Yet on the trek back to the abbey, Lupus had told Peter that for five silver coins he would crumple the parchment. Lupus feared the coming Northmen and wanted coins—a traveling man like him could always use good silver. Peter had agreed, but as he owned no silver himself… well, that’s why Peter had been crawling in the abbot’s house when the Northmen appeared. He had planned to steal the silver out of the abbey’s treasury box.

  Now… now Peter stared at the raging fire. His life was over. He was as good as dead. He struggled with his bonds even as agony bit his shoulders. He had to win free and help Willelda keep out of the clutches of the Northmen. He had to absolve himself of his sins. He had to do something.

  4.

  Heming slithered out of his sealskin bag. The stars blazed overhead and a cool breeze blew through the embers of the monastery. He rubbed bleary eyes. His arms and back ached from the hard rowing a day ago. The night trek through the woods had been easy. Heming hunted at home, but the rowing… he flexed sore hands. His palms weren’t hard and horny like his father’s palms. He sighed. His were half the size of his father’s hands, but then his father was nicknamed Hammerhand for a reason.

  Heming stretched his back. His body ached for sleep. He should crawl back into the bag and just shut his eyes. He sighed again. Why did he have to think so much? The dog, he thought. He shouldn’t have shot the three-legged hound. There had been no need for that. He had been showing off.

  A branch creaked from the apple orchard. Then it snapped in two. Heming’s heart went cold. The warriors of his father’s band snored all around him. Bunch of drunken louts, old men like his father, but cunning old men, dangerous reavers who had faced and defeated Franks, Saxons and Irish in their time. They knew the tricks of raiding. They had guile, but have them night-march, slaughter, loot, gorge their gullets and quaff vast quantities of wine and they were like hibernating bears. Mouths hung open. Half sputtered in their snores, quit breathing and then made blubbering noises once again. Right now, a child could walk among them and slit their throats.

  Heming grabbed his bow. It was fashioned out of wild elm and was shorter than most Danish bows. It wasn’t polished, but rough and lumpy. The bowyer who had made it, the gray-haired archer of their band, had followed the grain of the wood and left the knots proud. It was a good bow but had been better. Every bow lost strength over time. Heming figured his ought to last him another six months.

  He strung it and selected three, iron-headed arrows. He scanned the darkness. Who kept watch? These hard-hearted reavers had laughed and jeered earlier, telling each other that the Franks with balls had been at the fortified bridge, and they had been defeated. Now the Frankish barons and their knights were on the run or holed up in their stonewalled towns or wooden villas.

  But what if they’re wrong? What if that’s the enemy in the apple grove?

  Heming squinted. Maybe the two monks captured in the stone house had slipped their bonds. If he woke these grumpy old men and it proved to be nothing, however, he would be weeks living it down. He touched his Hammer of Thor amulet and wet his lips. Then he eased toward the grove, hating the greasy taste of fear. Should he call out, and take an arrow in the throat?

  Curse this fear. He wished he were strong and brave. He wished he owned a spear and shield and not this far-shooting bow. He notched an arrow, drew the hemp string and hurried, every sense alert, eyes scanning. He avoided glancing at the three naked corpses near the embers. He squinted at the horses. Wouldn’t they neigh if a large body of men slid through the grove? Yet… the horses hadn’t stepped on the branch. What about the watchman? The man didn’t whistle or call out tha
t all was well, and here he crept about armed.

  Heming eased against an apple tree, his breath short. He peered around the trunk. It was so dark! He slipped around the tree. The two living monks lay on their bellies, tied, their eyes shut. But what if they faked sleep? He debated toeing the younger one and see what happened. Then Heming noticed a dark blot of movement up ahead. He couldn’t tell if it was man or beast or if the creature had his back to him or faced him. Heming drew the string, and the bending bow creaked.

  “Halt,” he croaked, “or I’ll feather you.”

  For a tense moment, there was silence. He felt a fierce scrutiny. Then a familiar chuckle drained the fear in his gut.

  “Nay, Heming, you won’t.”

  “Father?” he said, easing tension on the bowstring.

  The blackness tramped out of the murk until a giant loomed before him. Bearded, fat and dangerous like a bull walrus and reeking of wine, his father used a blunt finger and tapped him on the forehead. “You’re sharp-eared, lad, but you don’t think. You should have circled the grove and used the embers to see who I was instead of shadowing yourself against the fire. What if I’d been an enemy?”

  Heming nodded. His father knew all the tricks.

  Huge fingers wrapped around his arm. “Come,” Ivar said. “It’s just as good you’re here.” Heming stumbled along until they were in the center of the grove. His father let go and drank in the night air. “I couldn’t sleep, lad.”

  Heming frowned. There was an uncertain note in his father’s voice. Normally Ivar Hammerhand was the most bluff of men.

  “The monk died brave,” Ivar said in a slur. “He chanted to his god and died without fear. Did you see?”

  Was his father telling him to be braver?

  Ivar laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and leaned his weight onto him. “Listen to me, lad.” His father’s breath reeked of wine. “You’re the last of my sons. Oh, I’ve bedded wenches from Jutland to Lombardy and sired two-dozen bastards, maybe more. Those I know of… they’re all dead. All died hard. It’s what the priest said would happen. I laughed in his face when he told me. No god rules my life. No fate but what I make it guides my path. That’s what I thought twenty-five years ago and tonight… tonight watching that monk—he died brave. He didn’t cry out, didn’t whimper and complain. Ah! A curse on monk’s wine. I needed ale or mead, not wine. Wine always makes me somber. Listen, lad,” there was urgency in the Hammerhand’s voice. “You must swear to me. What god do you hold too, eh?”