The Great Pagan Army Page 7

  Through the soles of his sandals, Peter felt the ground shake. The charge was a terrifying sight. This time the knights headed straight at the Northmen, and unlike Lupus’s story earlier, these horsemen didn’t slow down. All at once, Northmen shouted in fear. They faced the horsemen, but they didn’t face it as an army. There wasn’t a horde of them. It was just a small band of forty or less caught in a meadow in the forests of Neustria. Peter shivered at the sight of these fearsome Franks. They looked crazed, as if they wanted nothing more but to ride down Northmen. A few sea rovers turned and sprinted for the woods. The jarl shouted after them. Many of those facing the knights looked over their shoulders at their fleeing comrades. Several of them also turned and ran. Then all at once, the fork-bearded jarl shouted at those left beside him and together they turned for the woods.

  Peter jumped up. “Look, Lupus! They’re not invincible.”

  “Quiet,” hissed the Lotharingian.

  Peter’s eyes riveted onto Willelda. A big Northman had thrown her over his shoulder. Her small fists beat against his back. Something snapped. Peter burst out of the woods as he screamed, “Willelda!”

  Their eyes met. Hers widened. She paled and then her face grew bright red. Peter shouted as something pounded crazy-like in his ears. She beat the Dane’s back harder than ever.

  Several wild-eyed Northmen veered away from him. Peter shouted in glee. The dreaded Northmen were afraid of him, him, the monk they had kicked and beaten and tied up. He laughed, and at the sight of their backs, he raced harder with his axe raised.

  Knights thundered past. It startled Peter. He tripped and sprawled onto the ground. The lead Northmen reached the trees and scampered into the woods like deer. The Franks drew reign.

  “No!” Peter shouted. “Save the women. Save Willelda.”

  Several knights wheeled and pointed. With swords drawn, the cavalrymen cantered their hard-breathing stallions directly for where Peter lay.

  13.

  Towering, stony-eyed killers surrounded him. They stank of horse-sweat, and their muscled mounts nickered and shook their heads. One stallion edged near and Peter barely flinched in time as the horse clicked his teeth. The steed kept after him, but the knight drew rein, jingling tiny silver bells sewn onto the leather.

  “Th-They took Willelda,” Peter said. “They took the women. You must free them.”

  From high on their steeds, two knights glanced at one another. They had thick, sweaty faces. A third laughed crudely. “Ride into the woods after Northmen? Are you daft?”

  “Who are you, monk?” a huge knight said. “Speak up.”

  Before Peter could answer, a new horse shouldered through, a big white beast with a black mark on his forehead. That knight slipped off his iron spangenhelm and rested it on the saddle horn. He shucked off a gauntlet and ran thin fingers through long, sweaty hair. He was young and gaunt. He lifted a flagon, guzzling until the wine ran down his chin. He gasped and wiped his lips with his forearm. If not as big as the brawny knights around him, he wore the finest brunia, the oiled shirt of interlocking mail. If his cheeks were smooth, he still bore a bloodied lance.

  “Count Odo,” the huge horseman said, “we must ride before the Danes recover, before they gather more men and snipe at us from the woods.”

  The young rider nodded.

  “What about the cattle?” a different knight asked.

  Count Odo raised his eyebrows.

  “We should round them up, milord. Get them moving before the Northmen return.”

  The young Count nodded again.

  Several knights turned their mounts and galloped where the cattle grazed.

  “What about him?” the huge knight asked. He had a scarlet cloak and brutal features. One cheek had melted, twisted flesh and above it was a glaring, parboiled eye all milky white and blind.

  Count Odo mussed up his long, damp hair and avoided looking at the huge knight. “Who are you, fellow?” The Count had a cultured voice, not anything like his earlier shouts. There was also a slur in his voice, the wine maybe.

  He reminded Peter of a bishop. “I’m Peter of Aliquis Abbey of Saint Martin, milord. The Northmen burned out our abbey.”

  The hulking, scarlet-cloaked knight with the burned face twitched his shoulders at that.

  “I believe I detect an accent,” the Count said.

  “I was born in Ireland, milord.”

  The eyebrows rose again. “You can read?” the Count asked sharply.

  Peter bobbed his head.

  “And write?”

  “I was the abbey’s scribbler, milord.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, milord, I have a companion.”

  Count Odo waited.

  Peter turned toward the bush. “It’s all right, Lupus. You can come out.”

  Several knights shifted their mounts as Lupus appeared. The Lotharingian gave Peter a dark look.

  “I’ve seen their camp, milord. It’s… Well, I’m not very good at directions. Lupus will know how far their camp is from here.”

  “Do you expect me to ride there?” asked the Count, amused.

  “They took the women,” Peter said. “You have to ride after them.”

  One of the iron men snorted.

  The huge knight growled, “We’re wasting time.”

  “What do you suggest we do with these two?” asked Count Odo.

  The huge knight scowled. “How do we know they aren’t spies for the Northmen?”

  Lupus overheard and shot Peter another look of reproach.

  “Milord,” Peter said, “I don’t understand. We’re not Northmen. I watched them burn my abbey. I heard them butcher my Benedictine brothers. They kidnapped my abbot.”

  Count Odo leaned an elbow on his saddle horn. “I’d like to know why you charged out of the woods, brother monk. I believe it is against Church law for a man of God to shed blood, but you carry an axe, a Northman’s weapon. That is passing odd.”

  Lupus growled, “You want to know why?”

  “He’s a surly tongue in him,” the huge knight said.

  “He speaks like a Lotharingian,” said another, as if that was a mark against Lupus.

  “Pray tell us why this monk charges about with an axe,” the Count said.

  Lupus pulled out the parchment scrap. “Can any of you read?”

  The huge, burned knight scowled anew. “He’s calling us priests! Course we can’t read. Do you need a beating?”

  “You may be right about the beating,” said Count Odo, as if discussing the weather. “Or perhaps we’re seeing why we found a serf on his feet instead of dead on his back.” He eyed Lupus. “I can read. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, milord,” Lupus told the huge knight. Then he bowed to Count Odo. “This monk wrote a note for one of them girls the Northmen just took.”

  Peter blushed as several knights guffawed.

  Count Odo cocked an eyebrow. “Let me see it.”

  Lupus handed up the parchment.

  The Count held the note as one used to reading. He didn’t clutch the scrap, crumple it or hold it as if it was something unnatural. His bleary eyes flickered across the words and he laughed.

  “What’s it say?” grumbled the one-eyed knight.

  Count Odo chewed his lip and then let the parchment flutter from his fingers.

  That surprised Peter.

  “Pick it up,” the Count said. “What’s your name?”

  “It’s Peter, milord.”

  “Pick it up, Brother Peter. Please, read it to us.”

  Peter made no move for the parchment. Instead, he quoted, “Ecce tu pulchra es amica mea ecce tu pulchra oculi tui columbarum.”

  “He gave her a prayer?” asked the huge, one-eyed knight.

  Count Odo ignored the huge knight as he asked Peter, “You took up arms. Surely you are not a trained fighting man, Brother Peter.”

  “I’m not, milord.”

  “And yet you charged Northmen. That was
an act of courage. We have sore need of courage. Is that not so, Sir Arnulf?”

  “The Danes were already running,” the one-eyed knight said.

  “He’s a warrior monk,” said someone else.

  Peter stammered. “I-I could do no other than charge, milord. M-m-my heart compelled me. Can we not now chase these Northmen and free the hostages?”

  Count Odo picked up his spangenhelm, weighing it in his slender hands. He set the helmet on his head. “We are horsemen and fight best in open spaces, not ducking under branches or tripping over tree roots. Shall we commit such folly in order to free a few women? We shall not when the kingdom is so uncertain. Now listen here, Brother Peter. I have need of a scribbler and a reader of Latin. My own talents are meager in this regard, as of course befits a fighting man.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” a horseman said.

  “Reading is for priests,” Sir Arnulf said.

  Count Odo gave Peter a brittle smile. “Since you’re handy with an axe, have such a courageous spirit, I will make you an offer. Join me, or go in quest after the women, if your heart bids you do so. But I tell you frankly that if you enter those woods you will die, most likely hideously.”

  Peter didn’t want to die hideously. “You would have to take both of us, milord. Lupus and I have made a pact before God on that regard.”

  “Are we dogs that you command us?” shouted Sir Arnulf. “Whip these two,” he told Odo.

  The brittle smile returned. “Thank you for your suggestion, Sir Arnulf.” The Count fingered his chin. “Yes, bring your serf.” He spoke to his men. “We could use a few more surly fellows, provided each saves his bad temper for the Northmen.”

  Peter glanced at Lupus, who muttered under his breath, “I’m waiting for the day you run out of luck, Irish, or when one of your spells finally fizzles out.”

  “What’s your fellow saying?” asked the Count.

  “He thanks you for your mercy, milord. Yes, we would be delighted to join you. Are you perhaps headed to a walled town?”

  “Indeed. I am the Count of Paris. Now we must dally no longer. It is time to ride.”

  14.

  “Milady, wait! You must wait for us.”

  Judith ignored her escort and plunged into the dingy streets of Paris. She thrust herself past serfs with smelly sacks of cabbage slung over their shoulders. She bumped against a thick-shouldered mason explaining the nuances of setting stone to a younger journeyman.

  “Pardon,” she said.

  The square-faced mason lost his scowl in the act of turning and lifted heavy eyebrows as he stared at Judith. She was used to men gawking at her beauty and didn’t stay to talk. She slithered past three spinsters chatting in the street, and sucked in her thin stomach to squeeze around a peasant’s cart. On either side of the crowded lane towered wooden buildings three and even four stories high. The dwellings blocked the direct sunlight and kept any breezes at bay. Buckets of urine tossed out of the houses at early light still left damp splotches on the packed dirt. Night soil lay scattered where men had kicked it. Judith pinched her nose and hurried toward the sound of snarling dogs. Children cheered them on. The urchins waved sticks, and every once in awhile the bravest kicked one of the three battling beasts in the side or in the rump. That increased the frenzy of the dogfight and the delight of the children. Near the hounds lay an oily piece of gristle, no doubt the prize of battle.

  Judith’s eyes narrowed. She suspected the urchins had taunted the hounds with the gristle. The skeletal beasts looked ghastly and savagely determined. This might be a fight to the death. It was something the children surely sensed and why they egged the dogs on. She judged which stick was stoutest and snatched it out of an urchin’s hand.

  “Hey!”

  With her left hand, she lifted the hem of her full-length dress and with her right smacked the toughest cur. It yipped. She whacked it again, knowing hounds from a lifetime of taking care of the nunnery’s dogs. These were bigger and beastlier, but they were still hounds. At the third strike the death-fight dissolved. One cur dashed up the lane with its tail tucked between its scabby legs. The other headed down-lane and the third, its ears bleeding, snatched the gristle and wriggled through a hole in the wall and out of sight.

  The dirty-faced children angrily regarded her. Their sullen eyes smoldered, but each had wit enough to recognize the richness of her pelisson and that vair edged it, prized squirrel-fur. It marked her as nobility and therefore dangerous. Then a girl of nine or ten flinched and an evil grin spread across her face. She shouted, “I know her! She’s the Count’s whore! Don’t you remember? The Bishop put a curse on her until she repents!”

  A small boy scooped up a handful of mud, the source of its dampness of dubious origin. He grinned maliciously and took aim at Judith just as her winded escort caught up.

  They were two knights, beefy swordsmen wearing stylish hunting caps. They lacked mail, but wore their blades in gilt scabbards. The foremost knight cuffed the mud-armed boy, knocking him onto the lane.

  “Off with you vermin,” growled the knight.

  “It’s the Count’s men!” shouted the girl. “Run away!”

  They scattered, most fleeing down the murky lane. Older heads turned toward Judith and her escort and then wisely turned away.

  “You should be gentler with children,” Judith said.

  “Like you with the hounds?” the knight asked.

  “That was different. The beasts know nothing better.”

  “Exactly,” the knight said with a smirk.

  Judith ignored his reply. Whore. The girl called me ‘the Count’s whore’. She shuddered. Had it really come to that? She lifted her chin, and said, “Come. I’m not done walking.”

  The foremost knight shrugged good-naturedly to the other and shouted, “Make way for the Count’s men! Make way!”

  Judith hugged herself. His whore, they think I’m his whore.

  Not so long ago her father Bishop Engelwin had ruled Paris and she had remained locked in the nunnery. All her life behind walls, and now she was still behind walls, a stouter and more important wall but a wall nonetheless. She sighed. Everything had seemed so different just six short months ago. The future had been bright and full of promise then. Her father had gone blind, fallen ill and had finally summoned her out of the nunnery. It had taken two holy writs and a company of armed soldiers before the Prioress had obeyed. Of course, there had been hints along the way that she wouldn’t spend her entire life locked away in a convent. At fifteen, she should have taken holy vows and forever entered the sisterhood, but her father had sent word to wait, there was time enough for eternal vows. Time had passed and eventually he had sent for her. Oh, she had been so certain that God had finally answered her prayers. For six months, she had cared for her father, spooned him soup, listened to his plans for Paris and slowly needled him into giving her a proper life among the nobility of Neustria, as was her birthright. She needled him into finding a husband for her, and then his illness had worsened. That’s when dreadful Abbot Gozlin had pounced and poisoned her father’s mind against her. Gozlin had wielded hellfire like a lash, speaking about adultery and atonement for youthful sins and that her father had vowed to keep the sin-child in a nunnery for perpetuity. Oh, she knew why terrible Abbot Gozlin had wanted her back in the nunnery. It was so simple. He wanted the wealth that her father intended as her dowry. Gozlin desired this wealth for Paris and its wretched wall. It was always about walls!

  Judith hugged herself and turned a corner into another narrow lane, the maze of which made up the island town of Paris. Merchant quarters had crossed the river and sprouted like mushrooms after a rain, and now needed walling, too, but the town heart was this small, midstream isle. It shoved everything together and pushed buildings up and up because of the premium of land. Paris’s ruler was its bishop. Normally Count Odo lived at his villa several miles away, but in light of the Northmen he had taken up residence here as the best fortress in the County. Oh, she had learned
so much from her father. He had ruled not just Church lands but also farmlands and secular lords and commanded armed retainers: knights and their shield-men.

  Vile Gozlin, dreadful Gozlin… his visit had killed her father. She had rushed into his bedroom after the abbot left and pleaded on her knees for her father to remember his vow to her! He must find her a husband. He was old, weak and blind. She was young, vital and clutched his stick of an arm. They had argued and he had coughed his last and died. Then, finally, she had panicked. She knew it had been her last chance for freedom. She hid the most portable portion of her father’s wealth, gems, jewels, silver coins and golden cups, and saddled a donkey and fled to Count Odo’s villa. There… there through tears and guile she had gained the Count’s protection. Abbot Gozlin soon became Bishop of Paris Gozlin and a contest of wills began between the Count and the Bishop. She urged Odo to act forcefully. He hesitated, fearful of making a decision he could not reverse. That left her exposed, so while he was away on his foray (while he went and played commander out in the wilds and left her behind these walls) he had ordered her to remain within the safety of his house lest the Bishop order his men to grab her. She had been going mad confined indoors and had finally blustered her way with Gerold, the Count’s Keeper of the House, and told him she was taking a stroll with or without an escort.

  Her heart quickened now as she stepped around a steaming pile of manure. The two knights guarding her acted nonchalant, but she noted how their rough hands strayed near their sword hilts. She noted how they swiveled their thick necks and how they occasionally glanced at each other as if sharing a private thought. She adjusted her fur-lined hat, the broad brim shielding her from the sun. Her skin was purest white. She dreaded coloration from the sun. Such indicated serfdom, yearlong labor in the fields, or it indicated a young girl in a nunnery weeding in the herb garden. Her heart quickened and under her hat and despite her whiteness she paled.

  Workers swarmed upon her father’s old stone house. With bars, they pried off the imported lead roof.