The Great Pagan Army Page 8

  “What are they doing?” she whispered.

  The stocky young knight who had cuffed the boy shaded his eyes. “Ah. You mean the Bishop’s house?”

  “Yes!”

  “Gozlin is shrewd,” the knight said. “He scotches all grumbling against him by tearing down his own palace. The stones will go into the wall. They will melt the lead and reshape it into maces for his priests and monks. The lumber, good wood even after all these years, will fashion wall-walks in the Merchant Quarter’s wall.”

  She stared several seconds longer. Then she became aware of her two escorts whispering together and studying her. The stocky young knight was quick as a cat and keen-witted. To divert him she laughed and continued the stroll. Later, she clapped her hands at the antics of various town beasts. She ignored the priests who whispered when she passed and she ignored gossiping townsfolk.

  “I think we should return,” she said finally.

  “As you wish, milady,” said the stocky knight, Wulf by name. He preened a blond, almost nonexistent mustache and grinned at his friend before asking her, “Do you wish perhaps to go past the Bishop’s house again?”

  She fluttered a hand. “Let Gozlin play his games. I care not a wit—” a bald lie. She had decided that in the Count’s Keeper of the House lay her best hope.

  15.

  Judith considered it carefully. The Keeper of the House was a brute, an old ox of a serf. He had once served Odo’s father as a cart driver, a carrier of hams and flour for his ducal host. The day Odo’s father died in a battle against Northmen, the present Keeper of the House—Gerold—tore the ducal sword out the dying Duke’s grasp and raced with it back to Odo’s mother. She had blessed the brutish serf. Then she had made him swear an oath to serve her son as faithfully as he had the father.

  Judith knew herself a keen student of human nature. The Keeper of the House was huge, slow moving and shrewd. She devised a plan to play upon his strengths.

  The Count’s house in Paris was large, patterned off the old Roman homes of long ago. The front was the atrium, a long and lofty hall. At the opposite end of the house was the peristyle. Around it were the bedrooms, kitchen and dining area and the reception hall. A small, walled garden with an oak tree stood at the very end of the house. There she found Gerold. The brute sat on a boulder, whistling to a starling perched on his thick finger. It was uncanny. Gerold was such a lumbering creature. The only man in Paris who approached his size was the horribly scarred knight Sir Arnulf. Yet there the little starling sat, whistling in tune with Gerold’s sweet melody.

  She halted, with a little wooden birdhouse in her hands. The starling noticed her and in an instant took flight.

  Gerold turned with a scowl. Then his hairy eyebrows rose. “What’s that?”

  She rotated the birdhouse so he saw the little hole and perch.

  “I thought you didn’t want any birdhouses out here,” he said.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said.

  “So what do you want in return from me?”

  She laughed with perfect delight. “Oh, Gerold, am I that obvious?”

  He sighed.

  Shrewd people liked being shrewd. It made them feel superior and put them off their guard, so she didn’t walk toward him demurely as she might have to Wulf or even Odo in certain moods. She would let Gerold see her trying to be honest, when they both knew she was pretending. She strode up and handed him the birdhouse.

  “May I be candid?” she asked.

  He shrugged.

  Therein lay his weakness. He saw through her, but didn’t realize that she wanted him to see through her, wished him to feel superior to what he surely considered as ‘this scheming ex-nun.’

  She told him about the workers, how Gozlin knocked down the Bishop’s house.

  “So?” Gerold said.

  “You know that Gozlin never handed over my inheritance,” she said. “I had lands, coins and treasures that were supposed to come to me from my father.”

  “Your dowry,” Gerold said. “Yes, I know. Odo will get it for you when you’re married.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps it won’t be prudent then,” she said, letting bitterness tinge her voice.

  “You have the Count,” Gerold said. “What more do you need?”

  “My inheritance,” she said. “What my father gave me. It belongs to me.”

  Gerold eyed her.

  “Have you ever heard of the demon Tittivillus?” she asked.

  The Keeper of the House frowned, shook his head.

  “He haunts monasteries and nunneries,” she said. “Every day and night we sing psalms to God and recite creeds and litanies. You must understand that Saint Benedict long ago constructed and ordained the services. We follow a prescribed sequence and pay no heed to human frailty. Sometimes we’re tired or bored and have no wish to repeat everything we must. So we gabble.”

  “What’s that mean?” Gerold said.

  “In our rush to be done we sing too fast or leave out syllables at the beginning or the end of words. We skip pauses or entire sentences or mumble and slur what we should say solemnly and slowly. There’s even a witty poem about it, naming the various offenders. All those missed syllables, words and left-off sentences are gathered by the demon Tittivillus and put into his poke.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Poke, sack,” Judith said. “Tittivillus is a robber, but instead of stuffing his sack with coins he shoves in all the missing recitals. According to legend, Tittivillus must bring the Devil a thousand such sacks every day. There the sacks are stored in Hell like lost treasure.” She let her eyes narrow. “Just like Tittivillus steals syllables, so Gozlin and his ilk have stolen the hours of my life. Days have piled into months and months into years. My father tried to give me compensation for that: an inheritance. But Gozlin is Tittivillus in the flesh and keeps my lost years in his sack, never wishing me to regain what was stolen from me.”

  Gerold scratched his side. “That’s a sad story,” he said.

  She pressed her fingers into his meaty forearm and let her scented breath waft up into his square face. “I knew I might be cheated. Oh, I knew it even as terror wilted my heart. Do you remember the day I rode to Odo?”

  He grunted.

  “I brought my father’s seal with me, but that wasn’t the only thing I took. My father had coins, precious books and treasures. I didn’t take them all, but I took enough. Those I hid in a secret place in the wall of my father’s house. My father showed me his hidden vault. Not even Gozlin knew or knows about it. If Gozlin had given me my inheritance, I would have told him about the vault. I haven’t been able to get to it yet—and now I might never have a chance.”

  Gerold whistled. “They’re tearing down the Bishop’s house; the one that used to be your father’s but is now Gozlin’s.”

  “Yes!” Her fingers squeezed his arm. “So you and I and whoever you think we need must go there at once and take what is mine.”

  Gerold knit his broad forehead. “No. It can’t be done,” he said. “They’ll think we’re stealing from the Bishop.”

  “But that treasure’s mine!”

  “We all lose things,” rumbled Gerold. “It’s part of life.”

  Her features hardened. “I thought you might say something like that, but I wanted to give you a chance. Believe me, Keeper of the House, I’ll get my inheritance one way or another. If you won’t help me, I know who will.”

  He raised heavy brows.

  “I’ll offer Wulf half if he’ll help me. You know how quick Wulf is to draw his sword. He might cut a few of Gozlin’s men if they try to get in the way. Once he gains his booty do you think he’ll be content to stay here as a retainer? Won’t he take his sword elsewhere?”

  “Don’t you have a soul? The Count needs knights like Wulf now more than ever.”

  She flew onto her knees and clutched one of his thick paws. She knew Gerold thought of this as acting, but even knowing that men were often susceptible to beaut
y and plays upon their vanity. “I’ve watched you, Gerold. You know how to get things, how to threaten without actually causing bloodshed. That’s why I’ve come to you first.”

  “And so you don’t have to share any of your treasure with anyone else,” he mumbled.

  “My life has been stolen from me hour by hour. My mother was an adulterous nun and they thought to lock me away forever in a nunnery. I deserve my inheritance. Why is that so hard to understand?”

  He sighed and after a time nodded. “Tell me where it is and I’ll go get it.”

  “No. I’m coming along.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Maybe not, but I want to make sure I get what’s mine.”

  ***

  It was a disaster. They marched to the house. She and Gerold went inside to the secret place. To shouts of amazement from the workers, Gerold pulled out bricks and lifted a hidden sack. One man had sense enough to run and get the Bishop. The others followed Gerold outside to waiting retainers and a curious crowd.

  Shouting occurred. A shield-man belonging to the Count almost drew his sword. Gerold told him “Don’t be a fool.” Men jostled one another. A priest yelled for them to halt and told them that the Bishop was coming.

  Judith yelled back. “This is mine! Bishop Engelwin bequeathed it to me in his last will and testament!”

  “A nun cannot inherit anything!” shouted a priest. “She is dead to the world as Christ said.”

  “I’m not a nun!” yelled Judith.

  A rotten turnip sailed out of the crowd. The word ‘whore’ rang out. Another turnip flew and smacked Judith in the face. The rotten vegetable smeared her chin red and dripped onto her blue pelisson. She screamed outrage and tried to dash at the offender to rake out his eyes, but a shield-man grabbed her. The others drew swords and at Gerold’s word marched Judith home.

  She collected her inheritance at the price of no more quiet walks through Paris. It was to prove a bitter trade.

  16.

  Peter winced as he sat down at a bonfire. His inner thighs ached and his arse had become tender from riding a sommier, a packhorse. He yearned for Paris as much to end the eternal bounce as to gain safety from the Northmen. Count Odo set a good clip each day, scouring the countryside for attackable bands of Danes.

  “Thank you,” Peter said, accepting a leather jack of ale from a groom. He drank heartily. So did the grooms around the campfire. The young lads had taken a shine to him, or to Lupus’s lies about him. It was the Danish axe, of course. It lay beside him, the edges oiled and sharp. Peter was uncomfortable with the deception. He needed God’s help regaining Willelda. He felt… what… like a warrior because others thought him a warrior?

  He finished the ale as the grooms fell silent. Peter looked up. A scowling knight with a golden-hilted sword told him to come along. Peter rose slowly, as much because of his aches as to show his displeasure at the knight’s gruff manner. He debated taking the axe and decided against it. Then, despite the shooting pains in his thighs, he matched the knight’s stride. They passed cavalrymen around their fires, a squire sharpening a sword and a minstrel piping a song. To Peter’s surprise, they halted at the only tent.

  The knight rapped on a tent pole and drew back the flap. There was an oil lamp on a table, a bottle, some cups, parchment and ink. Another lamp flickered on a small chest. Count Odo turned, raised his eyes and nodded. The knight departed, giving Peter an amused glance.

  “Please, sit,” Odo said. The Count poured wine, pushed across a cup. “I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk before this.” It was days since the fight. “I’ve pondered your axe-wielding charge. If only all monks were as bloodthirsty.”

  “I don’t know what came over me, milord. I saw the Northmen fleeing, and then I saw…”

  “Your woman?” the Count said.

  Peter toyed with his cup, dipped a finger into wetness. “I am not the person you think I am, milord.”

  Count Odo nodded. “Tell me, brother. Did you truly pen the note?”

  “Milord, I will not lie. I have penance to do because of it.”

  The Count’s smile hardened. “I’ve pondered your tale, and the more I’ve done so the more unlikely I find it. Now perhaps it isn’t my concern, but I gave you succor. Do you agree?”

  “Or course, milord, and I’m most grateful.”

  Count Odo pushed across a parchment. A quill lay on it. “I wish you to write.”

  Peter examined the tip.

  “Is it too dull?”

  “The tip is fine, milord.”

  “Good. Now write word for word ‘Am I not thy beast, on which thou hast been always accustomed to ride until this present day? Tell me if I ever did the like thing to thee.’”

  Peter blinked. “That is from Balaam’s donkey, milord.”

  “I’m not interested in your knowledge of Holy Writ, brother. Simply write the words.”

  Peter dipped the quill and crunched his brow in concentration. Letters took on shape and then beauty. Words soaked into the parchment. Peter wiped the tip on his sleeve. It was an automatic gesture. He was about to pick up the sheepskin to blow upon the letters—Count Odo snatched the parchment, scanned it and looked up in astonishment.

  “You can write.”

  Peter nodded.

  “But…” Count Odo glanced at the lines. “Your penmanship is flawless. No. It is gifted.” He rose and turned away. He turned back. “Will you give me the truth? Are you a monk?”

  “I am, milord.”

  “And you wrote that girl a love note?”

  “I am a sinner, milord.”

  Odo waved that aside. “I’m not here to judge you. I have neither the time nor the inclination. I want the truth.”

  Peter’s hesitation was minute. “The truth is that her name is Willelda. She is the daughter of a village elder. The village belonged to Aliquis Abbey of Saint Martin.”

  “Did your abbot know about your… interest?”

  “I confessed, yes, milord.”

  Count Odo sat down. “Did you love her?”

  Peter could no longer meet that inquisitive gaze.

  “I apologize, brother. I do not mean to pry.”

  Peter frowned. Lords didn’t apologize to monks, certainly not monks who had gravely offended the Church. “Milord… I have sinned. It is wrong of me to love a girl.”

  “Did not Jesus love?”

  Peter looked up in horror. “Not as I have loved, milord.”

  “Ah…” Odo said. He nodded somberly. “Even monks may pick up the war-axe when their love has been captured. I grieve for you, brother.”

  “Milord, I am to be despised. I have vowed before God to remain chaste. I am a great sinner.”

  “Do you mean that you are great and that you also have sinned? Or do you say that your sin is very great?”

  The mockery hurt, even though Peter knew he deserved it.

  “Ah, forgive me again,” Odo said. He reached across the table and touched Peter’s hand.

  Peter drew back, baffled.

  “It has long been my way to banter, brother. But there are certain matters about which one should not jest.” Count Odo sipped from his cup. “I, too, shall speak truth. For you have paid me the compliment of giving a truth that burns. Later, I’m sure, you will wonder to whom I will reveal your truth. The answer is no one. For you to be certain of that I will also give a fiery truth, one that has the ability to burn me. You shall hold it in surety. If I betray you, you may betray me. Agreed?”

  Peter was more than puzzled.

  “Perhaps I can sympathize with you, brother, because I, too, am at odds with the Church in a matter much like your own.”

  Peter’s dismay must have shown.

  “I see,” the Count said. “You have heard stories about me.”

  “I-I didn’t believe the stories, milord.”

  Odo laughed. “You should have, if they’re the stories I think they were. Duke Hugh almost made me a monk and sent me away to
the mountains. There I would have whiled away my days reading, most likely dusty old commentaries on the Book of Deuteronomy. The Duke would have given my younger more warlike brother my present post. Did you hear perhaps that I was a drunkard, a gambler and a wastrel? Keep speaking truly, Brother Peter. Lies now will only anger me.”

  “So I heard, milord.”

  The muscles around Odo’s eyes tightened even as the corners of his lips lifted upward. It gave him a sinister cast. “Why should these tales anger me?” Odo said. “I was a drunkard, a gambler and a wastrel. Those are truths, or they were. Do you believe a man can change?” He asked the question suddenly, forcefully.

  “Oh, yes, milord. Christ came to turn sinners into saints.”

  “No! I do not mean like that. I am no saint.”

  “Well, I think men can change without the Lord’s help. But it is difficult.”

  “Yes! To that, I agree. However, when great events occur, like a flood, say, cannot that event sweep a man away in its current? Now he must swim or drown, and in time, with his weary arms, drag himself ashore. He must use limp hands to grasp roots and pull himself to safety. The struggle however uncovers something in him or shows him a truth so he makes solemn vows that change him. Do you think such a thing can happen?”

  “I suppose so, milord. But what is to keep this man from becoming what he was, at least once the flood has passed?”

  “The vow will hold him, brother, and the use of muscles and thoughts that had never occurred to him before.”

  “This happened to you, milord?”

  “Once I was a fool. Oh, I drank because my foot ached. I was only fourteen when a palfrey crushed it. A barber set it, but to this day, it aches in damp weather or if I walk upon it too much. I came to hate the pain just I as I hated my earliest years. I’m sure you heard that I was a sickly lad.”

  Peter nodded.

  “It was true. A barber once told me that drinking only aggravated these foot pains. However, few of them agree on anything, and now that I am a man, my childhood fevers have less often come to me. As I drank, I also learned to love the roll of dice, their rattle and clatter and their coming up snake eyes. What is more delightful than scooping up silver and gold? I lived the life of a wastrel even after escaping Duke Hugh. It did not win me friends in Paris. Paris! It is a muddy isle besieged by some of Frankland’s most famous abbeys: Saint Denis, Saint-Germain-des-Pres, Saint Genevieve and Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. The city crawls with pious monks, priests and priest’s men. Bishop Gozlin is no friend of mine and I am not his friend. They preached. I laughed. They quoted Scripture. I quoted Virgil and Suetonius. I think it galled them I could read as well as they, better than many of them! But what most stuck in their throat was that I took to myself the daughter of old Bishop Engelwin.”