Black Monastery (8 page)

But Celsa. Was Alda to blame for Celsa?

No. God wouldn’t be so cruel. Hadn’t Alda suffered enough already? Her stillborn child, her husband, her father. Must the Lord also take her sister?

Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she glared at the dark monastery. She wasn’t going anywhere, not until she was certain about Celsa. She owed her little sister that much.

Then she saw movement near the gate of the monastery. She climbed to her feet, excitement coursing through her. The raiders were leaving. And they had a prisoner.

* * *

As they left the monastery, a vast feeling of relief came over Asgrim. He could tell by the faces of his men that they felt it, as well.

A beaten path through the tall grass led to the fort, and the men followed along it in single file, barely talking. After about a minute, Asgrim saw a familiar brown head poke up from behind some bushes, and a moment later, Hopp ran over to join him. Asgrim dropped to one knee and pulled the hound’s head in close. Hopp, normally lively and excited, merely rested his head against Asgrim’s armored chest and panted heavily.

“It’s all right, boy,” whispered Asgrim into the vallhund’s ear. “I wanted to run away, as well.”

Hopp kept beside him the rest of the way, unwilling to separate himself again from his master.

As they reached the wooden fort, some of the men began to talk and joke, obviously feeling better. The Frankish soldiers had been there for some time, long enough to build an earthen mound and log wall all around their fort. Though small, the fort consisted of a sturdy wooden longhouse, a couple of guard towers, and some huts that no doubt served as storehouses. Asgrim set a watch and had the men raid the fort’s pantry. The soldiers had left several weeks’ of food, including some live chickens and goats in a pen. The wooden barrels were filled with beer, and even though Asgrim wanted to avoid letting the men get drunk, he allowed them to break open one of the barrels. Sometimes, a man needed a drink. The other barrels, though, Asgrim ordered Gorm to secure. Some of the men grumbled, but Asgrim didn’t care. The last thing he wanted was for danger to arrive when his men were too drunk to fight.

Besides, the darkened walls of the monastery were close, too close.

As Gorm turned to follow his orders, Asgrim reached out and gripped the other man’s arm. “A minute,” he said.

Gorm turned and raised an eyebrow.

Asgrim hesitated while he searched for the right words. The vision of the monstrous face in the crypt flashed before his eyes. “Gorm, down below, in the crypt, did you notice anything unusual, see anything weird?”

Gorm’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “No, but something down there scared the piss out of me. What did you see?”

Asgrim released his arm. “Nothing. I saw nothing but shadows.”

Gorm nodded, then turned and walked away.

“Just shadows,” Asgrim whispered to himself.

* * *

In the fort’s small stable, they found four riding horses. The animals had been abandoned and were weak with hunger, but several of the men set to tending, feeding, and brushing them, then walked them as much as the half-starved animals could take. In the morning, Asgrim would use them to send word to the men guarding
Sea Eel
to let them know everything was okay.

With the sun down and night fully descended, they sat in the fort’s longhouse, eating roasted goat. Asgrim sat apart from the men. Gorm joined him, but his brother sat back in the shadows by himself.

Bjorn had been melancholy since the incident with Harald, who, on the other hand, was suddenly very cooperative and well behaved. He had kept his mouth shut since the beating from Bjorn. But Asgrim still remembered the hatred on the other man’s face. This wasn’t over, and he needed to keep a close eye on him. He shook his head. As if he didn’t already have enough to worry about.

With food in his belly, Asgrim began to feel less irritable, and he ordered the prisoner brought out. Two of his men dragged over the Frank and pushed him down on his knees in front of Asgrim.

“He’s eaten?” Asgrim asked his handlers, one of whom was the tall, thin Knut who spoke the Frankish tongue.

“We gave him food,” answered Knut, “but he didn’t touch it.”

Asgrim considered the man kneeling before him. He had been clean-shaven, as was the Frankish custom, but he wore at least two to three days of stubble on his dirty face. He wouldn’t meet Asgrim’s gaze, choosing instead to stare at the ground. He trembled, and spit ran down his grizzled chin.

He’d seen this before, in men who had seen too much battle. The man probably thought they were going to torture and kill him. It was a valid fear. Asgrim knew some captains tortured their prisoners for sport, but this was not his way. He had killed more men than he could count, but usually in battle.

Usually, but not always.

Damned.

Cursed.

He sighed and concentrated on Knut standing beside the prisoner. “So, what happened here?”

Knut bit his lower lip and ran a hand through his long red hair. “I’m sorry, Captain, but nothing he says makes sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“He keeps repeating ‘They’re taken, they’re taken,’” said Knut.

“Who’s taken?” Asgrim considered the prisoner. Was he referring to the six young women? He turned to Gorm. “Bring him some beer.”

Gorm nodded and stepped away, then returned with a large wooden cup filled with dripping beer. The prisoner looked at it stupidly for a moment before taking it with trembling hands. Then the man upended it into his mouth, guzzling it, letting a large portion pour down his cheeks and onto his chest.

“Get him another,” ordered Asgrim.

The prisoner drank the second beer only slightly less quickly.

Asgrim glanced at Knut. “Tell him we won’t kill him, that when we leave, we’ll release him.”

“I’m not sure he’ll believe you,” said Gorm.

“Maybe not,” said Asgrim, “but I don’t slaughter helpless men.”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized what a hypocrite he was. The others must have realized it, as well, because an uncomfortable silence settled over them, and they looked away.

“Just tell him,” snapped Asgrim.

Knut, speaking slowly in the Frankish tongue, repeated Asgrim’s words.

The prisoner met Asgrim’s eye, seeking assurance. Asgrim nodded and motioned for the man to drink his beer. He sipped and then began to talk, slowly at first, but then faster, rushing to tell his tale.

Knut stopped him with a raised hand and turned to Asgrim. “He says his name is Amalric. He’s in the service of a Frankish knight named Cuthbert, from Nantes, along the banks of the Loire River.”

Asgrim nodded. Although he had never been there, he knew where Nantes was. It was a large Frankish settlement, less than a day’s sailing inland. It would have made a nice prize, but raiding it would have taken ten times the men he possessed, if not more.

“Why are they here?” Asgrim asked.

Knut repeated the question; again, Amalric the Frank provided a long answer before Knut cut him off.

“He says his master Cuthbert was sent here by the Frankish King Charlemagne to safeguard the monks. Says the king was afraid the Saracens would attack them again, and he ordered the monks to move their monastery to the mainland, where they’d be safer. This Cuthbert was sent to see they made it.”

Saracens?
Asgrim’s face felt hot. A Saracen had sent him here with a promise of silver. Why were the Saracens so concerned with this place? He felt the play of destiny, so strong it almost made his head spin.

The man began talking again, and they all watched him. He became even more agitated.

Knut stopped him. “They got here six months ago, built the fort and the longhouse, and waited on the monks to prepare to move.”

“How many men did this Cuthbert bring with him?” Asgrim asked.

Knut repeated the question. “Two score. All fighters.”

Asgrim frowned. “What took so long? It doesn’t take six months to move.”

When the question was put to him, Amalric became even more agitated as he provided the answer.

“Says the monks dithered, wasted time. Says they didn’t want to leave. Finally, this Cuthbert made them start moving, threatened the abbot. So the monks opened their sealed crypt to remove the sacred bones of—”

“Philibert,” interrupted Bjorn, his deep voice booming.

Asgrim turned and stared at where his brother sat, paces away, in a corner, wreathed in shadows. The prisoner’s eyes grew large, and he nodded, repeating the name.

“
Saint
Philibert,” said Knut, his glance flicking to Bjorn.

“How did you know that?” asked Asgrim.

His brother glared at him before abruptly standing. “I don’t know. Who cares?”

Without another word, Bjorn stomped out of the longhouse.

Asgrim knew a bit about Christian monasteries. They each had their own patron Christian ghost. Had the Saracen they met mentioned the name of the Frank for whom the monastery had been built? Maybe. Asgrim didn’t remember. He returned his gaze to the Frank. “Why did the soldiers attack the monks?”

Knut repeated the question. This time, Amalric’s face went white. When he spoke again, the words poured quickly from his mouth. Knut stopped him again.

“He says the monks became crazed, almost overnight. Fine one day, violent the next. Taken by…
Lucifer
, one of their gods.”

“I thought they only had one god,” said Gorm.

Asgrim raised a hand, cutting him off. “Go on.”

The prisoner looked scared enough to soil himself. Knut asked the man a question. He considered the answer before replying. “The monks barred themselves within the monastery, wouldn’t let the soldiers in. They fought among themselves like animals. Every time the soldiers came to stand out front and demand to be let in, there were more wounded monks. None of them would say what happened. They just glared at the soldiers, as if they wanted to kill them. This Cuthbert became angry, yelled at them, but they wouldn’t let him in. So the soldiers went back to their fort to wait for the monks to come to their senses. But they became worse. One night, the monks snuck out and went to the village. They kidnapped young women and dragged them to the monastery.”

Amalric spoke again, providing more details. Knut translated, occasionally asking for clarification on a point. “They could hear the women screaming inside the monastery.”

Amalric interjected something and then stared down at his feet. Knut’s face blanched, and he met Asgrim’s gaze.

“He says these monks opened a door to the underworld, that they let the spirits of the dead out.”

“
Draugrs
,” whispered Gorm.

Asgrim shivered, despite the heat from the firepit. The men whispered among themselves within the longhouse.

“Why did the soldiers attack?” Asgrim asked.

Knut posed the question, then listened to Amalric’s excited reply. “Village elders came to see this Cuthbert, pleaded with him for help. Cuthbert and six others, including this one, went to talk sense to the abbot, make him return the prisoners. But when they arrived, the monks attacked them, throwing stones from the walls. Two of the soldiers were hurt.”

Amalric spoke again. Knut listened, then translated. “Says the monks were taken, possessed by this Lucifer. Seems this Cuthbert was very upset, so he went back to the fort and roused the rest of his men. He led them out against the monastery, carrying a felled tree to ram the doors open.”

Asgrim rubbed his bearded chin and considered the prisoner. “Why wasn’t this one with them?”

When Knut asked the Frank, the man stared morosely at the ground for some time. When he answered, Asgrim could hear the shame in his voice, even if he didn’t speak his tongue.

“He was too frightened,” answered Knut. “He says he saw a demon in one of the windows of the monastery, watching them, grinning at them. So he ran into the woods and hid. Then we found him.”

“What’s a demon?” asked Gorm.

Asgrim exhaled. “Like a
draugr
.”

Gorm fingered his Thor’s hammer.

“What did it look like, this… demon?” asked Asgrim.

“Green skin,” translated Knut. “All-black eyes, pointed ears.”

Asgrim nodded, feeling queasy, seeing once again the same hideous face in the crypt. “Ask about the treasure,” he ordered. “Where is the monk’s treasure?”

Knut repeated the question, but Asgrim didn’t need to speak Frankish to recognize the confusion on the prisoner’s face. Knut listened carefully to his answer before translating. “There’s no treasure. The monks made salt for trade, but they were poor. Cuthbert said that coming here was beneath him. The only thing of value the monks possessed were the holy bones of this Saint Philibert.”

Asgrim bent over and ran his hands over the back of his head, concentrating on his breathing, fighting to control his rage. No treasure. Of course there was no treasure. Gods damn the crones!

“Pass the word to the men,” he said. “In the morning, we sail away. There’s nothing here but death.”

Four

The Soldiers’ Fort,

August 2, 799,

Evening

The Franks had built two guard towers, which were little more than platforms, into the wooden wall surrounding their fort. Ladders led up to each platform, and from them, standing sentries could see over the wall and watch the surrounding countryside. Asgrim stood at the bottom of one platform, staring up at the dark shape of his brother, who had been up there, unmoving, for hours.

Bjorn had been silent and moody since leaving the monastery. Like all men, Bjorn could have his dark moments, but this prolonged gloom was uncharacteristic. Asgrim had shamed Bjorn into entering the monks’ crypt when he hadn’t wanted to. Even worse, Bjorn had been right. There was something evil down there. Was he still angry with Asgrim, or was it something else?

The men’s mood had improved when Asgrim announced they would be leaving in the morning, but Bjorn’s gloom had not lifted. He had become even more withdrawn. Now, the men avoided him, terrified they might anger him.