The Miracle Thief (26 page)

“They are here for Saint Catherine's relic. They have already put the rest of the abbey to the torch. There will be no escape if you refuse to give it to them.”

Trembling, I held out the box. The sooner they took it, the sooner they left, the better. As long as the children kept quiet, they might never be discovered.

The monk stepped forward to take the box from me as the Dane himself walked right past us.

“No!” I grabbed hold of the Dane's arm. “I give the box to you.”

He wrested his arm free and continued on toward the chapel.

I appealed to the monk. “I gave it to him. I gave him what he wanted!”

The monk shrugged. “They know there is always treasure at the altar of a church.”

“But there is none. The box was all we had. There is no gold. There are no jewels. I gave him what he wanted!” Running to the Dane, I threw myself at him, grabbing hold of his arm.

He rebuffed me with a blow of his hand, and I struck my head against a pillar as I fell.

As I lay there on my back, I saw spirals of smoke curl down from the roof and the spark of flames at the pitch of the eves. Smoke was billowing through the windows now, and the birds were circling in earnest, squawking as flew.

Rolling onto my stomach, I threw out a hand and grabbed hold of his foot. He must not find the children.

The Dane stopped and turned, lifting his ax above his head. But at the moment he would have brought it down, he paused, glancing back at the entrance.

Rolling away, I scrambled to my feet.

The door was opening, fresh air swirling with the smoke. From the threshold stepped the young lord. But he was not the same nobleman who had left me. His demons had returned, and he was beating his breast and thumping his head with one of the cooper's staves. As he stepped forward, I could see blood had begun to trickle down his cheek. “Go away! Go away!” The strain of his cries had raised the tendons that bound his throat.

The Danes shifted as they turned toward him, and one of them cried out, “Berserker!”

The cry was lifted up and repeated. “Berserker! Berserker!” The Danes tried to push one of their own forward toward the young lord, but he refused to go.

As the young man advanced, they began backing away from him toward the man with the helmet.

Down the nave, the young lord strode, beating his breast and striking his head with the stave.

“Is he mad?” The canon yelled at me across the smoke that had swirled around us.

I could not contain my smile. “Zeal for the Lord has consumed him!”

As the boy came abreast of me, I fell in with him, following as he led toward the chapel.

One of the Danes let out a shout, pointing a shaking finger beyond us at the mouth of the chapel.

Through the spreading smoke, I could see my Pepin outlined by the candle's flickering light. He had ascended toward the church and was flapping his arms, hopping about the entrance to the chapel. In that eerie interplay of light and shadow, his figure was veiled, his features distorted as his silhouette was cast up onto the smoke. He seemed a giant bird, wheeling first this way and then that.

“Valkyries!” The Danes' cry was jubilant. Triumphant.

The young lord loosed a cry of rage so noisome even the timbers of the church trembled. An eerie shriek drifted out from the chapel. It rose and fell in a strange cadence. And then Otker appeared beside Pepin. “Valkyries. Valkyries. Valkyries.” He joined the lad, hopping about, and his laughter echoed through the smoke.

The monk threw himself upon his knees, pleading the protection of heaven. But the helmeted Dane let out a bellow and pointed his ax in our direction.

I hurried behind the young lord, collecting the children and pulling them along with me. As we went, there was a resounding crack, and one of the eaves fell into the nave, sending out a shower of sparks.

Before our descent into the chapel, the roof, eaten by flames, crumbled to the floor atop the Danes. And then the beam that had held it up toppled down upon them.

In the church, all was afire. But the smoke had not yet completely overtaken the chapel. I coaxed the children down toward the floor where the air was still clear. Beside me, the young lord slowly ceased his tormented cries and let the stave fall to the floor.

Ava crawled onto my lap while Otker and Gerold watched on their bellies as the church was consumed by flames.

A
girl
like
you
has
nothing
to
offer
at
all. A girl like you can never come to anything.

I had nothing to offer, I would never come to anything, and around me were gathered the least of all of God's children. But I had spoken the truth. I had stood for what was right. And together we had saved the relic.

Saint Catherine had chosen to stay.

Saint
Catherine, glorious virgin and martyr…implore for me progress in the science of the saints and the virtue of holy purity, that vanquishing the enemies of my soul, I may be victorious in my last combat and after death be conducted by the angels into the eternal beatitude of heaven. Amen.

Anna

ROCHEMONT ABBEY

When we finally came to the abbey, we entered through an unattended gate and found ourselves in a courtyard devoid of people. Buildings lined the square with the church itself at the foot. A rocky cliff seemed to serve as its back wall. Carts stood waiting to be unloaded, and craftsmen's fires burned as if they still expected to be of some use. Somewhere, out among the buildings that lay before us, a door slammed.

The canon was pleading with the Danes as we approached. “I'll just—let me talk to the nun one time more. I can't think she understood what I was saying. She'll give it to us, and then we can leave, and we won't have to trouble them at all.” He spoke the words as if he did not quite believe his own pronouncements.

The Danes had not even stopped to listen to the monk translate the words. They began shouting and beating their shields with their axes.

One of them strode toward a fire that burned unattended. He broke up an unfinished barrel and put it to the flame. The others took pieces of it and turned them into faggots. The chieftain took one up and flung it into one of the buildings.

It did not take long for smoke to start roiling from the door.

Another Dane threw his faggot through the church's high window. A second dipped his into a cart filled with straw and then threw it atop the church's roof. The flames sputtered for a moment, but then blazed as fire swept out from it in all directions.

The canon slipped and slid across the muddied snow as he ran toward them. “Stop! You cannot just—! What good will it do if you burn down the church before we can even find the relic?”

The monk grabbed at the chieftain's arm and spoke, gesturing toward the smoking roof.

Pausing a moment, the chieftain barked answer. “He says, ‘They will take the relic and be gone, but these people will know forever what a grave mistake they have made in not giving it to us.'”

The chieftain threw open the door of the church while the canon followed, protesting. “You cannot—” He appealed to the monk once more. “They cannot do this! This place is a
sanctuary
!”

To those who believed, perhaps. To those who knew what the word meant.

“In the name of God, I beg you!”

The Danes ignored him as they stalked past him into the church.

Godric placed his arm about me, and I turned into him, throwing my arm about his waist. But we were not the sole witnesses to the church's destruction. Just after the Danes had entered the church, a man ran across the courtyard, beating his chest and pounding his head with a stave.

Was this one of the monk's berserkers? It could not be, for it was not one of the Danes. But he lurched by, eyes wild, as he told us not to make him stop. As he reached the church, Godric drew me away from the scene. “There's no reason to watch this. We should wait outside the gate. I will find a way to take the relic from them later.”

“But what if they do not find it? What if it's destroyed?” The roof was in flames, and the church itself could not last much longer. If the relic was in there, then I had to go to it. Slipping from Godric's arm, I joined the canon at the doorway. Flames shot through the windows, and sparks drifted down from the roof. The church was filled with fire and smoke. If I hoped to find healing, I must do it now.

The canon tried to stop me. “You'll be killed!” He tugged at my arm, but I wrenched free.

Stumbling, I walked down the nave.

Up in front of the church, beyond the Danes, had gathered a winged heavenly host. And the sound of a wordless hymn drifted out over the smoke and the fire.

“Valkyries!” One of the Danes shouted the word, and the others picked it up and repeated it, but I could not see those pagan spirits here. I saw only holy angels, and I heard only that amazing melody of grace. And then the roof collapsed atop the Danes and their translator monk. The bell came with it, clattering in protest as the fire sent grasping fingers up the pillars and pulled them down too.

The canon dragged me from the church by the collar, despite my protest, and deposited me in the arms of Godric, who held me fast when I would have bolted toward the flames. We stayed in that muddied courtyard, the three of us, and watched as the church burnt down. In time we were joined by others, residents of the abbey, who began to trickle back in through the gate.

Once the walls collapsed, it did not take long for the flames to tire of themselves. When they met the snow-damped ground, they retreated back to the center of the structure, where the roof had fallen in, and there they smoldered.

Using some of the craftsmen's abandoned tools, Godric and the canon prized the rafters from the Danes and the monk. The others joined in scattering the glowing coals so they would cool. It was not difficult to identify the chieftain with his metal helmet. But melted across his chest was a pool of bright, shining gold.

The canon, seeing it, paused. “Saint Catherine's relic.”

The relic? “Is it…?” Stricken, I looked at him. “Is it destroyed, then?”

He only shook his head. “I told him she did not wish to leave.”

I wandered from the center of the church forward, to where it had once met the rocky cliff. My journey, all of my trials, had been for nothing. But what other end might I have expected? I had done nothing I was supposed to. Nothing the other pilgrims had told me must be done.

Though I was standing, as I had long hoped to be, in Saint Catherine's church, my feet were still shod. I had not honored the sanctity of the place. I had not prayed my way down the mountain to the abbey. My poor straw cross had been blown from its place in the valley. I had not kept a nightly vigil. I had not made my confession. I had no gift to offer Saint Catherine, no reason to interest her in my affairs.

I wiped a tear from my cheek as my feet left the earthen floor for what felt like stone. Looking down, I discovered the ground sloped down and into the face of the cliff, where there seemed to be a sort of cave.

There in the gloom before me was an altar.

Kneeling before it, hands clasped to my forehead, I could think of no words to say. I was left with no one to intercede on my behalf, and I knew any petition I could make for myself would be poor indeed. Weeping, I placed my hands on the altar and then lay my cheek atop them.

I could not think why I had ever expected God might heal me, or why I had ever hoped to be found worthy of such unmerited grace. Surely I deserved no good thing.

“God, help me.” I could barely whisper the words for my tears.

“The sword that from her neck the head did chop, Milk from the wound, instead of blood, did bring; By angels buried on Mt. Sinai's top; From Virgin Limbs a Sovereign oil did spring.” The words seemed to inhabit the very air around me, as if an angel's voice had spoken.

As I lifted my head and stretched my arms toward heaven, my devil's hand unfurled itself. The skin around it had loosened, and there were fingers, which had grown to fill it. New ones.

Real ones.

Whole ones.

And there was an expansiveness in my chest, a new, all-encompassing fullness that made me know I had been healed. I sat there, exulting at my great fortune, laughing as I opened and closed the hand that now looked just like its pair, and feeling with wonderment the bosom that had bloomed from my chest.

I was whole!

From the walls of the cave about me, there appeared a great host of angels. Stepping forward, one of them welcomed me in the name of Saint Catherine, extending her hand.

I placed mine into it. “I am healed this day!”

She smiled as if she had already known it. And then she knelt beside me. “After receiving the mysteries of eternal salvation, we humbly pray thee, that as the liquor that continually flowed from the limbs of Saint Catherine, virgin and martyr, did heal languishing bodies, so her prayer may expel out of us all iniquities.”

Beside me, one of the host began flapping his arms. And beside him, a small girl began to intone a song.

The woman clutched my arm. “Are the Danes…?”

“They are all dead.”

She smiled through her tears as she lifted her arms toward heaven. “Then we are saved!”

***

After the fire's embers had cooled, Godric was enlisted to pull the bodies from the ruined church and take them to a cellar where they would be held until spring, when they could be buried. He suggested the Danes might have preferred their bodies to be put to the flame once more, but neither the nuns nor their chaplain nor the canon could countenance such a thing. Not even for the pagans who had rained destruction down upon their heads. Afterwards, Godric aided some of the others in clearing the church while I helped the nun, Sister Juliana, who had spoken to me in the chapel. She left me in care of her charges, those I had mistaken for angels, while she went to find food for all of those who worked to clear the rubble from the abbey.

The sun had fallen behind the mountains before I had a chance to speak to Godric. I had wanted to tell him of my healing, but as I fell in beside him on the way to the refectory, I found I lacked more than just opportunity. After all the time we had spent together, after all of our hours with the Danes, I did not know what to say to him.

And so I slipped my hand, my whole one, into his.

He wrapped his own around it. But then he glanced down, opening his hand to display mine. The corner of his mouth lifted as he looked over at me. There was gladness in his gaze, but as I watched, a sadness crept in beneath it. He squeezed my hand and let it drop. And it felt as if, somehow, he had let me drop too.

The Danes' fire had burnt the abbey. Before it sputtered out, it raced through the cloisters to the pilgrims' dormitory, the baths, and the laundry. After our meal, the nuns turned the refectory into sleeping quarters and invited Godric, the canon, and I to lodge there.

The room, located inside the complex and hidden from the winds and the snow, was much warmer than it was outside, and the nuns brought us furs from their treasury to recline upon and to throw over our mantles, but still I could not sleep. I kept marveling at the wonder of my hand, and I missed the man I had slept beside along the road. I would have gone to him, but somehow something had changed between us, and I did not think it right.

The next morning, Godric and the canon vouched as witnesses before Sister Juliana to the former state of my hand, and then the canon announced he must leave to journey back to Rouen. The nuns tried to present him with a horse, but he refused it. “I came here, desiring to take the relic from you, and found I was in error. You owe me nothing, and I do not wish to compound my shame.”

Godric stayed, helping the craftsmen as they began to frame the church. I stayed as well, looking after the children as Sister Juliana concerned herself with the running of the abbey's affairs. The workers continued to return from their mountain hiding places, but the abbess was not among them. She did not appear that next day or the day after, either.

On the third day, one of the laypeople who had been tasked with helping in the kitchens found her. In her haste to flee from the Danes, she must have slipped in the snow and fallen headlong into the well in the courtyard.

Sister Juliana recounted the grisly news for us all as we sat together for our meal.

The man who had pulled her body out stepped forward to lay the abbess's pectoral cross in front of her.

Sister Juliana fingered it for a moment, and then she glanced up around the room. “Again, it has fallen to us to elect a new abbess.”

One of the nuns got up from her seat at the table, picked up the cross, and put it around Sister Juliana's neck. “You are the only one of us who stood against the pagans. You are the only one of us who deserves this.”

She put a hand to the cord from which it hung. “You must not do this. Not this way. The abbess must be elected by a vote.”

The nun looked out across the tables. “Then all who agree with me may stand.”

Godric and I stood along with the rest of the sisters.

Tears were falling from Sister Juliana's eyes. “I do not deserve this. I have nothing to offer you. I came to you a girl of fifteen years, who had given herself over to fornication and then left behind the child of that union. I came as one who had no other place to go, and not as one who wished to make atonement. I sought to enshrine my past, not to seek peace or redemption.”

“And yet you stayed when the rest of us fled. So why can we not say those words Our Lord once spoke: ‘Your faith has made you whole.'”

***

After offices the next morning, the new abbess came to visit the hospice. “I have always wondered why God has not chosen to heal them.”

“Perhaps they serve God's purpose just as they are.”

She smiled as she looked at them. “Perhaps they do.”

A shadow darkened the door, and Godric appeared, pack in hand.

The abbess greeted him and then slanted her gaze at me. “So I see you leave us today.”

I shook my head. “Not I.” I had not decided yet what I should do or where I should go.

“I thought you came here together.”

Godric sent a look my way before he answered. “We were companions of the road, swept up by the Danes.”

“Can I not convince you to stay until the snow melts in the spring?”

He inclined his head toward her. “Thank you for your offer, but my lord awaits.” Godric came forward to the table. Reaching into his pack, he brought out his collection of phials and pouches and presented them to the abbess. “For the abbey.”

She took up one of them. “And what are these?”

“A hair from Saint James. A filing from Saint Peter's chains. Oil from a lamp that burned in the church of Saint Andrew. Dust from the tomb of Saint Denis. A piece of cloth upon which once rested the crown of thorns. A thread from the veil of the Holy Mother. And a sliver from the true cross.” He looked up at her and then looked away toward the fire. “I had sought from them something they could never give me, and I've come to realize I don't need them anymore.”