She could see more now — a huge wolf, its head bloody and its jaws red, was tearing at a fallen warrior beneath a sky of ravens on a wide bleak plain. As it shook and ripped the man’s flesh, shapes seemed to appear in her mind, and she knew them for what they were — magical symbols, expressions of the fundamental relations of the universe, living things that could plant themselves to shine and chime from the dark shadows of the mind.
She spoke the words in her head:
Runes I took from the dying god,
Where the wolf tore men on Vigrid plain.
She should be dying, she knew, but there were things inside her that did not want to die, and would not let her do so until she had fulfilled a purpose.
She saw another symbol, a jagged tear in the fabric of the blue sky. It was one of the magical shapes, a rune, as the rhyme had said, but different from the others. What did it mean? A hook, a trap, a trap for a wolf. But it meant more to her than all the other shapes combined, more than the one that seemed to burst with flowers, wither and grow again, the symbol of rebirth, more than the symbol that seemed to her like a shield around her, more even than the one that gabbled and talked, to chuckle at the good fortune that it brought.
Again, that voice in her head. She seemed to recognise it. It was like a child’s but worn and heavy with experience.
The fetters shall burst and the wolf run free
Much do I know and more can see.
A strange realisation swept over Aelis. She would not die because she was linked to something so much greater than herself through those strange shapes, the runes that had taken root in her in lifetimes she had lived before when she had watched a god die under the teeth of a wolf. One of the symbols emanated in her mind — the horse rune, which sweated and stamped and now careered and galloped. There were others too, growing within her, whispering to her, coming to bloom.
She came back to herself. She was still on the trunk in the river. The Raven was still crouching, his cruel knife in his hand.
When he saw her move he stood up and retreated a pace, but she remained within his reach and the knife was pointed towards her. She clawed herself up onto the bank and lay retching and convulsing on the ground. The Raven prodded her with his foot, examining her, almost as if he was trying to understand the woman he had made his enemy. There was a sound in Aelis’s mind like the rushing of blood, like drums to call the wind.
She didn’t know where the words came from, but she spoke to him: ‘The thread of my fate is woven. It doesn’t end today.’
The Raven didn’t seem to notice that Aelis had spoken in Norse, a language she barely understood. He just shrugged and took her by the throat.
21
‘Confessor. Confessor. God. Saint.’
The voice called him back to consciousness, though Jehan could sense that it would not be for long. He felt as though he was on the brink of an abyss, his thoughts teetering and threatening to fall into nothing.
Where had he been? In a dark, deep place where the rocks sweated moisture and his enemy waited.
‘No, Vali, no. You are a different thing now, trapped by fate. You are the ending, the destruction.’ It was a woman’s voice, speaking in Norse. It was Aelis’s voice. ‘Vali.’ He recognised the name. She had infected his mind with her touch, set a vibration in him that had shaken the mental structures he had built through denials, willing and unwilling. He wanted her and God was showing him a vision of the hell to which that love — no, Jehan, call it by its rightful name — that lust had condemned him. The lady had said she feared she was a witch and, like a witch, with a touch she had turned him into something else.
‘Confessor. Priest.’ The voice again. He was in agony, his skin felt too tight for his body. The wounds he had taken were beginning to swell and ache dreadfully. The worst was his eye, throbbing and raw. The pain filled him up; he could think of nearly nothing else. He forced himself to speak, though his jaw was bruised and swollen from where the hanging rope had pulled up under his chin, and he hardly had the strength to move his mouth. His tongue was thick and swollen but his will was strong and the confessor made himself talk.
‘You are a Norseman — I know you by your speech. Are you of the faith? Are you a priest? Say mass so I might pass over.’
The confessor gave a cry as something brushed his torn nose. The Norseman couldn’t hear much of what he was saying and had pressed his ear to Jehan’s mouth.
‘What is mass?’
‘The body and the blood of Christ. Anoint me in blessed oil and prepare the way.’
‘You are dying.’
‘Yes. Give me unction so that I may be more certain of heaven.’
‘What is unction?’
‘You are no man of God. I will die unshriven. Forgive me, God, for I have been a prideful and arrogant servant to you. What is your name, Norseman?’
‘Saerda, priest. Your friends have left you.’
‘Then be a friend to me. Allow me to bring you to Christ and then pray for me.’
Even at the last, Jehan wanted souls for Jesus.
‘How shall I come to Christ?’
‘Partake of his body and blood with me. Let me bless you as I bless myself.’
There was a snort from the Norseman. ‘I will help you perform the ritual.’
‘You have the bread?’
‘That becomes the flesh? Is it true you drink the blood?’
‘Yes, the wine that becomes the blood, the bread that becomes the flesh.’
‘I have bread.’
Jehan thought. He didn’t have the oil to anoint and purify the seats of corruption, his hands, forehead, feet and genitals, but he would have to do what he could while he had strength.
The confessor felt his whole body shaking as he repented his sins, the pride in his holiness, the pride in his strength in accepting his affliction as God’s will, his presumptuous certainty that he was intended for heaven. He asked for pardon and recited the Apostles’ Creed: ‘ Credo in Deum…’
Jehan could hardly get the words out. He said the Lord’s Prayer and then he was ready for his final mass. Calling on Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God and, amending the words to fit his terrible situation, he said, ‘Bring me the bread to bless it.’
There was a short laugh, a wet sound and a low groan. Then a noise like the slapping of lips. Jehan, who had to use his ears where his eyes had failed, recognised the sound as the cutting of meat. Then the man came to Jehan and cradled him in his arms.
‘Say your words.’
Jehan spoke: ‘This is the Lamb of God, that takes away the sins of the world. Happy are they that are called to his supper. The body of Christ. Give me the bread so I can bless it and eat it. You must put it to my lips; I cannot raise my hands.’
Jehan felt something slip into his mouth. It wasn’t bread. It tasted of blood. He choked and coughed.
‘Animal flesh will not do!’
‘That is not animal flesh,’ said Saerda.
‘What is it?’
‘Your brother monk.’
Jehan tried to spit but he couldn’t. His body twitched and convulsed; his lacerated tongue tried to push away the corruption that was in his mouth but the blood taste would not go. He called out, but his cry was nothing beyond a whisper.
