‘Nifhelm?’
‘The realm of the ice giants,’ said Ofaeti. ‘It’s underground, so I’m fairly certain it’s not around here.’
‘It’s a silly myth,’ said Jehan.
Ofaeti shrugged. ‘It is cold, though, isn’t it? There could be white bears here, which wouldn’t be a lot of fun. I’ll tell you what,’ he said: ‘if your god sends us this monastery, a warm bed and a bowl of stew before the night’s out, then I’ll believe in him.’
‘You worship God without conditions. You don’t make bargains with him.’
Ofaeti looked genuinely nonplussed. ‘So what do you do?’
‘Praise him.’
‘Flatter, you mean. Lord Tyr would strike such a man down. You offer him the death of fine warriors in battle, gold and cattle, not words to please a lady. If you can’t bargain with a god then the god is no good to you.’
The mist in the valley was thinning. Jehan peered through the grey air. There was a cliff rising out of the main slope, and beneath it was a structure too regular to be natural. It was just a shape, a darker grey on a field of other greys, but the confessor knew it could only be one thing — the monastery. From along the valley he heard a sound. It was the wind, though it reminded him of what he would soon be hearing. Singing. The monastery was famous for its acoemetae — the sleepless ones. The monks sang in shifts, unceasing for nearly four hundred years now. He looked at the sky. It would be around mid-afternoon, the little hour of nones. They’d be singing the songs of ascents. He recited the words of one of them to himself.
He who goes out weeping,
Carrying seed to sow,
Will return with songs of joy,
Carrying sheaves with him.
The message of the psalm cleared his head and renewed his strength for the struggle to convert the northerners. He had to accept that he was dealing with a simple people. There are many ways to Christ, his abbot had told him. Perhaps he should let the northerners walk theirs. He looked up. The great cliff curved around to his left, the monastery tight to it. Could none of the Vikings see it?
‘If God sends you the monastery, will you renounce your idol?’
‘He’d have to chuck in a whore as well for that,’ said Ofaeti. ‘He’s a god of love; he should have a few at his disposal. But I hear your god doesn’t like whores, begging the question of what he does like.’
The confessor waved his hand. ‘Honest men and good women. Whores are tolerated by some in the Church for they keep the good women of the town chaste. They are not tolerated by me. Pray properly and God will send you a wife.’
‘All whores are thieves too,’ said Ofaeti, ‘but they’re gone by the morning. It’s one thing to get done by a pirate, it’s another to invite him into your house and let him complain when you fart. I’ll have no wife.’
‘You don’t want children, Ofaeti?’
‘Don’t you, monk?’
Jehan snorted and looked to the mountains, just gigantic shadows in the mist. He had often lectured people on the sins of the flesh. What had Eudes said to him when Jehan had warned him that his whoring would see him in hell? ‘It is easy to be chaste when God has made it impossible for you to be anything else.’ Had Jehan known lust? Of course, but he had prayed for it to go and it had, largely. Those feelings were not the hardest ones to control. God had stricken his body, rendered him blind, and Jehan had known why. God had wanted him for Himself. In darkness and constriction he had no closer companion than God, certainly no greater love. But with a touch in the dark of the Viking camp something else had stirred inside him — a longing greater than lust for true companionship, for touches that did more than lift him, wash him, cut his hair or trim his beard. For most of his life he had been alone in the darkness with God. He cursed the ingratitude that made him hungry for something more.
He knew, to his regret, that it was possible there were whores at the monastery. The abbot’s position in recent years had been given to warrior nobles. While a core of monks kept the hours and attended to God’s works, there were many at such places who preferred to eat, drink and satisfy their lusts. They weren’t monks, just lesser sons whose families had nothing better to do with them.
The monastery seemed clearer to him now, and he was surprised none of the Vikings had yet seen it. There was a smell in the air — something sweet, the scent of cooking perhaps. No. Not cooking, but something like it. It was a note he’d never quite noticed before, an alluring aroma like ripe cheese, pungent and strong yet delicious.
‘Hey! Look!’ Varn was flapping his arm. ‘Can you see that?’
‘I can,’ said Ofaeti. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Saint-Maurice,’ said Jehan. ‘If there’s a whore in there, then your soul’s Christ’s.’
Ofaeti laughed. ‘If she’s a pretty one, then why not? Whatever’s inside, let’s hope it’s a gift from your god and not from mine.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that would be fifty angry monks come to cut our throats,’ said Ofaeti. Jehan recalled the big man’s words in the chapel: ‘Tyr’s blessing, many enemies.’
Jehan glanced at the Vikings. They were not in a good state — hungry, frozen, ice in their beards, their cloaks and blankets tight about them. Were the monks of Saint-Maurice in a belligerent mood, he thought, the northerners would not last long.
It was better to be cautious.
‘You stay here,’ said Jehan.
Ofaeti shook his head. ‘We’re coming with you.’
‘If you do, they’ll think you are bandits and kill you. There are five hundred monks in there, and their house possesses some of the greatest treasures in Christendom.’
‘Got what?’ said Ofaeti.
Jehan realised too late what he had said, but the damage had been done. He was glad he’d exaggerated the number of brothers by at least five times.
‘This place is in the mountains on one of the main routes between Francia and Rome. Do you think they have never seen a bandit before? Or a hundred bandits, or a thousand? You are eleven. If you let me speak, you’ll be in the warmth of their guest house before nightfall. If you don’t, you’ll be spending another night in the cold.’
Jehan would fulfil his oath, he thought: he would put the Vikings’ case to the abbot. But he would not lie. The bones were those of a brother, not a saint. And he knew that when he explained exactly who the Vikings were and that they were pagans, their lives would not be worth much. The abbot of Saint-Maurice was the second son of a powerful and warlike Burgundian noble. Such men were drawn to the Church for the power it offered rather than by piety and weren’t slow to use their swords. He felt sure of the answer the Norsemen would receive. He didn’t want them dead and would argue that they could be brought to Christ, but he knew the outcome of his visit to the monastery would not be good for them.
The Norsemen muttered but Ofaeti knew they had no choice but to accept what Jehan said. However, before the monk went, the big man took him by the arm.
‘You are a hardy man and a brave one,’ he said, ‘but I remind you of your oath. We are offering no threat. If they come to kill us then they will be the Caesar and we the Theban legion saints.’ He prodded Jehan firmly in the chest. ‘“Thou shalt not murder,” so your god says.’
Jehan nodded.
‘And one other thing. This warrior puts his head on a block for no man. If your brothers come, we will bless them.’
‘Bless them?’
‘They want to go to their god, don’t they? We’ll speed them to his side.’
Jehan smiled at him. ‘We spend our entire lives preparing to die,’ he said, ‘but I will seek their protection for you — if you come to Christ.’
‘Protection first, then we’ll see.’
Jehan didn’t move, just looked into the big Viking’s eyes.
‘You are very wonderful,’ said Ofaeti.
‘What?’
‘You look blank when I bargain, so I thought I’d try praise, like you said. Your mother raised a mighty man. Is
