The Miracle Thief (20 page)

“I believe, because I should.”

“People
should
do many things, but rarely do they actually do them.”

He seemed disappointed in me, but then I was disappointed in my own answer as well. I had spoken truth, had I not? I had set out on the pilgrim's path because I knew I should: my mother had wanted me to. But even so, that did not mean I had to do it with the hope that burned within me. “I believe because I must.”

“You
must
? But who can make you?”

“Then perhaps…perhaps I believe because I want to.” That was the truest of all of the answers I had given him. I believed because I wanted to hope I was one of God's creatures; that not only the strong or the brave deserved the best eternity had to offer. I wanted to think that somewhere, someone did not despise me; that God, perchance, might even love me, if I could prove myself deserving. I believed because of the things I had seen. And because of those I had not.

“What was it like”—he gestured toward the hand I had drawn up within my sleeve—“when you were cursed? What did you do that you deserved it?”

“Nothing.” I had done nothing. Nothing I could remember. Nothing I could beg forgiveness for. Nothing I could confess to a priest.

He glanced out beyond the rain to where the Danes were preparing to leave. “They disdain you because of it, but they will not hurt you. At least not in the worst of ways. They plan to keep your hand hidden and sell you as a bed-slave; for that they will preserve your chastity. So do not fear.” He sounded as if I should be grateful.

“Why do they seek the relic?”

“They don't. It's the canon who wants it.”

“But why?”

“To take it back to Rouen. A marriage depends upon it. But mostly, the archbishop wants it for his cathedral.”

“What if the abbey won't let him have it?”

He smiled. “That's why the Danes come with us.”

“But, what do they plan to do?”

He looked out once more to a world that had gone gray. “Whatever they must.”

“They would not harm any in order to take it?”

He did not answer.

“What if Saint Catherine does not wish to go?”

“I do not think she has a choice in the matter.”

“But I need to pray before you take her relic. It's why I've come all this way. To seek healing.”

“I can promise nothing.”

“Can you ask the canon, then?”

“The canon? They will not listen to him. They do not understand prayers or weakness, only war and death. They would
prefer
to have to seize the relic, for it's by fighting they prepare for life after death, for Valhalla, where only the bravest of warriors will go.” A glaze had settled over his eyes, and he stared into the rains as if he were looking beyond them. “And the bravest of those brave warriors are the berserkers, they who beat upon themselves and eat their own shields in their lust for blood.”

“But…but…what of Paradise?”

He blinked. “A place of rest and peace?” He turned to look at me. “They would forfeit Paradise without a second thought. They would spurn your angels and wait instead for the winged Valkyries.” He leaned close as he stared into my eyes. “They fight, you see, to have a place among the worthiest of warriors, for only those will be taken to Valhalla. And there, each day they fight, and at night, they feast.”

It seemed a strange eternity, spent in endless war. “Surely they do not fight each other.”

“Only each other.”

“For amusement?”

“Never for amusement. They fight to prepare for the last great battle, so though their limbs be lost and their heads be severed from their bodies, each night they are made whole so they can feast together. And they begin their battle anew each morning.”

“But what of love and charity?”

“There is no place for them there. Nor for the meek or the aged. They care nothing for angels. Upon his death, what every warrior hopes for is a Valkyrie. You see then why they do not accept this message of grace or this God. They do not want to.”

We started out long before night had fallen, when the rains seemed to lessen. At times they stopped altogether, and we saw glimpses of the sun's decline. But soon they returned with more force and such conviction I feared the rest of the day's light would be lost to us.

The road was steep. The Danes halted our procession and conferred, then led us off the road toward a rocky cliff that rose up toward the sky. There, we each took shelter where we could find it within the crags of the rocks.

Godric took me by my bandaged hand and led me some distance from the others before he drew me into a shallow cave where we were protected from the rain. He took the mantle from his shoulders and transferred it to mine. Though it was wet, it was warm, and it still held his scent.

Kneeling beside me, he drew a bundle from his belt and placed it before me. Unknotting the cords which bound it, he opened it to reveal the contents. A collection of small pouches and tiny phials lay within.

I looked over at him. “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. A sliver from the true cross.” He touched each pouch and phial in turn.

“They are…relics?”

“I am a relic hunter for my lord.” He was looking at me as if weighing the impact of his words.

“A relic hunter?”

His gaze slipped from mine, though he nodded. “My lord collects them. And each time I find one, I keep a small piece…a thread from a veil or a few sprinklings of dust…” He placed several of the phials into my hand. “Perhaps if you prayed to them, you might be healed.”

“Why do you offer me these?”

He looked up once more into my eyes. “I joined the Danes because I also travel to the abbey. But it is not for prayer, nor is it for healing. It is so I can take Saint Catherine's relic myself, for my lord.”

I did not know what to say.

“You must not doubt that when I have the opportunity, I will do it.”

Everything he said I understood, but still it did not make any sense. “But why do you keep
these
?”

“For Winifred.” His voice broke as he swallowed. “She died without the last rites. They all did.”

My heart lay heavy within me. It was only the fact that my mother had been visited by a priest in her last hours that gave me any comfort in her death. Because she had received absolution, I knew she had gone on to Paradise. But Godric had no such knowledge. Indeed, there was nothing for him to hope for.

“If I say enough prayers, if I collect enough relics, then maybe…”

He did not have to finish his thought. If he collected enough of them, if he said enough prayers, then maybe the saints could intervene and save her soul. And then she could rest in peace.

“She used to come to me every night. But last night when you…when I slept…she said good-bye. I think the prayers have finally worked. So perhaps these relics can help you as well.”

“My way lies toward Saint Catherine.”

“But these are all here, right now, in the same place. You would not have to go all the way to the abbey, and if there were an opportunity to leave, for you to escape…” There was hope and desperation in his eyes.

I collected the pouches and phials and gave them back. “I am bound for the abbey because my mother wanted it. She had it written into her will. I have to go, or she will have no peace.” And neither then would I.

As he gathered up his collection, he did it as one ashamed. As if he had shown me his weakness.

“Your offer is very kind, but if prayers on my behalf could work, then they would have done so long ago. My mother sent me to Saint Catherine because she thought it was my only hope.”

He looked over at me. “I am trying to save you from the same kind of Danes who murdered my wife. I would help you escape.”

“But if I choose to save myself, then I might lose my only chance at healing.”

I thought he might speak, but he only hunched his shoulders up toward his ears, and he squatted there beside me, staring into the rain that spewed out from the cliff over the mouth of our shelter.

I held out a corner of his mantle.

He looked first at the mantle and then at me.

“I wish I could do as you would like, but I cannot.”

Finally, he nodded. Accepting the mantle, he leaned back against the face of the cliff, pulling me close and tucking my head beneath his chin.

I turned and curled into his side, and there we slept until morning.

***

“Saxon! Where are you?”

The words startled us out of our reverie. The rain had been so plentiful, a veritable stream had formed, and now it fell in a chute from the cliff.

Godric lifted his chin from my head. “They cannot see us through the water. We could stay here.”

We saw the monk stop in front of our shelter. He cupped a hand to his mouth and called out again.

Godric pressed my head to his chest as if to hide me from the world beyond the cave. “Say nothing.”

“But I must go.” Though I wanted nothing more than to stay within the circle of his arms, I could not renounce my journey to Saint Catherine.

His arm tightened about me for a moment, but then he sighed and released me from his embrace.

As he stood, I clutched at his fallen side of the mantle and wrapped his warmth about me. Rising, I went to stand beside him.

He held out his hand to me. “If you are sure…”

I was.

Together we slid past the cascade and stepped away from it.

The monk blanched at our appearance as if we might have been some apparition. Godric pushed past him, and we met up with the others.

Not long after we started out that evening, we rode into snow. At first, after the stinging, pelting drops of rain, it seemed a wondrous thing. It sifted down around us like the smallest of feathers, reminding me of the great bed I had left behind at home. I had not been out in snow before. My mother had feared I would do myself harm; she had lived with the constant worry I would damage myself more than I already was.

Though it was dark, we rode through a world become softer and brighter. But then the snows began to come down faster and thicker, and the wind changed, throwing it into our faces. It piled up on my lashes and my nose. The flakes that had seemed so light now collected on the shoulders of my mantle and at my knees.

I pulled my mantle up around my neck and buried my chin in its depths. The path, which had unfurled so plainly in front of us, became cloaked in drifts. It was then I understood snow's menace. Whiteness was no blessing. Its brightness was a curse. It covered hummock and hollow with perfect equanimity, pulling up the depressions and pushing down the peaks. It was then I understood how great was our peril.

***

We battled snow all the night long. At length, it began to lessen, but by then the horses had wearied from the work of walking.

It was cold. A cold such as I had never felt before. One that sank through my skin and into my bones. The world shrank until it was smaller even than my mother's bed in Autun. It existed between the top of my mantle, into which I had sunk my chin, and the tips of my shoes. And it survived within the space of my heart's beat, the one place in which I still retained a degree of wavering warmth.

Godric pulled me closer against his chest. “You could still escape. I would help you.”

“You would come with me?”

It might have been several minutes before he answered me, or it might have been an hour. Time had ceased to have any meaning.

“I cannot.”

My thoughts had slowed. It took great effort for them to congeal and then to transfer them to my tongue. But it did not matter. There was day and there was night. Light and dark. And constantly, there was white, unrelenting snow. “Where would I go?” Where in this snow-swept, whitewashed world could I flee?

“Home.”

“I have no home.” As I pondered the idea of being from nowhere at all, the Danes pulled off into the shelter of a group of trees with long, swooping, low-hanging branches.

We dismounted and followed after them, ducking beneath the limbs, letting them sweep the snow from our backs as we went. But though we had stopped, it was not restful. We huddled together for warmth and watched the snow blow by. I was almost thankful for the wound the Dane had given me. Bound as it was in a cloth, at least that hand was warm.

“You truly have no home?” Godric continued the conversation as if we had never stopped talking. The Danes did not care anymore if we spoke. And I did not care if they heard us speak of escape. It could not matter. Our footsteps were obliterated, torn from our feet almost before we had finished making them. There was no path for us to take. No road by which to make an escape.

“I have nothing. Just the hope that I can reach the abbey.” Even if the Danes took the relic, if I stayed with them, perhaps they would let me touch it. What would they lose by doing so? And if Saint Catherine did heal me, would I not be more valuable to them whole? “I wish to be healed.”

“And what if you are not? What will you do then?”

I did not know. I had not thought on it. “I will go where the Danes take me.”

“And what if you are healed?”

If I were healed, then I would be healed. But still I would have no place to go and nothing to return to. “I do not know.”

“I will help you.” His words were as futile as the driving snow. He would help me. It was a useless offer, for what good, in a world gone white and fraught with Danes, would his help do me now?

***

What miserable days we endured to reach the abbey. The mountains became steeper, the valleys deeper, and the summits higher. In our travels by night, the moon's light turned the snows into a pale, shimmering blue. The night before we gained the abbey, our journey ended beside a massive fall of snow that had tumbled from the heights down into the narrow, steep-sided valley we were traversing. Our road clung fast to the side of the mountain, and so the fall had blocked our way.

One of the Danes started up and over the slide, but the snow began to give way beneath him, and he barely avoided being swept down with it into the abyss. Beyond the slide, we could see the road continue on. The distance to it was not very great, but with the slide intervening, it was lost to us.

The chieftain strode to the edge of the road and peered down into the ravine. Another Dane stood, hand on his sword, looking up behind us where some snow still overhung the cliff. They began to dispute, the one pointing to the slide, the other pointing up at the cliff.

The monk sat his horse, listening, while the canon gazed at the road beyond the snow. “If there were another way to reach the abbey, they would not have built the road here.” He spoke the words to no one but himself.

The chieftain left off arguing and pulled his spear from his saddle.

From behind me, Godric pulled his own knife from its sheaf with a jerk.

The monk raised his hand. “He will let the gods decide what we should do.”

The canon spurred his horse forward, crying out, “Saint Catherine has already decided. We will not be permitted to take her. She wishes to stay where she is.”

My heart leapt within me, but then my hope died as I realized, if the Danes could not reach her, then neither could I.

The chieftain, ignoring the canon's cry, let fly his spear. It flew through the night, tip flashing. It must have found a rock beneath the snow, for it pitched backward before it came to rest. The Danes dismounted and followed their chief through the snow to find it. By the time Godric and I reached them, they were gesturing at it. Though the shaft of the spear was pointing toward the cliff, its tip was bent toward the snow slide.

The chieftain gestured at the slide.

The other Dane pointed up at the heights.

Gathering together at the edge of the ravine, the Danes conferred with many words until the chieftain finally broke his spear in two and then tossed it over the edge.

Godric raised his voice so it would reach the monk. “What do they decide?”

“They will try to cross here.”

“Through the slide?”

“They will leave the horses, and we will go on by foot.”

“This is madness!” The canon broke in to their conversation.

The chieftain strode up to the monk and seemed to make a demand.

The monk turned to the canon. “He asks, ‘What does your god say?'”

“It's clear what God says. He tells us to go back. We cannot have the relic.”

The monk translated. The chieftain spit an answer back at him.

“Then your God does not know Rollo, and Rollo wants the relic.”

Before any more could be said, the youngest Dane, the one who had accosted me, started off into the snow slide.

The chieftain let loose a shout, but he continued on.

After several steps more, he turned around with a grin and a wave, and then he started off again. But as he continued, a great crack ran through the slide, and the snow began to crumble before starting a slow drift toward the abyss. He threw his arms out, trying to balance, but he could not keep his feet. As the snow plummeted toward the ravine, he rolled onto his side. Stretching his arms out to us, he shouted something.

The chieftain ran toward him, but there was no way to arrest his fall, and he went over the edge in a flurry of snow.

The chieftain stared into the abyss for a long while, and then he turned and made some pronouncement, which caused all the Danes to turn and look at me.

I shrank against Godric as he threw an arm about me and tried to turn his horse. But the chieftain strode toward us and grabbed me by the arm, dragging me from the horse. Then he shoved me toward the slide.

“I do not—”

He did not seem to care what I did not want to do. Pushing at my shoulder, he kept edging me toward that great pile of fallen snow.