The Miracle Thief (7 page)

A warning glinted from his eyes. “You will go to Rochemont, and then you will come back and marry the Dane. If it takes your hand to guarantee his fealty, then it is a sacrifice we both will make.”

***

Would he have treated his queen's daughters so poorly? Sacrificing them so quickly, so carelessly to a pagan? I returned to the villa and exchanged my linen tunic for an azure-colored silk. The hems had been edged with golden threads that glittered even in the room's dim light. Why should I give the Dane reason to think so easily gotten a treasure was a poor one as well? If he thought me dull or meek, a girl who could be satisfied with careless attentions, then I would show him now, at the outset, he was mistaken.

I stood while my hair was combed and plaited and a golden fillet set upon my head.

Is this how my mother had felt when she'd gone to my father? Had her fingers trembled? Had she felt the same dread? I wondered if she'd had any say in the matter and if anyone ever stopped to ask her how she felt about becoming the concubine of the king. I had never felt a deeper need for her, never wanted her more than I did now. Why had she left me, and where had she gone?

Later that morning, as I left the villa to await my father and his counselors in the courtyard, the archbishop hailed me. I might have pretended disdain or indifference, but my years at court had taught me there was nothing to be gained by making enemies. As I pretended pleasure at his greeting, my father appeared, crossing the colonnaded porch to join us. Together, we walked out past the palisade down to the ford. The heralds trumpeted our coming. And my father's men carried his pennon. His counselors followed behind us.

Across the bank, the Danes were waiting for us, their broad, silver-ringed arms crossed before them. They did not appear to be impressed with the trumpets or the banners. If anything, they seemed…to hate us.

They
came
in
the
dead
of
night
with
seven
hundred
ships
and
forty thousand men. They'll put your father's palace to the torch, and it will be all your fault.
In spite of the fine weather and the warming sun, a chill crawled up my spine. I hid my trembling hands within the folds of my sleeves. At the foot of the willow that had screened me just the day before, Andulf was waiting. I accepted his hand as he helped me into a boat; I barely had time to settle myself upon the silk cushion before we had reached the other side. There, we exchanged the sun for leaf-dappled shade.

Behind us, a full contingent of my father's guard crossed the ford on foot, shields in hand, swords glinting.

A grove of trees crowded this far bank, dipping their roots into the water. I was helped from the boat and stood on that foreign shore, blinking, waiting for my father's party to advance as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

The trees here were oddly formed. Their branches were misshapen and swollen with large, lumpen cankers. I had never before seen their like. “What are—?” My hand found my mouth as I came to realize exactly what they were. Horses and—and
dogs
? Their throats had been slit, they had been hauled up into the branches, and now they were hanging from the limbs like trussed hams or strings of mottled cheeses.

The archbishop and his party had joined me. Walking behind the archbishop was his nephew, a canon. The monk who accompanied them was introduced as a translator. A Dane himself, he had converted from the pagan religion. He was just as broad as the Danes before us and just as fair, but no fire burned in his eyes save that of the true faith. He spoke in an accented tongue from the canon's side as he followed my horrified gaze. “It's a heathen practice. They sacrifice to their gods to seek favor and blessings.”

As I looked around, I realized every tree, and nearly every large branch, dangled some rotting, dead thing that dripped a noxious ooze and buzzed with flies. As the wind gusted from the west, I smelled them too.

My vision spun, and as I faltered. I took a step backward away from the gloom, away from that dreadful, rancid smell toward the boat.

Toward the river.

Toward the light.

But my father was proceeding beyond us, away from the water. As he struck out, I fell into step behind him. Up ahead, farther down the road, stood a hulking beast of a man: the chieftain, Rollo. He seemed as likely to murder us all as to treat with us for peace.

The translator leaned close. “In our tongue, they call him The Walker, for he is too large to ride even the mightiest destrier.”

He was too large for his shield. It looked puny in his hand. He was too large even for a helmet, for unlike the others, he did not wear one.

When my father stopped the procession, the Dane spoke to us in his native tongue. When we did not comprehend, the translator gestured us forward. The guards looked at each other, full of unease. My father hesitated, but the archbishop tipped his crozier in their direction and started out ahead of us all. The trees thinned and soon gave way to a meadow. The Danes had pitched their camp on both sides of the road. There were many more of them, vastly more of them, than I had ever imagined.

Their comings and goings had beaten the meadow into dusty submission. And in the center of that great encampment, a massive fire had been kindled. It burned hot and bright, its dark smoke spreading a stain through the sky and draining the life from the sun, leaving it pale and grayed, a poor imitation of the moon.

That giant-man strode toward the flames. Once there, a second man brought him a bull. Two other men stepped forward to support it as the chieftain slit its throat. Blood spurted forth in a stream that fanned out to either side. Those heathens clamored for it, basking in it, while Rollo took up a bowl and collected some of the blood.

After babbling something over the bowl, he pulled off one of his arm rings, plunged it into the blood and then pulled it out. Thrusting it over his wrist, he shoved it up his arm. It left a dark red smear as a mark of its passing.

Beside me, the archbishop clutched at his crozier as he made the sign of the cross.

Turning from that abominable sight, I pushed through my father's guard and collapsed onto the bent meadow grasses, retching.

Andulf stood before me, hands at his hips, blocking me from view of the others. When I was done, he passed me down a handkerchief. It was there the archbishop found me.

“You must get up and show yourself! Do not let fear rule your heart. Remember the faith of Saint Perpetua and the courage of Saint Felicitas.”

Saint Perpetua? Saint Felicitas? “But—”

He gripped my hand. “They were pure of body and of heart.”

And they had died for it! “They were martyrs!” My intended whisper came out as a shout.

He bent toward me as he looked me straight in the eyes. “And now they have received their heavenly reward.”

“For their
earthly
suffering
!” Such suffering. Torn apart by wild beasts and then put to death with the sword. “You cannot ask—surely you cannot think that I—”

“It is not
I
who does the asking. It is your father, the king. You must not doubt that you were born for such a time as this. God is sovereign in all things. Even the low circumstances of your birth He has used for His purposes. Just think: your father's other daughters are much too young to be of use. Clearly even the king's youthful indiscretion was meant for good.”

But I was not good. I was not even especially devout.

“The chieftain has promised to be baptized. What could be greater than leading a pagan people to God?”

Many things. Everything I valued and held dear was greater than being joined in marriage to such a barbarous brute. “I do not think my faith is great enough to—”

His eyes flashed. “The king is not in a position to dither about this treaty. He is bound by Saracens to the south, while the Saxons are ever restless in the north. And to the east, the Magyars are rumored to be on the move. But if he can count on these Danes to aid him, then perhaps he can triumph after all. You must look beyond what you see. You must fill your heart with hope and faith.”

He was right. Surely he was right. I durst not believe he was wrong. Perhaps this was something God, in His mighty Providence, had decreed for me. And for my father.

He grasped my hand in his.

I kissed it.

“Take heart. This is what you were meant for.”

“But I am not valiant. I fear what may happen to me once I wed the Dane.”

“Better to fear for your life than for your soul.”

Were they so very different? Was not the one married to the other? He sent a look back over his shoulder to where two different peoples awaited me. “Is your life so very dear? Do you consider it more precious than these thousand souls?”

Did I? I supposed I must. Was it my great vanity or my small faith that kept me from feeling honored that I could be used in such a way? In truth, my skin crawled at the thought of uniting myself with the Dane. How was it that the archbishop and my father could see my path so clearly, when I could not see it at all?

He gripped my arm, pulling me to standing, and then trundled me back toward my father. “Hush now. The king speaks.”

I could not hear my father. Not clearly. But it seemed he spoke no more than several sentences before gesturing through the crowd toward me.

His men fell back, leaving me exposed to the gaze of the chieftain.

Beside the Dane stood the archbishop's translator. “He wishes to marry now, in honor of the agreement.”

On their side, the Danes had moved closer to the great fire. One was adding hanks of grass to feed its flames.

Now? “No! I—”

The archbishop tightened his grip on my arm, pulling me forward toward my father, who was speaking in reply. “No. During the truce, the princess will journey to the royal abbey at Rochemont to seek there the will of God. You may marry in three months' time at Rouen, after you have been baptized.”

There was no little discussion between the Dane and the translator before they seemed to come to an agreement. The translator spoke. “He says the girl will not make the journey.”

My father turned to the archbishop. “I told her she will be allowed to petition Saint Catherine, to assure herself this is God's will.”

The archbishop's mouth tightened as his gaze narrowed. “And I told him she will be his in marriage.”

“
After
the pilgrimage.”

“I gave no such stipulation.”

The fire was now shooting sparks and sloughing billowing clouds of smoke. I tugged at my father's sleeve. I would have gone down on my knees if it would not have been unseemly. “Please.
Please
, do not make me marry him.” The Dane's eyes had not once left my face, but I did not care if he saw me begging.

My father glanced down at me and then back to the archbishop. “She will marry him after she has made her pilgrimage to Saint Catherine. It was they who demanded the three-month truce, and so it is they who will have to wait.” He lifted a hand when the cleric would have spoken again. “That is all I have to say.” He turned to leave, though he paused as he passed the archbishop, speaking to him in a lowered voice. “I have little taste for this. Either they will agree, or they will not.”

The archbishop frowned as beads of sweat broke out on his brow beneath his miter. “Wait. Just—just for a moment.” He gestured to his translator and consulted the monk in low tones. The translator spoke to the chieftain, who answered with a rapidly rising volume. The translator finally returned and spoke with the archbishop, who relayed the message to my father.

“He says he will wait.”

I found I could breathe again, though only with great effort.

“But the princess cannot go to the abbey.”

“He has no say in this. Not if he wants a truce. And they will not wed until after he has been baptized. I will not risk God's wrath by wedding my daughter to a pagan.”

The count had been silent throughout the negotiations, but now he stepped forward, bowing. “Sire, I have not asked you for money, and I have not asked you for men. But I do ask you this one thing: I must have a truce. I cannot fight them.”

“You must have a truce, he must have my daughter, and my daughter must pray to the relic of Saint Catherine.”

Sweat had made a trail down the archbishop's face. “I gave my word, Sire.”

“And apparently you gave mine along with yours!”

Behind us, my father's guard parted as a page approached. The lad swept off his cap, bowed, and then handed my father a missive. Father broke the seal and parsed it. Then he refolded it and passed it to an abbot, who gave it to a clerk.

After a glance toward the chieftain, he clapped the archbishop on the shoulder. “I shall give the Dane the lands he asks for, but I shall not give him my daughter unless Saint Catherine wishes it.”

“But—” The archbishop's protests were stayed by a squeeze of my father's hand.

“The chieftain will agree, or he will not. Go and inquire.”

We waited while the autumn sun grew hotter and the birds ceased their swooping hither and yon, preferring their shaded nests to the bright sun. And still the archbishop and his translator conferred with the Dane.

My father finally stopped his pacing. “Enough. If he does not agree, he does not agree.” He caught the count's eye. “I will entrust these proceedings to your care, Robert.”

“I must beg you, Sire, to consider that—”

I pulled at my father's sleeve. “He comes.”

My father glanced over at me. “What is that?”

“He comes. The archbishop comes.” And the chieftain with him.

The cleric's smile was triumphant as he lifted his crozier. “He has agreed!”

My father sprang forward as if longing to be gone from that place. “Then they may have their truce, and we will meet in Rouen at the end of December.”

The translator passed the message to the chieftain, who grunted. “He agrees.”

It had not sounded like an agreement to me. And behind the chieftain, there was much low-voiced murmuring among the rest of the Danes.

“Then we will seal the agreement.” My father stepped toward them and then stood there, hands at his hips, one foot poised before the other.

The archbishop spoke through the translator, gesturing toward my father.

The Dane looked at my father's foot and then shook his head.

The archbishop spoke once more, pointing at my father's foot.

He shook his head again and made a show of putting his hand to his sword.

My father sent the cleric an accusatory glance. “You said he had agreed.”

“I assure you he did. He does.” As the archbishop was speaking, the monk pantomimed getting down on his knees and kissing my father's foot.

The Dane responded with a barrage of angry words. Then he turned and spoke to his compatriots, pointing to my father and then at his own foot.

A rumble passed through the pagans. They stepped forward as one, hands at their swords.

My father's men responded in kind until my father lifted his hand and addressed himself to the archbishop. “Then he does
not
agree?”

Someone behind the chieftain hooted. Another man picked up the sound, and soon the rest of the men had caught up that strange, wild cheer. It set the hackles at the back of my neck on edge.

Andulf stepped in front of me as he drew his knife from his belt.

My father placed his hand atop it, raising his other as if in supplication. “I have come here freely, and they have treated with me freely. If they have objections, then they must make them known.”

The monk ignored the archbishop completely and spoke directly to my father. “The objection is to the gesture of obeisance, Sire.”

The Dane had pulled one of his men from the crowd, and now he thrust him forward, toward us. The man turned and said something to the chieftain. That giant of a man unsheathed his sword and pointed it toward my father.

Around us, all had fallen silent.

Though the Dane did not take his gaze off his man, he spoke to the translator with words both clear and slow.

The monk's face flushed, and he cleared his throat before speaking. “He says this man will kiss your foot, Sire, in his place.”

“No.” My father did not hesitate in his reply.

The chieftain pressed the tip of his sword into the man's chest.

That man lifted his chin, though he held his ground. He looked as pleased with the chieftain's idea as my father had been.

“If the chieftain will not honor our agreement, then neither shall I.”

No man on either side seemed even to breathe.

The translator did not bother to pass on the message as the chieftain abandoned the threat of his sword and gave his man a mighty shove.

My father's jaw went tight. “Robert will receive the show of fealty in lieu of me.”

The count's face went pale and then flamed with sudden ire. “Sire, I must—”

“You must do what I command if you wish to have your borders protected.”

His face devoid of all emotion, Robert bowed to my father and then walked toward the Danes. Sweeping his mantle behind his shoulder, he posed, one foot in front of the other.

The chieftain's man took a long look at us, hate gleaming from his eyes, and then turned his attentions to the count. He took his measure from tip to toe, and then he spit onto the ground.

The chieftain barked something at him.

The man's mouth twisted into a grimace. Just when I thought he would refuse to do it, he bent. But instead of pressing his lips to Robert's foot, he lifted Robert's foot to his mouth.

The count stood there, teetering for one long moment, arms thrashing in desperate search of balance, and then he tumbled backward to a roar of derision on the side of the Danes.

On our side there was laughter also. The archbishop was smirking, and from several of the nobles came outright guffaws. Even the eyes of my knight, who stood beside me, were dancing with mirth.

Only two men, save Robert, found no amusement in the count's humiliation: my father and the chieftain. I hoped it was not an omen of things to come.

***

The count refused any aid and came to his feet, hand on his sword.

My father caught him by the forearm, though the count tried to shake him off. “There has been enough of this posturing. You wanted your treaty, and you shall have it. Was that not the purpose for all of this?”

Robert bowed and released the grip on his weapon, though his eyes still glittered with rage.

“These pagans do not understand our ways. It will be in your best interests, Robert, to find some tolerance for your new neighbors.”

“I will tolerate nothing but adherence to the treaty!”

“Enough! Sometimes overt hostility is better in an ally than hypocrisy and covert treachery. At least you know where he stands.”

Robert's gaze dropped, and when my father put forth his hand, he was slow to kiss it.

As I glanced over toward the Danes, I saw the chieftain eye me. I stepped behind Andulf to save myself from his gaze.

My father's guards and counselors followed us down the road, through the trees, to the river's edge. When we reached our side, my father asked the archbishop to join us in the walk to the villa. “I have received a summons from the court in Lorraine. I may be away for some time.”

He was leaving? Now? After he'd just promised me to the Dane?

He grabbed the cleric's crozier when the man would have kept walking. “It is you, now, who must find a way to keep all the promises you have made.”

“Sire?”

My father nodded back toward the other side of the river. “The terms have been agreed upon. We will await Saint Catherine's blessings, and I shall return in December.”

Though I would soon be leaving as well, knowing my father considered the matter settled made me uneasy. But the archbishop nodded assent, and my father passed us both as he strode toward the palisade.

I would have asked him to wait, would have asked him not to leave so quickly. Indeed, I hurried up the road after him, but I soon realized my entreaties would have done no good. While we had been with the Danes, the household had been hard at work. The queen's cart was waiting in front of the porch, and its silk canopy, buffeted by the wind, shimmered in the sunlight. One of her men was helping her into it. A groom awaited with my father's favorite horse.