Black Monastery (4 page)

When he was certain he’d given his brother enough time to get in place, Asgrim stood and turned to his men, who also rose. The faces of the younger ones betrayed some trepidation, but he saw the mounting excitement in the eyes of others.

He spoke loudly enough for all to hear him, putting steel into his voice. “Anyone who stands against us dies, but if they run, let them go, let them live to spread tales of us. It’s time for these Frankish holy men to know the wolves of the northern seas have descended upon them!”

Harsh laughter and murmurs of agreement drifted from the men. Their heads bobbed, and their teeth flashed in unpleasant grins.

He thrust his sword toward them. “But listen carefully! I’ll have no fires until I have their treasure. After,
then
we burn everything.”

Asgrim’s gaze swept their faces, making sure they understood. When their blood was up, men acted like idiots. Such things were to be expected, but the last thing Asgrim wanted was his silver melted.

Once satisfied they understood, Asgrim slapped his sword blade against his wooden round shield. The sharp crack rang out in the early morning air and the blade of
Heart-Ripper
vibrated. The time for silence was over.

“Let’s go get our treasure.” Asgrim stood at the center of his men, who formed a long line facing the monastery. The red glow of the rising sun began to burn away the darkness in the east, creating just enough light to see. Again, Asgrim smashed the flat of his sword against the metal boss of his shield and stepped off. Hopp ran beside him, his tongue dangling, and the men followed. After several paces, they broke into a trot. Their hobnailed ankle boots crunched the salt beneath them as they quickly closed the distance to the monastery.

Asgrim knew the men would be building up a murderous rage and getting ready to slaughter anyone they came across. He felt no pity for the Frankish holy men. All men died at their preordained time, but dying in battle,
that
was how real men died, not in some bed, fouling themselves while women cried. The priests should thank him.

As the first of his men reached the wooden gate in the stone wall, he began to sense something was wrong. At first, he thought the wooden gate had been left open by mistake. But then, as he drew closer, he saw the door was smashed and shoved inward.

What?

His men screamed in fury as they funneled through the open gateway, hungry for blood. Asgrim pushed through the throng of men and came out in the monastery’s inner courtyard. One of his men tripped over something and fell flat, dropping his spear. The others fanned out, but then faltered. Silence dropped over the raiders as they ground to a halt, their mouths hanging open, their eyes betraying their confusion.

Asgrim lowered his shield and sword and gaped at the inner courtyard. Bodies of armed warriors and unarmed priests lay scattered everywhere. Clearly, the soldiers and priests had killed each other. Many of the corpses were ripped apart, their limbs lying nearby. Entrails lay scattered everywhere, and the soil was soaked in congealing blood. The stench of feces and rotting flesh washed over Asgrim, and clouds of flies buzzed angrily. Although he was no stranger to death and battlefields, the stench still almost gagged him. Beside him, Hopp whined once before turning and disappearing back out the opened gate.

By Odin’s ass, what had happened here? What kind of battle had these men fought? The bodies of the priests had been cut down with sword, spear, and ax. The soldiers, though, had been pulled apart, shredded, their guts ripped out and discarded.

All of the bodies of priests had blood-stained hands.

These were the strangest holy men he had ever heard of, more berserker than man.

He pointed toward the stone buildings with his sword. “Move, damn you! Search inside.”

Some of the men stood in place, looking about themselves stupidly, but others began to pile through the monastery doorways.

“Get moving!” screamed Asgrim as he shoved a young raider forward.

What had happened here?

He stalked toward the main buildings and pushed his way inside. He was met by complete darkness, the stench of more dead, and a feeling of dread. He stood in place, trying to make sense of this. Inside, the air was moist and thick with the smell of the sea. How was that possible? The floor was sticky with something that sucked at the soles of his boots. Thousands of angry flies poured out the doorway, so many that men covered their mouths and eyes with their hands.

“Torches. Light torches,” he ordered.

When the first torch blazed to life, chasing away the darkness, Asgrim found himself facing a foyer with a large curved stone entranceway that led inside the monastery. Over this entranceway, the monks had painted a scene of piety and welcome: a faded and chipped painting of a woman sitting on a throne and holding a baby. On either side of her, men with wings knelt in supplication. The woman wore a smile of serenity as she gazed down at Asgrim and the scene of carnage around him. At least six bodies, monks and soldiers, lay piled in the small foyer. In one corner, the corpse of a priest still sat astride the chest of a soldier. The dead priest’s teeth were locked on the savaged throat of the other man, and the soldier’s dagger was rammed into the priest’s heart. Asgrim stared at the corpses. He had seen men bite each other in combat. Once, he had even seen a warrior, caught up in his battle rage, bite his own arm and tear away a chunk of flesh, but he had never seen a man sink his teeth through another’s throat like a wild animal.

His first mate, Gorm Louse-Beard, moved past him and examined a bloody pile of…
something
in a corner. As Gorm bent to examine the mess, his expression betrayed his confusion. Using the point of his sword, he lifted the flayed skin of a man. Impossibly, it was still mostly intact, as if someone had just popped out the bones and wet tissue.

The two men’s eyes locked over the bloody skin on the end of the sword. “What orders, Captain?”

Asgrim’s skin tingled as if ants crawled over him, and in a voice that was little more than a whisper, he said, “We find the silver. Then leave.”

The Danish warriors spread out, moving from chamber to chamber, building to building. Everywhere, they found more corpses. The monastery was a slaughterhouse. The lower levels of the monastery housed storerooms, sleeping chambers, and a large dining room. The dining room, with its long wooden tables, was filthy. Dirty dishes and plates were piled everywhere. Animal bones and other garbage covered the floor. A severed goat’s head in a congealed pool of blood sat on one of the tables. Its dead eyes seemed to follow Asgrim as he walked past, mocking him, as if the dead goat knew all the secrets of what had happened here and was amused by Asgrim’s confusion. The men muttered oaths beneath their breath, calling on the gods for protection.

Upstairs, they found the monastery infirmary. One of the beds contained the corpse of a priest who had been tied spread-eagle to the posts. Beside the bed was a bloody collection of medical instruments that had been used to torture the man. The skin covering the corpse’s face had been cut loose, strip-by-strip, exposing the glistening muscle and sinew beneath. The corpse’s lidless eyes stared at Asgrim and his men. His mouth open, one of the younger men gaped at the savaged corpse. Asgrim turned toward the young man to say something comforting, but at that moment, the young man suddenly bent over and vomited.

In another chamber, they found the monastery’s library. Each desk held a book; each book was chained to the desk. Asgrim casually flipped through one of the meticulously detailed tomes before letting it drop. Real men had no need for such nonsense, and although the books may have been priceless to the priests, they were useless to him. He could sell them, he supposed, but he had come for silver, not paper. At the back of the library, one of the priests had written something in dripping blood on a wall, but neither Asgrim nor his men could read the runes.

He turned and looked about himself. “Where’s Knut? He speaks Frankish.”

A young, thin man with pockmarked skin appeared as if by magic and stood next to Asgrim, staring at the writing on the wall.

“Well, man. What does it say?” Asgrim demanded.

“I don’t know,” Knut answered. “It isn’t Frankish. I don’t know what it is.”

Asgrim frowned and walked away, muttering beneath his breath. Something very wrong had happened here. This place was cursed. He thought it best to find the silver quickly and get away.

The upstairs church was the largest and most grandiose room in the monastery. Tiles covered its ceilings, and the walls were adorned with elaborate tapestries showing scenes of piety and religion, images that were obviously of importance to the priests but seemed pointless to Asgrim. Not a single battle scene was among them. Did these men have no heroes? Long wooden pews took up most of the chamber, and early morning sunlight poured through the narrow windows. But even there, in their most holy chamber, the stench of death was present. More angry flies droned near the wooden platform at the front of the church.

What now?

Behind the platform, they found the naked corpses of six young women, and this time, Asgrim himself almost vomited. He had seen his share of death. In truth, he had killed enough men to fill a mead hall, but this was too much.

Before turning away from this carnage, Asgrim’s fingers brushed the Thor’s hammer he wore on a thong around his neck. The women must have come from the village. But why were they there? And who had done this, the priests or the soldiers?

The priests, Asgrim was certain.

But why would the priests do such a thing to their own kind? It was unmanly, cowardly even, worse than beasts. Perhaps that was why the soldiers had turned on them? If Asgrim had been the local garrison leader, he would have done the same. By Odin’s beard, he would like to kill these priests all over again.

Beside him, Gorm swore beneath his breath as he glared at the corpses. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Asgrim. “Let’s find the silver, burn this place to the ground, and go home.”

“Aye,” said the other man, shaking his head as he followed Asgrim out of the church.

In the rear, they found the abbot’s quarters. Much larger than the cells the other monks lived in, the abbot’s chambers were spacious and well lit. The abbot himself sat at a desk facing the doorway, his dead face smirking at them. There was not a mark on the corpse, but his skin looked ancient, withered, and rotted, as if he had been dead for years.

They searched the chamber quickly and thoroughly, seeking the monastery’s treasure. What they found was a paltry sum: a small purse of silver coins, some brass candlesticks, a small tin cross, and another bag filled with pennies. They found no treasure, no hoard of silver.

Asgrim’s anger rose. He turned to Gorm. “Have the men search every room. Tear this place apart. Search all the buildings, everything. The priests have hidden their treasure somewhere. I know it. Search the haylofts, the piggery, the stables, and workshops. Tear up the floorboards, but find that gods-damned treasure!”

Gorm’s eyes went wide, and his face blanched. “Captain. We can’t… can’t stay here. This place is cursed. There’s no doubt of that. Their god had forsaken them. If we stay—”

His hands clenching into fists, Asgrim rounded on the other man. “We stay until we find the silver. I’m not leaving without plunder. It’s their god, not ours, nothing that can harm us.”

“I’m not so—”

“Just do it, man!”

Gorm nodded somberly before turning away to issue the orders. The others left Asgrim alone in the abbot’s chambers. He plopped down on one of the wooden chairs and undid the leather ties holding his helm in place before removing it and placing it on his knee. His dark hair was drenched in sweat and plastered to the side of his head. He rubbed his beard where the cheek flaps had pressed against it.

Asgrim’s hair was short, well groomed, and shaved at the back of his neck to ease the fit of his helmet. His moustache, though, was long, running past his mouth and into his short beard. He would have been a handsome man, if not for the misshapen lump of scar and tissue that was his nose.

Balancing his helmet on his knee, he glared at the dead abbot. “Don’t you laugh at me, priest! I’ll find your treasure. You’ll see. And after I do, I’ll burn your damned home to the ground.”

The smile remained on the dead priest’s face as a wasp crawled out of his open mouth and flew away.

* * *

Three times, Alda had silently circled the monastery, trying to find the courage to enter it, to find Celsa. But she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t bring herself to come any closer. Instead, she spied on its darkened walls from the cover of the night, and her dread grew. Something had happened there. The monastery was no longer a holy place—if it ever had been.

Alda had rushed there as soon as she received word—belatedly—that the monks had taken the women from their homes. A former neighbor, one whom Alda had helped when her little boy had suffered from the pox, had arrived at Alda’s hut in the forest, wild-eyed and frantic. The monks had taken her daughter, as well. They burst in on her farm, assaulting her husband and dragging away her daughter. They had not even spoken. That had been the previous night.

Later that same night, while Alda hid in the woods and watched the monastery, the soldiers had come from the fort, demanding the women be released. Instead, the monks had fought them. Peaceful monks fought soldiers. It was impossible. All of this was impossible, but Alda had heard the sounds of battle and the screams of the dying. Since then, she had neither seen nor heard anything moving within the monastery or the nearby fort.

She had been within the monastery’s walls as a young girl. Her father had taken her to trade for salt with the monks after they had moved from the mainland seeking solitude and an escape from the plague. The priests had been kind to her, offering her water and an apple, but she had never felt safe within its walls. Something had always felt
wrong
there, as if something dark, something secret was hiding within its walls. She had spoken of her fear once to her father, who had laughed at her and told her she was being foolish. The monastery of Saint Philibert, the home of the famous Black Monks, was a holy place, loved by God, and the island of Noirmoutier, with its happy little fishing village, was as safe a place as any in Frankia. This was why when her mother had died of the wasting sickness that had killed so many others within the city’s walls, when Alda and her sister Celsa had been little, her father had moved the three of them here, to become a village healer and to live a simple life among rural godly people, safe from the horrors of living in a town the size of Nantes.