Black Monastery Read online

  * * *

  Asgrim lurked just inside an open doorway of the monastery, watching the men work in the courtyard. He had ordered them to drag the corpses out of the monastery and pile them outside the walls. They couldn’t do anything about the entrails, blood, and feces, but by removing the corpses, they would get rid of the worst of the stench and make searching the monastery slightly more bearable. The men’s mood was getting worse. Bjorn had been right about Harald Skull-Splitter. Gorm was certain he had been plotting trouble earlier. Even when Harald should have been helping move the corpses, he and his two buddies, Koll and Mar, were huddled together near a stone wall, whispering.

  They needed to be taught a lesson—before he had to kill someone. Mutiny was a rot that would only grow if left unchecked. Asgrim stepped back into the interior of the doorway as his brother came up behind the malingering trio. Letting Bjorn administer this particular lesson would be best. If Asgrim had to become involved, somebody might have to die. Oaths were a serious matter.

  Without warning, Bjorn stormed forward, grabbed the back of Harald’s shoulders, and threw him to the ground, knocking Mar down, as well. His eyes widening, Koll turned to stare at Bjorn, and Bjorn punched him in the face, sending him flying back against the wall before he fell onto his knees with blood streaming down his face. Harald scrambled to get up again, but Bjorn grabbed him by the collar of his leather armor and the seat of his trousers, then rammed him headfirst into the stone wall. The sound of Harald’s skull striking the stone made a sickening thud.

  No! Bjorn was going to kill him.

  Asgrim darted out of the doorway and ran to stop his brother. “Bjorn, enough!” he yelled as he grabbed his brother’s shoulders from behind. But Bjorn just shrugged Asgrim off, sending him stumbling back. Trying to overpower the big man was like wrestling a horse.

  Ignoring Asgrim, Bjorn lashed out at one of the men on the ground, savagely kicking Mar in the gut. The man whimpered and curled into a ball, all resistance gone. Bjorn lifted his leg, obviously preparing to stomp on Mar’s unprotected face. If he connected, he would probably break his neck. Asgrim tackled his brother at the back of his knees, and both men fell forward.

  They wrestled together on the ground. His brother screamed in rage and lashed out. His punch only scraped Asgrim’s chin, but it still nearly knocked his head off. His brother’s eyes were wild, crazed, as if he didn’t even recognize him. Grabbing Bjorn’s face with both hands, Asgrim smashed his forehead against Bjorn’s nose, knocking the larger man onto his back. Moments later, other men rushed forward and piled on top of Bjorn, holding him down with the weight of their numbers.

  Asgrim dragged himself to his feet and grabbed at the men holding down his brother, yanking them off him. “Brother, what are you doing?”

  From where he squatted on the ground, Bjorn stared at Asgrim as if he didn’t recognize him. “I… what?”

  Gorm was bent over the unconscious Harald. “He’s alive,” he called out. “Gods! His head should be cracked in two, but he’s alive.”

  Asgrim got down on his knees and gripped his brother’s face. He leaned in and touched his forehead against his brother’s. “Are you all right?”

  Blood streamed from his nose and dripped into his blond beard, but recognition slowly returned to Bjorn’s blue eyes, and he nodded. “I… I what happened?”

  Asgrim sat back, staring at his brother’s face. “You almost killed these three men.”

  “What?” The confusion on Bjorn’s face made it look like he had just woken up.

  Asgrim reached out and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Go clean your face. Walk it off. We’ll talk later.”

  Looking uncertain, Bjorn got up and stormed away. Asgrim looked to the three men Bjorn had attacked, the ones he was only supposed to teach a lesson.

  Well, he’d taught them a lesson, all right.

  Harald would live, but he would have a bad headache. The other two men were fine. Koll had a broken nose, but was otherwise okay.

  “Get back to work,” ordered Asgrim.

  The men took to their task with a vengeance, leaving Asgrim to sit and wonder over his brother’s rage. He watched Harald’s back as he left. The other man’s face had held hatred, pure and white hot.

  Gods damn this place.

  * * *

  As the sun went down, the monastery became even more sinister, if such a thing were possible. The western sky was a sea of red flames, and shadows grew across the island. The men, constantly on edge, snapped at one another. Their hands hovered near their weapons, and their eyes darted toward any sudden movement. Even Asgrim found himself on edge, as if spiders crawled across his skin. He stood in the garden, pissing into the monks’ stone fountain and watching the darkness grow.

  They had been there all day. How much longer could they stay? And where was that gods-damned silver that the Saracen had promised was there? The men he had left with Sea Eel would be worried, but they were good steady men and would wait. Besides, they had no choice but to wait. More than five men were necessary to sail a longship that large.

  Then he felt the unmistakable presence of eyes upon his skin. Turning his head just slightly, he saw one of the shadows move behind him. Someone was sneaking up on him. Exhaling slowly, he forced himself to finish urinating and move as if he still believed he was alone in the courtyard. He felt a slight dizziness and a churning in his stomach. Forcing himself to keep his back toward his unseen opponent was torture, but he did so anyway. His fingers rose to scratch the left side on his jaw, near the shoulder where the hilt of Heart-Ripper was slung. He paused for several heartbeats.

  Had they missed someone within the monastery, or was it one of his own men? Had Harald Skull-Splitter found the courage to attack his captain? Or was it a spirit? Draugr came out at night; everyone knew this.

  A pebble shifted just behind him, making a scratching noise, and Asgrim spun, his sword in hand, his teeth bared.

  No one was there.

  He panted in place, his eyes darting about. He was certain he had heard someone and seen the shadows move.

  Draugr.

  Ham and Glum, a pair of young men on their first raid, little more than boys, really, came out the doors of the monastery and saw Asgrim standing with his sword drawn. Both men spun about in place, drawing their own long knives and looking about in all directions for attackers.

  “Captain, what?” Glum asked, his eyes betraying his fear.

  “Do we… do we call the others?” Ham asked.

  Asgrim exhaled, then shook his head. He was jumping at shadows, at nothing. No, not at nothing. This place was haunted.

  “No.” He re-sheathed his sword. “But go find Gorm and my brother. Tell them to round everyone up. We’re not staying here this night.”

  The faces of both of the young men lit up with smiles.

  Only a fool stays overnight where spirits dwell, and the dead did haunt this place. Asgrim was certain of it.

  “Back to the ship?” Ham’s face reflected his desire to quit this island.

  “To the Franks’ fort,” Asgrim replied. “We’ll start the search over again in the morning. When there’s no dra—when there’s more light.”

  * * *

  Alda sat back against a tree trunk hundreds of paces from the walls of the monastery, watching. The northmen had been in there all day, and all day, she had remained hiding and watching. She bit into an apple as she watched. Periodically, she had seen the men on the walls of the monastery. They had gone into all of the outbuildings, and once, she had even seen them up on the monastery’s roof. They were searching for something. Plunder, she guessed, but she doubted they would find much. The monks had always been poor. Everyone knew that.

  There had been no fighting, no sounds of battle or screams of the wounded. Had the monks surrendered? Would they have given up her sister to the raiders?

  She closed her eyes and put her head back against the rough tree bark. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She was lying to he
rself, and she knew it. There were no prisoners and no fighting because no one still lived within that monastery when the foreigners had arrived. She was certain of it now. Her sister was already dead. She was wasting her time, and she should go hide in the forest until the raiders left. Being this close to them was dangerous, too dangerous.

  But Celsa. Was Alda to blame for Celsa?

  No. God wouldn’t be so cruel. Hadn’t Alda suffered enough already? Her stillborn child, her husband, her father. Must the Lord also take her sister?

  Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, she glared at the dark monastery. She wasn’t going anywhere, not until she was certain about Celsa. She owed her little sister that much.

  Then she saw movement near the gate of the monastery. She climbed to her feet, excitement coursing through her. The raiders were leaving. And they had a prisoner.

  * * *

  As they left the monastery, a vast feeling of relief came over Asgrim. He could tell by the faces of his men that they felt it, as well.

  A beaten path through the tall grass led to the fort, and the men followed along it in single file, barely talking. After about a minute, Asgrim saw a familiar brown head poke up from behind some bushes, and a moment later, Hopp ran over to join him. Asgrim dropped to one knee and pulled the hound’s head in close. Hopp, normally lively and excited, merely rested his head against Asgrim’s armored chest and panted heavily.

  “It’s all right, boy,” whispered Asgrim into the vallhund’s ear. “I wanted to run away, as well.”

  Hopp kept beside him the rest of the way, unwilling to separate himself again from his master.

  As they reached the wooden fort, some of the men began to talk and joke, obviously feeling better. The Frankish soldiers had been there for some time, long enough to build an earthen mound and log wall all around their fort. Though small, the fort consisted of a sturdy wooden longhouse, a couple of guard towers, and some huts that no doubt served as storehouses. Asgrim set a watch and had the men raid the fort’s pantry. The soldiers had left several weeks’ of food, including some live chickens and goats in a pen. The wooden barrels were filled with beer, and even though Asgrim wanted to avoid letting the men get drunk, he allowed them to break open one of the barrels. Sometimes, a man needed a drink. The other barrels, though, Asgrim ordered Gorm to secure. Some of the men grumbled, but Asgrim didn’t care. The last thing he wanted was for danger to arrive when his men were too drunk to fight.

  Besides, the darkened walls of the monastery were close, too close.

  As Gorm turned to follow his orders, Asgrim reached out and gripped the other man’s arm. “A minute,” he said.

  Gorm turned and raised an eyebrow.

  Asgrim hesitated while he searched for the right words. The vision of the monstrous face in the crypt flashed before his eyes. “Gorm, down below, in the crypt, did you notice anything unusual, see anything weird?”

  Gorm’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “No, but something down there scared the piss out of me. What did you see?”

  Asgrim released his arm. “Nothing. I saw nothing but shadows.”

  Gorm nodded, then turned and walked away.

  “Just shadows,” Asgrim whispered to himself.

  * * *

  In the fort’s small stable, they found four riding horses. The animals had been abandoned and were weak with hunger, but several of the men set to tending, feeding, and brushing them, then walked them as much as the half-starved animals could take. In the morning, Asgrim would use them to send word to the men guarding Sea Eel to let them know everything was okay.

  With the sun down and night fully descended, they sat in the fort’s longhouse, eating roasted goat. Asgrim sat apart from the men. Gorm joined him, but his brother sat back in the shadows by himself.

  Bjorn had been melancholy since the incident with Harald, who, on the other hand, was suddenly very cooperative and well behaved. He had kept his mouth shut since the beating from Bjorn. But Asgrim still remembered the hatred on the other man’s face. This wasn’t over, and he needed to keep a close eye on him. He shook his head. As if he didn’t already have enough to worry about.

  With food in his belly, Asgrim began to feel less irritable, and he ordered the prisoner brought out. Two of his men dragged over the Frank and pushed him down on his knees in front of Asgrim.

  “He’s eaten?” Asgrim asked his handlers, one of whom was the tall, thin Knut who spoke the Frankish tongue.

  “We gave him food,” answered Knut, “but he didn’t touch it.”

  Asgrim considered the man kneeling before him. He had been clean-shaven, as was the Frankish custom, but he wore at least two to three days of stubble on his dirty face. He wouldn’t meet Asgrim’s gaze, choosing instead to stare at the ground. He trembled, and spit ran down his grizzled chin.

  He’d seen this before, in men who had seen too much battle. The man probably thought they were going to torture and kill him. It was a valid fear. Asgrim knew some captains tortured their prisoners for sport, but this was not his way. He had killed more men than he could count, but usually in battle.

  Usually, but not always.

  Damned.

  Cursed.

  He sighed and concentrated on Knut standing beside the prisoner. “So, what happened here?”

  Knut bit his lower lip and ran a hand through his long red hair. “I’m sorry, Captain, but nothing he says makes sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He keeps repeating ‘They’re taken, they’re taken,’” said Knut.

  “Who’s taken?” Asgrim considered the prisoner. Was he referring to the six young women? He turned to Gorm. “Bring him some beer.”

  Gorm nodded and stepped away, then returned with a large wooden cup filled with dripping beer. The prisoner looked at it stupidly for a moment before taking it with trembling hands. Then the man upended it into his mouth, guzzling it, letting a large portion pour down his cheeks and onto his chest.

  “Get him another,” ordered Asgrim.

  The prisoner drank the second beer only slightly less quickly.

  Asgrim glanced at Knut. “Tell him we won’t kill him, that when we leave, we’ll release him.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll believe you,” said Gorm.

  “Maybe not,” said Asgrim, “but I don’t slaughter helpless men.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he realized what a hypocrite he was. The others must have realized it, as well, because an uncomfortable silence settled over them, and they looked away.

  “Just tell him,” snapped Asgrim.

  Knut, speaking slowly in the Frankish tongue, repeated Asgrim’s words.

  The prisoner met Asgrim’s eye, seeking assurance. Asgrim nodded and motioned for the man to drink his beer. He sipped and then began to talk, slowly at first, but then faster, rushing to tell his tale.

  Knut stopped him with a raised hand and turned to Asgrim. “He says his name is Amalric. He’s in the service of a Frankish knight named Cuthbert, from Nantes, along the banks of the Loire River.”

  Asgrim nodded. Although he had never been there, he knew where Nantes was. It was a large Frankish settlement, less than a day’s sailing inland. It would have made a nice prize, but raiding it would have taken ten times the men he possessed, if not more.

  “Why are they here?” Asgrim asked.

  Knut repeated the question; again, Amalric the Frank provided a long answer before Knut cut him off.

  “He says his master Cuthbert was sent here by the Frankish King Charlemagne to safeguard the monks. Says the king was afraid the Saracens would attack them again, and he ordered the monks to move their monastery to the mainland, where they’d be safer. This Cuthbert was sent to see they made it.”

  Saracens? Asgrim’s face felt hot. A Saracen had sent him here with a promise of silver. Why were the Saracens so concerned with this place? He felt the play of destiny, so strong it almost made his head spin.

  The man began talking a
gain, and they all watched him. He became even more agitated.

  Knut stopped him. “They got here six months ago, built the fort and the longhouse, and waited on the monks to prepare to move.”

  “How many men did this Cuthbert bring with him?” Asgrim asked.

  Knut repeated the question. “Two score. All fighters.”

  Asgrim frowned. “What took so long? It doesn’t take six months to move.”

  When the question was put to him, Amalric became even more agitated as he provided the answer.

  “Says the monks dithered, wasted time. Says they didn’t want to leave. Finally, this Cuthbert made them start moving, threatened the abbot. So the monks opened their sealed crypt to remove the sacred bones of—”

  “Philibert,” interrupted Bjorn, his deep voice booming.

  Asgrim turned and stared at where his brother sat, paces away, in a corner, wreathed in shadows. The prisoner’s eyes grew large, and he nodded, repeating the name.

  “Saint Philibert,” said Knut, his glance flicking to Bjorn.

  “How did you know that?” asked Asgrim.

  His brother glared at him before abruptly standing. “I don’t know. Who cares?”

  Without another word, Bjorn stomped out of the longhouse.

  Asgrim knew a bit about Christian monasteries. They each had their own patron Christian ghost. Had the Saracen they met mentioned the name of the Frank for whom the monastery had been built? Maybe. Asgrim didn’t remember. He returned his gaze to the Frank. “Why did the soldiers attack the monks?”

  Knut repeated the question. This time, Amalric’s face went white. When he spoke again, the words poured quickly from his mouth. Knut stopped him again.

  “He says the monks became crazed, almost overnight. Fine one day, violent the next. Taken by… Lucifer, one of their gods.”

  “I thought they only had one god,” said Gorm.

  Asgrim raised a hand, cutting him off. “Go on.”

  The prisoner looked scared enough to soil himself. Knut asked the man a question. He considered the answer before replying. “The monks barred themselves within the monastery, wouldn’t let the soldiers in. They fought among themselves like animals. Every time the soldiers came to stand out front and demand to be let in, there were more wounded monks. None of them would say what happened. They just glared at the soldiers, as if they wanted to kill them. This Cuthbert became angry, yelled at them, but they wouldn’t let him in. So the soldiers went back to their fort to wait for the monks to come to their senses. But they became worse. One night, the monks snuck out and went to the village. They kidnapped young women and dragged them to the monastery.”