The Snow on the Cross (2 page)

A slight bump and our narrow ship was
hauled up against the rocks of the shore.  The bundles who trotted toward us
were shouting in that strange language of theirs.  Only one stayed behind. 
Eirik didn’t move.  He folded his arms across his chest, stared at me for half
a minute longer, and then turned his back. 

I stepped out of the boat into
ankle-deep water that numbed my legs and bit sharply.  As the men led me across
the water and onto the beach, I could see Eirik moving away.  He walked quickly
toward the line of huts, not looking back.  I watched him go for a moment
before kneeling down on the ground and offering my prayers of thanks to St.
Nicholas for a safe journey across the sea.  The North Men stood around me
quietly while I performed my ceremony.  I touched the earth, felt its chill,
and knew I had finally arrived.  It was to be my home for the next two years.

* * *

Earlier, in the winter, I held my
position as Bishop of the Le Mans Cathedral near the river.  The monks who
lived nearby often came to visit me as they traveled from here to there and
back again.  Often, when the weather was warm, they helped me tend to my
garden, which was a great matter of pride to me.  The garden was behind the
church near a small path that led out past the stone markers to the road
beyond.  I worked the garden very carefully and managed to become quite adept
at growing strawberries, which I would often share with my friends the monks as
they passed.

The nights turned cold quickly in
Le Mans
, as we often caught the chilled wind
blowing off the river.  I spent my nights copying scripture by the hearth. 
Although the position of Bishop did not require me to copy text, I found it was
a comfort.  There  was a consistency in the faint scratch of a quill that
soothed me.  The monks would bring me new parchment if I requested it, but I
believe they did it more out of gratitude for my strawberries. 

In those days I recorded the
histories as they were reported to me.  The monks in their travels would bring
news of happenings in foreign lands and, as they told me, I would record them. 
It was in this manner that I first heard the story of the North Men.  One of
the monks, a young disciple named Jonah, had traveled to
Britain
and told me the tale of the
destruction he had seen.

“Bishop,” young Jonah said.  “Our
brothers in the monastery of
Lindisfarne
tell
of the horror of the first encounter with these barbarians.  A blind monk named
Orin, locked in his cell one night, had visions of portents.  One of them
foretold of disaster: a fiery dragon descending upon them all, burning
everything to ashes.  The monks took this as a sign: a warning from God.  They
barricaded themselves within their monastery for weeks.  It was then, in early
June, after the monks had long since consumed all of the meager supplies they had
managed to hoard, that they crawled out into the sunlight, awaiting their
fate.  They were starving and sick, and they looked for another sign.

“Orin died the night before the raid,
but before he died he whispered of visions of lightning flashing through the
heavens.  Rain the color of blood fell from the clouds, and the ink the
brothers used for their books dried up and blew away as dust.  During the
morning hours, after Orin’s body had been discovered in his cell, the first cry
arose from the tower: square sails emerging out of the sunrise, the
bloodcurdling shouting of the hoard approaching the shore.

“The blood of our brothers coated the
walls of their church as the heathens slaughtered them.  The holy ornaments of
our God were shattered, and the rest plundered.  The library was devoured by
flame and the monastery was sacked.  Our brothers put up no struggle, for how
could they stand to fight such monsters?  Some fled to the library to try to
save the books, but they were trapped and burned alive there. 

“I know this story well,” Jonah told
me.  “My father’s grandfather was a boy at the time.  He lived near the stables
and saw the attack.  He never forgot the sight, or was able to block the
screams.  He fled to the hills, and he lived to tell of the North Men’s
cruelty.”

I listened to young Jonah’s story,
and I recorded it faithfully as you see here.  Although I believe parts of
young Jonah’s story to be the wild accounts of youth, I know his story holds
some grains of truth; the monastery on
Lindisfarne
no longer exists, at least, not in its former grand state.  After Jonah
told me his tale, I began to hear other reports of savage raids along the
coasts of
Britain
.  At first they interested me, but
then the accounts of the barbarism grew to unbelievable proportions.  Still, I
recorded them all.  I even wrote down the name of the man whom I would
eventually meet on the thawing
beach
of
Greenland
: Eirik.

I only recorded his name because it
was mentioned to me in a wild story told by the Bishop of Tours, who had
stopped by Le Mans Cathedral for a rest while traveling to
Rome
.  After eating most of my winter supply of strawberries
I had carefully preserved, the Bishop settled back and told me this:

“The Norwegian King, a stout fellow
named Olaf, has declared a bounty of 100 pounds of silver for the capture of a
renegade warrior named Thorvald.  Apparently the king has declared Thorvald an
outlaw and traitor.  Some report Olaf will pay the bounty for the return of
just Thorvald’s head and the head of his wife.”

“What would a man do,” I asked. “To
deserve such a bounty?”

The Bishop of Tours simply shrugged. 
“Murder.  The murder of an heir.  Thorvald fled west with some of his men and
his son, Eirik.”

I shook my head.  “Rumors.”

“Believe what you will, Arnald.  The
North Men are spreading like an infection down the coasts.  Some monasteries
have taken to burying their most holy treasures to prevent them from being
taken.  Others are known to have committed mass murder upon themselves if they
see the approach of those damned boats.  It is God’s will that saves us now and
prevents them from coming here.”

I scratched this all down with my
quill that night long after the Bishop of Tours’ departure.  I made a side note
that he insisted on taking a healthy supply of strawberries for his journey.  
There was more news later that year about the Norwegian king.  He had converted
to the one true faith, although it was probably done while facing the point of
a sword.  Now, King Olaf insisted, was the time to destroy all pagan relics and
dismiss the old gods in favor of the new.    I was happy to hear this news, and
as I recorded it there was a smile on my face.

* * *

I was appointed Bishop in the year
965 after my father’s death.  My father, the first Bishop Arnald of
Le Mans
, was appointed under the rule of
Charlemagne, who brought the holy faith to our land.  I was fifteen when taken
into the church, and by the time I arrived in
Greenland
in the year 1000, I had long since considered myself an old
man.  Listening to the poor peasants who clawed a living out of the mud wore
down my heart.  During confessionals I would find myself nodding off to sleep,
dreaming about their little lives.  How could I help them?  I decided I could
not.  I could offer them a little hope that God was watching them, but that was
all.  Some would come to me in tears, and I would send them away, not because I
didn’t want to help them, but simply because I found that I didn’t know how.  I
wrapped myself in my recordings of the histories and decided that would be
enough.  I would go on no great pilgrimages.  I would not journey outside of
the world I had built for myself here in
Le Mans
.  My writings and my garden, and my precious strawberries, and that was
all.

In 987 Robert II the Pious came to me
as his caravan passed through
Le Mans
.  He was
a troubled man, and as he came to my church he found me in my garden.  His
wagons ended up carving deep ruts through my plants as they rumbled into the
courtyard.  Although annoyed at the destruction, I bowed at the king’s approach
and asked how I could help him.

“Bishop,” Robert II whispered as he
clasped me on the shoulder and pulled me aside.  “Do you have time for
confession?”

“Your grace,” I said, bowing again. 
“I am at your service.”

Robert the Pious was a small man and
he bore the sharp features of his father, Hugh Capet.  Although Robert barely
reached my shoulder (and I am not a tall man by any means) he carried himself
proudly, but never boastfully.  He had grown a worried-looking mustache that he
stroked and twiddled as a nervous habit, and his eyes twitched as well, looking
as a man seeking a quick escape would.

I led him into the cathedral
interiors while his men waited outside and continued trampling down my garden. 
As we walked, I remembered what one of the traveling monks had told me, which I
had recorded.

Robert II the Pious had taken as a
wife a young woman named Bertha of Burgandy.  There was a scandal that I knew
of well.  The church had not approved this union, as it was reported that
Bertha was a blood relative of Robert, which would make him guilty of the
mortal sin of incest.   Robert had earned the name of “Pious” for his good work
with the church.  He had personally taken a troupe of soldiers through the
countryside and destroyed some pagan strongholds discovered along the
hillsides.  Although I would like to believe Robert did this out of a love for
the church, the cynic in me (and the whispers of the monks) makes me believe
that Robert did this to gain the support of the church for his marriage to
Bertha.

“Bishop, listen well,” said Robert as
he was seated in the confessional.  “I am in love with a woman, and my love for
her, it is said, is a sin against God.”

“Bertha of Burgandy,” I replied.  “Is
your blood relation.  The church cannot support such a union. 
Rome
will seek to have it absolved as soon as it can, and
you will be guilty of such a sin that only God can wipe clean.”

“You have influence over
Rome
, Bishop.  Make the Pope see his error.  Bertha is not
proven to be in a direct bloodline with my lineage.  It is speculation.  Nothing
more.”

I could laugh at the poor man for
thinking I had any influence over the Pope. 
Rome
barely acknowledged me as the Bishop of Le Mans, and I preferred it that
way.  Once a year they sent an envoy to my cathedral to collect the tribute,
but other than that, there was nothing.  How could I have any influence over
anyone?  There was almost no communication between
Le Mans
and
Rome
as long as I had been in my post.

“Your grace,” I told him.  “There is
nothing I can do.  If you continue your relationship with Bertha that is your
decision.  Do not come to me and ask me to intervene on your behalf.  I would
simply call attention to myself in the eyes of
Rome
.  Wait for the Pope to issue the church’s decision.  Abide by whatever
they decide.  An absolution may come tomorrow; it may come in a few years.  But
Bertha is within your family, and I think you know that deep down.  Save your
soul before it is too late.  Absolve the marriage, distance yourself from
Bertha, and respect the decision of the church.”

By the time Robert the Pious and his
men left, my garden was a smashed mixture of red and green, and I sadly began
the long and tedious work of resetting my plants.  I mention Robert the Pious
only because he came back several years later.  The Council of Rome had ordered
him to separate in 997, three years before I left for
Greenland
.  He had taken another wife from
Arles
, and apparently was quite happy with her.

When Robert returned to
Le Mans
in 997, he brought news of the North
Men.  Apparently they were settling colonies all along the islands surrounding
Britain
and beyond to the west.  This was
not one of the wild barbarian stories I was so used to hearing from the monks. 
It sounded as if these were good men: simple traders who wanted to make a place
for themselves in this world.

Robert stayed that night in my
cathedral, and he sat with me long after the servants had retired.  The fires
were roaring as he leaned forward and told me this, which I recorded soon after:

“Bishop, King Olaf of
Norway
has converted to our faith.  He is
sweeping through his country and wiping out the remnants of the pagan ways.  It
is a sign of things to come.”

“What do you mean, your grace?”

Robert the Pious sat back in his
chair.  “There are holdouts from the Christian faith.  North Men who refuse to
convert.  Those are the men who fled west, away from Olaf and his new faith. 
These are the ones who cling to the old ways and their superstitions.  These
are the ones who are damned.”

“I heard that Olaf converted only for
political gain, your grace.  Not for any hope of salvation.”

“Nonsense.  He has seen the errors of
his people.  He is converting them in
Norway
, by force if he has to.  I have heard of entire villages rounded up and
driven to the seaside where they are herded into the water by the point of a
spear, like cattle.  There they are baptized.”