The priest was a thin man whose face seemed to have known much hardship, and Shef did not recognize him. But following him, holding the vessel of wine to follow the makeshift dish of wafers—that was Erkenbert the deacon. Only a deacon, and so not fit to celebrate the Mass. Nevertheless participating. And that was wrong too, for his masters, the monks of York, would also not have let one of theirs participate in such a huddled and tawdry ceremony.
The celebrants were slaves, Shef realized. Or more strictly, thralls. They had the collars round their necks, most of them. All those who did not were women. Poor women, old women. That was the way the Christian church had begun, Shef seemed to remember. Among the slaves of Rome, and the outcasts.
Some of the communionists looked up in fear, hearing heavy feet and loud voices outside. Shef’s view shifted. Out there, in the village street, a dozen angry men were approaching, talking loudly to each other. They had thick Swedish accents, like Guthmund’s. True Swedes then, from the Swedish heartland.
“Taking my thralls from their work!” shouted one of them.
“Getting the women in there, and who’s to know what happens next with their love-feast!”
“We’ll teach them their place. And the priestling with them! He should have a collar on by rights.”
The one in the lead rolled a sleeve above a brawny arm. He carried a heavy leather strap. Shef’s own back twinged in memory.
As the Swedes came to the door of the temporary church, two shapes moved out from the door-posts. Armored men, with helmets, cheek-flaps. In their hands they carried short pikes, though they had swords belted on as well.
“Have you come to the church to pray?” said one of them. “If you have, you will not need that strap,” said the other.
The Swedes hesitated, began to spread out. They were not armed except for knives, obviously not expecting resistance, but they were big men, angry, used to command, twelve of them, six to one. They might just try a rush.
From somewhere in the night a voice barked an order and round the corner of the barn came a double file of armored men, marching along, to Shef’s surprise, with their feet all moving at the same time, a thing he had never seen. The voice barked again and they stopped all at once, again, and they turned to face the Swedes. A pause, no further order, and the front rank stepped forward, one-two-three, halting with their pike-points almost touching the leading Swede’s breast. They stood, impassive.
From the rear strolled Bruno, the German Shef had met at Hedeby. As usual he seemed amused, affable. He carried a sheathed sword in one hand, drew it out a few inches, thrust it back.
“You can come into the church, you know,” he said. “We would like you to. But you have to behave, mind. And if you thought you could see who was there and maybe take it out on them later—” His voice hardened. “I wouldn’t like that. Someone called Thorgisl did that, not so far away.”
“He was burnt in his house,” said one of the Swedes.
“Yes. Burnt to ashes. But, you know, not one of his household was harmed and all his thralls escaped. It must have been the hand of God.”
Bruno’s good cheer vanished suddenly. He threw the sheathed sword on the ground, stepped forward to the leading man, the one still holding the strap.
“When you go home, pig, you will say, ‘Oh, they had weapons and we had not.’ Well, you have a knife, pig, and I have one too.” A flicker, and Bruno was holding a long straight single-edge with a brass hilt. “Oh, and look, you have a strap. So why don’t we just strap our wrists together, and I’ll teach you to dance!”
Bruno stared up at the big man, started to reach for his arm, face working like Cuthred’s. But the big Swede had had enough. He said something no-one could catch, backed away, away down the dark street. The others trailed after him, their voices raised in defiance only at a safe distance. Behind them song pealed suddenly from the barn that was now a church. Shef did not recognize the mangled Latin words or the tune, but the German Ritters straightened even tauter, began to sing as well. Vexilla regis prodeunt… “The battle-standards of the King advance…”