Enoch's Device (9 page)

T
wo days after they entered
the channel between Britain and France, Ciarán spotted land. Sheer white cliffs stretched for leagues east and west, and the cries of gulls rang from the shore. His spirits soared at the sight, for they had reached the mainland with still no sign of the bishop’s ship.

While Ciarán stood on the bow gazing at the towering cliffs, the oarsmen unfurled the sail to capture the light breeze hissing off the sea. “What is that land?” he asked.

“That there’s Normandy, lad,” Merchant Mac Fadden said, standing alongside the young scribe.

Beside them, Dónall watched a seagull dive for a fish. “Its name means ‘the land of the Northmen.’ The Normans were Vikings who settled these lands long ago.”

Ciarán glanced warily at his mentor. Vikings were something every monk had been raised to fear, for their brutal raids on Irish monasteries were legendary.

“Don’t worry lad,” Dónall said, clapping Ciarán’s shoulder. “The Normans are Christian now, and they’ve become more like the Franks than their Northmen kin.”

Despite Dónall’s assurances, Ciarán couldn’t stop scanning every inlet for the sinister low outline of a Viking longship as they sailed along the Norman coast. To his relief, they had encountered none by the time they reached the mouth of the Seine, the river that would take them to Paris.

After their first day rowing up the Seine, they docked at a town called Rouen, the seat of the duke of Normandy. The townspeople seemed welcoming of the Irish strangers, which was more than Ciarán could say for the town itself. For Rouen was altogether unlike Derry. There were no oak groves here, no fields of clover, no corbelled huts. A looming wall of stone, not earth, encircled the town, whose buildings were wedged cheek by jowl along narrow, dung-strewn mud streets that emitted a fearsome stench. The monks of Rouen, clad in their black Benedictine habits, seemed perfectly content to walk these cramped, fetid streets and alleyways, and that struck Ciarán as unnatural. For if God was indeed the lord of the elements, as Saint Columcille had written, then how could these Benedictines pay him proper homage in a place made entirely by human hands?

They left Rouen the next morning beneath fair skies, before a steady westerly breeze that aided their voyage up the Seine, which meandered like a twisting serpent through lush valleys toward the great city of Paris. When they finally arrived just before dusk, Ciarán could hardly believe what he saw, for Paris seemed to float on the river. Fortified walls, glowing with the light from scores of flickering lanterns, surrounded the city like the hull of some gigantic ship. In place of a ship’s masts, steeples and towers topped with slate roofs rose through a haze of smoke from a thousand cooking fires. As they rowed closer to shore, it became apparent that Paris did not float but, rather, was built on a narrow island splitting the Seine. Ferries rowed between the island and the mainland, and where they did not, plank bridges crossed the river. Coracles and other craft jammed the docks, and to Ciarán’s relief, none resembled the bishop’s black-hulled ship.

Merchant mac Fadden’s oarsmen rowed the curach toward a harbor flanked by stout, square towers flying blue pennons dotted with gold lilies. As they pulled alongside an empty stretch of pier, Ciarán marveled at the city’s size, for more buildings stood along the riverbanks, and more lanterns hung from posts along the road that ran parallel to the city, creating a trail of tiny lights unlike anything he had ever seen. He wondered whether there was a grander city in all the world. Rome, perhaps, but it was hard to imagine such a place.

At the docks, Ciarán and Dónall bade Merchant mac Fadden and his oarsmen good-bye. “Be good, lad,” mac Fadden said, wrapping Ciarán in a bearlike embrace. “And listen to Dónall. He’s a good man, and I’d trust him with my life.”

Ciarán was surprised to feel the sting of tears. Whether mac Fadden’s devotion to Dónall had caught him off guard, or he was just suddenly struck by the sadness of their parting, Ciarán felt certain he would miss the stalwart captain and his crew.

Dónall embraced Merchant mac Fadden before making the sign of the cross and uttering a prayer:

God be with you on the sea; Christ be with you on the land. Spirit be with you in every breath. May your journey bring you home, and your travels be swift to the fair oaks of Derry.

Merchant mac Fadden clapped Dónall on the shoulder and then turned away, his rugged seafarer’s eyes gone suddenly misty.

Dónall led the way from the pier, with his black staff in hand and the book satchel slung over his shoulder. As they departed, he drew Ciarán near. “Stay close,” he said, “though it’s hard to get lost—all roads eventually lead to the river.”

Beyond the docks, throngs of Parisians filled the streets. Lit by more of the flickering lanterns, the streets were narrow like those of Rouen, though cleaner. And the churches were certainly grander, but the air still held the acrid smells of unwashed humanity, smoke, and dung. Dónall and Ciarán headed for one of the bridges that would take them to the southern bank of the Seine. They passed churches devoted to saints named Geneviève, Denis, and Christophe, and everywhere, shuffling along amid the throng, were dozens of Benedictine monks and black-robed priests. The priests and monks shot looks at the Irishmen in their gray habits, but it was the worried expressions on these clerics’ faces that caught Ciarán’s attention.

“What do you think’s bothering them?” he asked.

“Let’s find out,” Dónall replied. Stopping a priest outside a basilica dedicated to Saint Étienne, he inquired in Latin why the priest and his brethren should look so troubled.

The priest, a slight man with a puckered mouth, twitched nervously. “Haven’t you heard?” he replied. “Pope Gregory has excommunicated King Robert for his marriage to Bertha of Blois. Soon all France may be under papal interdict, depriving us all of the blessed sacraments! And this when the end times draw near, when our souls are already in grave peril!” The priest made the sign of the cross. “It is why the king fares so poorly in his conflict with Fulk the Black. Because God is angry with the king, and soon he will unleash the devil Fulk to punish us—all because the king married his cousin, his own kin!”

The priest seemed to grow more agitated the more he spoke, so Dónall quickly bade him farewell. “A papal interdict?” Ciarán remarked as they walked away. “That’s
outrageous
!”

Dónall cocked one brow. “Tensions between the Franks and our new German pope seem to be running a tad high—though I suspect this is just a political move.”

“Who’s this Fulk the Black?” Ciarán asked. “He seems to have everyone on edge.”

“According to Rián, he’s the count of Anjou, who’s opposing the Frankish king. Unless things have changed since my last visit, the king of France enjoys only modest power. It’s the local magnates who rule this land—a gaggle of robbers, petty lords, and ruffians if ever there were. They make our tribal chieftains look like the communion of saints.”

Ciarán shot his mentor a concerned look, but Dónall clapped him on the shoulder.

“Lad,” he said, “welcome to the Continent.”

*

They arrived at the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés beneath a cloaked moon. The abbey stood on the outskirts of Paris, amid sprawling vineyards and fields of yellowing grass. Stone walls encircled it, making it a fortress compared to Derry’s earthen enclosure and corbelled huts. A half-built bell tower rose above the other buildings. Although partially obscured by wooden scaffolding, the tower was roughly square in shape, with sturdy buttresses supporting walls adorned with tall arched windows.

“Amazing!” Ciarán breathed. Apparently, the artists of this land must work with stone instead of pens and brushes.

“Wait till you see the things the Romans built,” Dónall replied.

The abbey’s gate was closed for the evening. Dónall rapped on it with his staff, and a narrow peephole slid open, revealing a pair of flitting eyes beneath a bushy black brow.

The man behind the gate barked something in Frankish, to which Dónall replied in Latin, “We’re here to see Brother Remi of Paris.”

“And who might you be?” the gruff voice asked.

“Brother Dónall mac Taidg, of Ireland. I’m an old friend of his.”

A moment later, the gate opened. Its keeper was a pug-faced Benedictine no older than thirty, with thick hands and a well-fed gut. “Ireland—the edge of the world, eh?” the gatekeeper said. “You say you’re an old friend?”

Dónall nodded. “From his days back at Reims.”

The gatekeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Reims, eh? You sure you want to see him?”

“We’ve traveled a long way,” Dónall said.

“Suit yourself,” the gatekeeper muttered. “Though why the abbot even lets him stay here is a mystery.”

He led them into the cloister, consisting of four covered arcades lit by rushlights and arranged in a square at the center of the abbey’s primary structures: the church, refectory, chapter house, and dormitory. Ciarán marveled at the elaborate Romanesque capitals, each carved with the image of a saint, atop the columns along the cloister. In the cloister’s center garden, near a fish pond rimmed by smooth stones, they caught the scent of rosemary from pruned shrubs. Gregorian chants echoed from the church, reminding Ciarán that they had arrived during Vespers.

The gatekeeper opened the heavy door to the dimly lit vestibule and tiptoed to a nearby alcove and another door.

“He’s not with the choir?” Dónall whispered.

The gatekeeper shook his head. “No, this door leads down to the crypts of the old Merovingian kings. Brother Remi went down there a week ago; he’s not come up since.”

Dónall and Ciarán glanced at each other, alarmed. “Is he alive?” Dónall asked.

The gatekeeper shrugged. “We place his food on the top step every supper, and it’s always gone by morning. Remi had been saying odd things before he went down there—not the way he usually does, but muttering that all his brothers were dead. So now it seems he wants to be with the dead.”

He cracked open the door that led to the shrine. Ciarán glanced hesitantly at Dónall, who nudged him through the doorway in response.

The monks’ sandals clapped against the descending stone steps, and the air grew cool and damp as they descended. Near the bottom, candlelight flickered from an archway. The stench of urine choked the stairwell.

Ciarán peered through the archway and gasped. Dozens of flickering candles lit the small shrine surrounding a statue of a saint, but the rest had become the tapestry of a madman. Symbols and pictures, scrawled in chalk, covered every inch of the shrine’s dark stone walls. Some of the symbols seemed arranged in patterns, forming circles or crosses, but these provided the only discernible order amid the chaos of other drawings: seven-pointed stars; an ankh; and sketches of chimeras, griffins, and other mythical beasts. It was as if the ravings in Maugis’ book had been ripped from their pages and plastered over the damp, niter-encrusted stone.

Ciarán’s nerves tensed. In the shadows, a rodent scrabbled. From behind Ciarán, Dónall stepped into the shrine and called out, “Remi?”

A flash of movement caught Ciarán’s eye; then came a loud crack.

Dónall’s head whipped back, his knees buckled, and his staff clattered to the stone floor.

From the shadows, a bony hand grabbed Ciarán’s habit and yanked him from the stairwell. Ciarán tumbled sideways, landing hard on his shoulder against the stone-tiled floor.

A hand pressed into Ciarán’s chest, and he looked up at the black-robed man who straddled him. Eyes bulged from a gaunt face dark with dirt and stubble. From the tip of a blackened staff, a torchlike flame burned inches from Ciarán’s chin.

“What have you done with Nicolas!” the man growled between rotting teeth.

Ciarán looked wide-eyed at the flame. “I don’t know!”

“Liar!” The staff’s tip flared, singeing the down on Ciarán’s cheeks and making him wince.

Then a strong hand reached over the man’s shoulder and jerked him backward, and the flame whipped back from Ciarán’s face. Back on his feet, Dónall flung the assailant to the floor.

“Remi!” he cried. “It’s me.”

The man’s mouth widened as if to scream, but then his lips quivered as the flame on the staff’s tip died, leaving only a wisp of smoke. “Dónall?” A tear rolled down one dirt-caked cheek. “You are
alive
?”

“Yes, old friend.”

“Then this?” Remi looked at Ciarán, and his eyes grew wide. “Has it been so long?”

“Nearly twenty years,” Dónall said. A painful-looking red lump stood out on the side of his forehead.

“Then it’s not too late,” Remi said.

As Ciarán crabbed backward and away and got gingerly to his feet, Dónall stepped between them. “What happened to Nicolas?” he asked.

Remi ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “They are hunting us,” he whispered. “They know we are getting close.”

“Tell me who, Remi.”

“The same forces that worked against us at Reims.”

“But Gerbert left France.”

Remi’s expression darkened. “Not him. It has servants—men in dark robes, who hide in the shadows . . . And not just men.” The jittery monk’s nervous twitching seemed to be gradually abating under the force of his old friend’s gaze.

“After all this time, why would anyone harm Nicolas?” Dónall asked.

“Because he found another piece of the puzzle. We’re close, Dónall—oh, so close.”

Dónall’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Nicolas located the Book of Enoch.”

Dónall sucked in a breath. Ciarán glanced between the two men and saw something he had never seen before.

For Dónall mac Taidg looked as pale as a ghost.

O
n the banks of the
Loire, alongside a row of fishing boats with furled sails and gathered nets, a lone Benedictine monk stood on a wooden pier, awaiting the arrival of Bishop Adémar of Blois. The monk raised a lantern in the evening mist that settled over the river. He rocked on his heels, trying not to shiver, unsure whether the chill in his bones came from the damp air or his apprehension over the bishop’s return.

At last, the ship’s stem post jutted through the mist, and he grabbed the line tossed by a crewman and helped guide the ship to the pier. He counted only thirteen soldiers among the crew, along with Father Gauzlin, the bishop, and the other priest. A wave of unease coursed through him. Where were the other eight men? Something terrible must have happened.

Two of the soldiers secured the ship to the pier, while the Benedictine searched the bishop’s face for some sign of what had happened. He met Adémar’s gaze and sensed the fury simmering behind the cold stare. The Benedictine looked away. He glanced at Gauzlin, whose face was swollen with bruises and scabbed-over wounds. Gauzlin shook his head subtly, and the Benedictine’s heart sank. Their mission had failed.

Bishop Adémar disembarked first, and the Benedictine bowed before kissing his ring. “My lord,” he said, “I rejoice at your return.”

The bishop glared down at the much shorter Benedictine and snarled, “There is nothing to rejoice about.”

“What happened, my lord?”

“Dónall mac Taidg escaped, along with the whelp,” Adémar said. “And they took the Book of Maugis.” Adémar turned abruptly and strode toward a flight of stone steps that climbed from the river to the town, where a stone fortress loomed beside the cathedral dedicated to Saint Solenne.

The Benedictine scurried to keep up with the bishop’s long strides. “Where did they go, my lord?”

“If I knew, I would not be here,” Adémar hissed. He slapped a leather-bound book into the Benedictine’s chest. “We did find this,” he snapped. “Sent to mac Taidg from a Brother Remi of Paris.”

The Benedictine fumbled with the book, trying to hold on to his lantern while climbing the steep stairwell. At the top of the stairs, they passed through an arched gateway in the town’s stone wall and headed for the cathedral—a grim structure with slot windows and a spire where perching stone gargoyles peered balefully down. Two black-robed priests waited at the cathedral’s open doors, where candlelight flickered from the vestibule beyond. The priests bowed as the bishop entered. Following him, the Benedictine gave the lantern to one of the priests, then opened the book. As the candlelight spilled over the illuminations decorating the fresh vellum, the Benedictine realized what had happened. “My lord,” he said, “Dónall mac Taidg was warned.”

Adémar flung his black overcloak to the other waiting priest. “How?”

“Once Adalbero’s inquisition began, Remi started hiding messages in his illuminations. Books passed freely between the abbeys. He felt it was the safest way to communicate.”

Adémar’s eyes narrowed. “What do these warnings say?”

“It will take some time to find them,” the Benedictine admitted. “But Remi was always clever about leaving clues.”

“Then make haste,” Adémar said. He looked around them. “Not here, but in my chambers.”

The Benedictine followed Adémar to an upstairs chamber in the rectory attached to the cathedral. Shutters had been drawn over the chamber’s two windows, and the sweetish scent of old parchment lingered in the air. In the shadows of the far wall stood a bookshelf crammed with codices and tomes. Adémar took a seat behind an ash desk and beckoned the Benedictine to a chair beside a trident-shaped candelabrum. While the Benedictine lit three candles, one of the priests brought the bishop a goblet of wine, then hurried from the chamber, closing the heavy oak door behind him. The Benedictine settled into the chair to study Remi’s handiwork. After realizing that Remi had marked one of the pages, he discovered the first warning. It took time to decipher the code involving the Four Horsemen, but once he did, the remaining messages revealed themselves.

“Remi told mac Taidg about Brother Nicolas,” the Benedictine said, looking up. “And warned him that the prophecy has begun. This is quite favorable, I think.”

“How so?” Adémar asked, setting the goblet aside.

“Because Dónall will have gone to Remi, which means they’ve come to Paris. And I know where they’ll go next. In time, they will bring the Book of Maugis right within our grasp.”

Adémar’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “How can you be so certain?”

“Last week,” the Benedictine said proudly, “Brother Nicolas succumbed to our methods of persuasion. He admitted to discovering a rare document from the Capitulary of Quierzy, when Charlemagne’s grandsons divided his empire along with the contents of his library. In that document, Nicolas found a reference to the Book of Enoch—and to the place where it may be hidden. He sent word of this discovery to Remi, who surely will take Dónall to find the book, for they believe they need it to locate Enoch’s device.”

Adémar steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Are you sure of this?”

“I am positive, my lord.”

“Where do they believe the Book of Enoch is hidden?”

“At the abbey of Selles-sur-Cher,” the Benedictine replied.

“Lord Geoffrey’s domain?”

“Lord Geoffrey died recently,” the Benedictine said. “His young bride now rules in his stead. Shall I go there?”

Adémar took another sip of wine, wiping a drop from his lips as the hint of a smile formed. “No, leave that to me. I’ve been searching for a cause to bring the count of Anjou deeper into our fold. We need to keep him motivated, so I think it’s time the good count Fulk helped me rid the Touraine of this heresy.”

“And what about Dónall mac Taidg?”

“I want to be there when he arrives. He has the means to find Enoch’s device, and we cannot let that happen!” Adémar slammed his fist onto the desk, his eyes aflame with sudden anger. Across the desk, the Benedictine cringed.

“Events must happen as they’ve been foretold!” Adémar raged. “We cannot let anyone stop it. Mankind must suffer for its sins as the race of Gog and Magog enacts its divine vengeance!”

The Benedictine swallowed hard. “What shall I do to serve you, my lord?”

“Is Brother Nicolas of any more use to us?”

“No, lord.”

“Then return home,” Adémar said coldly. “And sacrifice him.”

The Benedictine shuddered. He had hoped it would not come to this, but he knew what must be done. He rose from his chair and gave a grim nod.

“As you wish.”