“That is true,” replied Leo, looking at the man with growing comprehension. “Fear not. We will be vigilant and watch for who seeks the Kelt.”
His concern and curiosity evidently now more satisfied than his hunger, the Patzinak grunted approval and left.
Leo watched Maniakh disappear past the sentinels, then toured his command to ensure, once more, that all was in order. Suddenly he saw a figure furtively move into the shadow of a tree and observe the burial. They crept forward to the rails, close enough to see the Seljuk’s corpse in the moonlight and the grave being dug. A young Macedonian sentry saw the newcomer and ran forward with a challenge, “Halt! Who goes there?”
Bryennius stepped up to the pair facing each other, “Very good, Aspieties,” he said.
“Count?”
“Well done. Carry on. We don’t want to run-through the landlord of Arknik when he has been so hospitable, do we?” Leo turned to the landlord. “Hello Tigran.”
“Bryennius,” Zakarian said, startled at Leo’s unexpected appearance. “I was taking my evening stroll to make sure all is well for the night.”
“All’s well.”
“As I see. Trouble?”
“Not at all.” Leo saw Zakarian still studying the burial party. “He fell off.”
Zakarian nodded, understanding that his interest was unwelcome and turned to leave, taking a look into the enclosure at Guy’s chestnut mare.
Leo watched the landlord draw out of earshot. “Damn!” he said under his breath.
“Something wrong, Count?” the sentry asked.
“No, Aspieties. And certainly not your fault. It just never fails to impress me how the circle of knowledge of a secret, or the consequence of a deed, just keep getting wider.”
* * *
34Largely North Africa based Shi’ite Muslim caliphate with its capital in Cairo.
35Now the Murat River or Eastern Euphrates which flows by Malazgird (Manzikert) in eastern Turkey.
36Armoured hood for the head and shoulders.
37A short sleeved mail shirt reaching and covering the hips.
Chapter Four
A Red Dress
Arknik,
Morning, 21st May 1054
Awakening suddenly in daylight, Guy was conscious that he was at Arknik and had slept past stand-to. Embarrassed that his hard-bitten comrades had allowed him this luxury, he struggled to rise and instantly felt the effects of yesterday’s exertions. His feet were tender with swollen blisters, his legs felt painful and stiff and one shoulder ached from the fall. The fact of taking a life burdened his conscience, forcing him to his knees to pray for forgiveness. He felt nauseating shame for what had occurred and what might lie ahead. Murmuring prayers, Guy wondered whether sincere regret over the taken life might reflect an absence of deliberate sin. Others walked by but paid him little attention, devotion being common.
Guy stood, breathed in deeply and stretched painfully while taking stock of his surroundings. The fort was of uncut stone on a knoll overlooking the track to Manzikert. Animal enclosures nestled close outside the walls. Shepherds and herders were already moving horses, sheep, cattle, sheep and goats to graze in the surrounding steppe and hills. Smoke from cooking fires scented the air with the smell of baking bread as the bustle of a manor farmyard mixed with the metal murmur of troops, enhanced the carnival atmosphere of the day’s market before the evening’s feast. .
“You’re awake!” Jacques was up already.
“Hardly,” mumbled Guy as he tugged off the byrnie that he had not removed since the start of the previous day’s march.
“Go get some breakfast. Then we’ll go over your spoils—work out what to keep and what to sell.”
Guy nodded. First, he visited his new mare, which recognised him but snorted suspiciously. She had eaten the hay and drunk from the wooden trough, so he threw her some more hay and stood still as she came close and sniffed it.
Guy limped into the stone confines of Arknik. Inside the wall were stables, warehouse, barn and living quarters, as well as enclosures for valuable and subsistence livestock in the event of a raid. During an emergency, the stronghold might be capable of holding five hundred souls: the family of the local lord, the wealthier landowners of the rural military caste, and some of the peasants. Those who could not shelter in the castle would have to take their chances in the hills.
Guy had seen similar outposts on the road over the past few days. They served as wayside inns and local administrative centres, little different from his father’s fief de hauberk38 though more sophisticated. The central residence, of local stone weathered to an uneven brown, was three storeys high, surmounted by a castellated tower. With its raised entrance and arrow-slit lower windows, it served as a castle keep. Guy ventured into the inn, a low stone building with a tiled roof. Sitting at a bench he ordered breakfast. Through an open unglazed window—the heavy timber shutters, with their arrow-slits, propped open—he watched Bryennius confer with Bessas. The centarch in turn addressed twenty assembled Normans and Romans standing to horse—a patrol to scout ahead. He wondered what they would find.
He devoured bread, cold roast lamb and sliced oranges from a board brought to him then washed it down with milk from a bronze goblet. His hunger assuaged, Guy was again struck by the exertions of the previous day, a day that had begun as uneventfully as many other days. Despite his soreness he felt a quiet pride. A few months ago he could not have imagined how a day might change him. He had acquired a splendid horse, Jacques treated him with a new respect and he looked forward to riding beside Charles again, rather than trailing him on the mule.
He finished his meal and made to pay but the winsome, dark-eyed local woman who served informed him the column’s quartermaster was paying for the troops. Nonplussed at her inquiring look over him, Guy rose and limped to the enclosure where Charles and Jacques awaited, sitting side by side on a top rail and looking out over the wide valley. They were enthusiastic about Guy’s newly won wealth. Jacques had already examined the weapons and pronounced their excellent quality and worth. Guy, fond of his father’s broadsword, gave the superior straight-bladed eastern weapon to Jacques who immediately attached it to his belt, putting aside the cheap one he had carried from Provence. Guy decided to keep the long sabre attached to the saddle. It was light and flexible, ideal for mounted use.
Of particular interest to Guy was the horseman’s short composite bow with its carved leather case and matching quiver of arrows with different heads, for mail, lamellar39, hide or flesh. Sewn into the outer surface of the bow case was a small pouch containing wax and spare bowstrings. Guy took up the weapon and examined its glued, layered curves of sinew, wood and horn.
“A master craftsman made that,” Jacques said.
Guy agreed, putting aside the bow and examining a slender, curved dagger and its silver sheath. “Jacques, I have my old byrnie that fits well, and the Seljuk’s will be too small for you. If you can trade it for another your size, do so. If not, simply sell it and anything else of value.”
Passing by the mule and giving it an affectionate pat, Guy made a more detailed inspection of the chestnut mare. She had bright eyes and an alert carriage, but as he moved towards her she leapt away, turning her hindquarters towards him.
“Ride her now, Guy,” Charles suggested mischievously.
“There’s no dirt in her at least!” Jacques observed from outside the yard. “She could have kicked your head off then.”
Another moment and Guy had his hand through the thong Bryennius had placed around her neck and the mare acquiesced. He slipped on the halter that was handed to him and stood back to observe the animal. Despite the hollowed-out look from her exertions and the dried sweat and mud caked on her legs, she was obviously of a superior Arabian strain. A quick look at her teeth revealed she was a six-year-old. Guy could now see she needed reshoei
ng. He knew the Arabians by reputation and suspected that Balazun’s rough Norman farrier was not the man to shoe this horse. He looked at Jacques who seemed to read his thoughts.
“I can do it, but not that well,” the groom said. “I’ll seek a suitable blacksmith.”
No farrier was available that day and early afternoon found Guy and Jacques by the mare’s yard despondently staring at her worn shoes and rough hooves.
Bryennius appeared at the rails wearing a split leather apron over old clothes and carrying a heavy leather bag. “Nice mare,” he said.
Guy was surprised by his appearance, but felt pride in the count’s approval of his horse and evident respect for the manner of her capture.
“Found someone to shoe her?”
“No,” they shuffled in unison. “But,” Jacques explained, “we’ve found a set of barely worn shoes that should fit.”
Bryennius examined the shoes and looked at the mare’s hooves. “These would easily get her to Manzikert, it’s only three or four days march. I must shoe Zarrar,” he said as if it was a task of no consequence. “I’ll help you shoe her afterwards, if you like.”
Bryennius cold-shod Zarrar, shaping and fitting a set of shoes one of the regiment’s farriers had made for him. The shadows moved two handbreadths, the time passing in the feel and smell of horses in yards. Nearby, hooves scraped and there were fights over hay. From inside the hamlet, hammers sounded on anvils against the breath of bellows and whine of grindstones. Outside the stronghold’s wall, the distant farm sounds of fowls, goats and cattle bespoke another peaceful day.
Every so often Guy observed Bryennius straighten and survey the land and sky, then look back at his men. Guy would follow his gaze, finding himself looking for smoke, dust, and the movement of horsemen or startled animals.
Leaning with his chin on the top rail, the picturesque streaks of white cloud led him to reflect. By day without the canopy of stars, the limits of the world he had imagined seemed undeniable. While contemplating the nature of God, the sin of a death revisited him like a recurring shadow and he looked for any sign of the unknown Seljuk’s grave, but hoofprints had obscured any trace. Guy noticed this compulsive guilt grew as he dwelt on it, and any distraction was welcome. No wonder soldiers drink so, he found himself thinking.
Bryennius started Zarrar’s last hoof, the near hind, bending up the old nail-ends with precise hammer taps on the buffer and carefully removing the worn shoe with pincers. Zarrar, obviously bored by the familiar process, stood perfectly still but amused himself with snorting, wild-horse noises. “Put the fear of God into you if you didn’t know him,” Bryennius said without looking up as Guy grinned.
Domnos and Maria Taronites, a merchant and his wife who joined them at Karin strolled up. Taronites, heavily built and bearded, trod carefully in his fine shoes. His wife’s beauty, when not concealed by a veil, had attracted the interest and gossip of the soldiers.
“Good afternoon,” Taronites said in a show of friendliness not mirrored in his eyes.
Guy answered politely.
Bryennius grunted an acknowledgment with barely a sideways glance. Zarrar moved his head slightly to regard the strangers with the insolent curiosity of military horses towards citizens—knowing their own and who be strangers. “Whoa there, Zarrar,” said Bryennius conversationally, as the horse’s weight moved.
Domnos Taronites stared at Leo with unconcealed disdain.
Maria looked at Guy’s chestnut, away to the horizon, then at Bryennius’ bent back. She wore her long brown hair out, and a breeze caught it. The shimmer of yellow silk and scent of Persian perfume captivated Guy. She stared directly into his thoughts, then modestly away again, brown eyes under the waves of hair. Her roving glance swept back to him. “She’s beautiful, and well-earned.”
Guy blushed, pleased.
She flashed a bright smile and brushed hair away from her face. Then, with a dismissive nod from the merchant, they were away. With a half-turn, slim under the rich robes, Maria looked back once and met Guy’s eyes. Then her glance dropped to Bryennius and quickly away, as she turned to follow her husband.
Bryennius stood, perspiration glistening on his tanned skin. “You’re done,” he said to the horse as he looked in silence after the departing couple. He motioned to Guy. “Stand by your mare’s head and hold her loosely. Stroke her softly so she thinks about you and not about me. Stay on the same side as me, and don’t let her kick. Cover her eye with your hand if need be. And keep feeding her a handful of grain every once in a while if she gets restless.”
The two men worked quietly in the afternoon heat, tools blistering hot to the touch and the sweat now running off Bryennius. Between them, they gave every chance to the nervous mare, easing the shoes on, soft hammer-tap at a time, nail by nail, the mare biting nervously at Guy’s hand when he offered the grain to her. At the end, they had seduced a set of Roman shoes onto the Seljuk mare and set a horseman’s bond between them.
In the lengthening shadows, Bryennius and Guy walked back up the rise to the fort. “She’ll be a different horse now,” Leo remarked. “With shoes on you can give her some work and nothing is as amenable to suggestion as a tired horse.”
As they neared the gate-tower, two strangers rode by. The closest was a dark-bearded man on a liver chestnut mare with white socks behind. Wearing rough travelling clothes and carrying a bow and sword, eyes masked by the shadow of a jaunty grey felt cap, defiance of the world was present in every movement and gesture. A hooded falcon secured by its light chain rested on his right arm. The second rider, swarthy and middle-aged, appeared to be the servant of the first. Similarly outfitted and also carrying a hawk, he was mounted on a gelding of indifferent type and conformation. They dismounted at the inn where the master entered boldly while the servant held their horses and slyly looked around at the unexpected soldiers.
Guy sensed the count’s interest in the pair. Bryennius looked like a blacksmith as he loitered at the well with Guy. They watched, satisfied that the travellers had not noticed the rough-clad Roman officer amongst the common people. Guy drew a lesson from the count’s ability to merge into a crowd. A closer look would reveal the hardness and calculating eyes of a soldier, but in a hunter’s first perusal of a crowd, Guy thought Bryennius would have the advantage.
A warning from the tower heralded the return of Bessas’ patrol. The mounted men rode through the gates in column-of-two with the brown smell of hide and grey smell of iron. Guy saw the dark silhouettes of spears and helmets, manes nodding to the walk. He read the horses’ tired ears betraying equus thoughts of rest and fodder and the water trough, of joining their special mate and standing, heads down in rest, gaining comfort just from the nearness.
Guy felt an unfamiliar tingling thrill, a powerful notion that he was now part of some grander story. The world grew around him in the sounds of shod horses, murmur of armed men and a jaded whinny answered. Bessas dismissed his patrol while the last picket was withdrawn to the night sentry posts.
The stranger came out of the inn.
“Y’know,” said Bryennius. “Falcons have a different use from supplementing the table. They are quite excellent for plucking messenger doves from the air.”
Guy shuddered, remembering the circling hawks of the previous day.
The count approached the stranger’s horse. “A fine horse, sir,” he opened in hesitant tones. “White socks on a liver chestnut—not a common colour. Where’s she from?”
The stranger, gathering his hawk from the other man, looked at Bryennius and evidently took him for what he appeared to be. “I bought her in Salamast. She’s for sale if you’re interested.”
“Beyond my price, I’m afraid. Always like to look at a fine animal though. Salamast is far away. What brings you here?”
The stranger, looked more intently at Bryennius, then mounted and rode off, calling over his shoulder, “People asked
too many questions in Salamast.”
With a wry grin, Bryennius returned to Guy. “He certainly gets around,” was all the count said.
Manzikert,
Afternoon, 21st May 1054
Within his rooms in Manzikert, Modestos Kamyates wrestled with his anger. He knew when his temper got the better of his carefully cultivated court reserve, the muscles in his jaw tensed under his beard and his faint lisp was accentuated. He had never forgotten the chagrin when someone years before dismissed his “sulks” and walked away in contempt. Kamyates had a deep longing to be taken earnestly, for he knew he was a deadly serious person.
The imperial courier, Bardas Cydones arrived at Manzikert shortly after the noon changing of the guard and had immediately sought him out. This lack of discretion was dangerous and indicative of Cydones’ facile approach to security. The imperial courier was too used to the palace where the bureaucrats held the power and paid most of the informants. Worse, Cydones had blabbered almost incoherently about imperial military couriers getting through and a regiment of Scholae, commanded by a particularly boorish and obdurate count, on its way to the city.
“Don’t do that again,” Kamyates snapped at the fatigued Cydones. “I do not give a tinker’s curse if you were ill on the road vomiting your heart out, as you say, in some woe begotten village.” He paced the room, working up a show of fury to impress upon the newcomer just who was in charge. “A bit of discretion would have been nice—a casual bumping into me. How nice to see you! What a surprise finding you here! Instead you blunder in here with your show of knowledge and puffed-up self-importance. If Basil Apocapes has the place as laced with spies as I would, they will know already we are quite in league.”
Still exhausted from a quick trip along the length of the empire and wrung-out from a stomach complaint suffered on the road, Cydones wilted under the abusive scorn of the senior official.
A Dowry for the Sultan Page 13
