Trail of Fate

by Michael P. Spradlin

“I think you’re afraid!” she yelled.

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Of Sir Hugh, of this High Counsel . . .”

  Robard held up his hand. “Enough. It’s decided. I’m leaving. Good-bye, Tristan. Good luck. I hope we’ll meet again. When you reach England, come to Sherwood Forest and look for me. Our farm lies along the eastern edge of the forest, not far from Nottingham.”

  Without another word he started walking toward the west, following the tracks of the High Counsel and his men.

  Angel had remained silent through our exchange but now barked at him.

  “Sorry, dog . . . Angel. He’s leaving,” I said.

  She sprinted after Robard and circled his feet, barking and pushing at his legs, trying to drive him back to us.

  “What . . . Get down! Stay. Go back!” Robard exclaimed.

  But she would not be deterred. She ran back and forth between us, barking madly, but Robard kept walking, and Angel finally returned to us and sat on her haunches, whining pitifully.

  Maryam stood silent, glowering at the receding figure. “I hope he’s happy with himself,” she scoffed.

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Maryam. His family does need him. Times are hard in England,” I said. “Now, if you’re coming with me, I think we should get started.”

  Robard had vanished around the bend, so we headed back the way we had come the night before. Angel waited and waited and finally followed along reluctantly. Both she and Maryam were in foul moods, and Maryam muttered under her breath as we walked. I had the feeling she had no desire for conversation, so I kept silent.

  Worried as I was about Maryam, my greatest concern was finding our way to England. We were in a strange country, and I knew only that home lay somewhere to the north. Since I had left the temple in Acre, nothing had happened as I had hoped. Now I was blundering about in a foreign land, hoping to somehow stumble my way home. Robard, on reflection, may have been right. I assumed it would take weeks for someone to reach the northern coast if they knew where they were going. Traveling blind like this was a bad idea. But I truly believed it was safer than trying to find a port city. Carry on, Tristan, I told myself. Beauseant!

  It didn’t work.

  Maryam seethed with silent rage as we made our way through the woods. For no better reason than it was familiar to us, we followed the stream north again. Once past Celia’s campsite from the night before, we would enter unknown territory.

  After a while I tried again to engage Maryam in conversation, but despite my efforts she remained sullen. I knew her anger was not directed at me, but the farther we traveled, the more I wished to have the old Maryam back.

  As we rounded a bend in the stream, the wind picked up and Angel suddenly stiffened, then growled. She had smelled something on the breeze, and sensing her alarm, Maryam and I stopped in our tracks.

  Angel paced forward, standing rigid, her nose working the air.

  “What do you think she smells?” Maryam asked quietly.

  “Don’t know. Most likely a squirrel,” I answered. But I didn’t believe it. Something in her manner urged caution. Silently I drew my short sword. I was about to encourage Maryam to draw her daggers, but a quick glance showed me they were already in her hands. How had she done that?

  “Easy, girl,” I said to Angel. “Let’s go.”

  The three of us moved silently along the stream, the sound of our movements muffled by the bubbling water. Several yards past the campsite, Angel stopped to sniff at something on the ground.

  “Maryam,” I whispered. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  A large spot of blood covered the leaves and ferns lining the forest floor. Something big had been killed or severely wounded nearby.

  “Maybe we should take a different route,” I offered.

  Maryam shrugged. In her present state, with her pent-up anger at Robard, I thought she might actually enjoy finding something to fight.

  Angel sauntered past the blood and this time kept her nose to the ground, moving quietly along the stream. Then without warning, she let out a bark and took flight, charging ahead. She bounded into the nearby underbrush and disappeared from sight.

  “Dog . . . Angel!” I stammered. “Come back!”

  We crept forward through the thicket until we reached Angel, barking and pawing at the ground near a large oak. As we approached her, I nearly screamed when a man fell from behind the tree and onto the ground.

  I circled around to the front of the man while Maryam held her position at the rear. When I could see his face, I was shocked to discover I knew him.

  It was Philippe.

  His shirtfront was covered in blood. One of his arms looked broken, and as I knelt beside him, his eyes opened. He looked up at me and said, “Celia! Vous devez la sauver!”

  Then he pitched forward and collapsed in my arms.

  “What did he say?” Maryam asked.

  “He said, ‘Celia. You must save her.’”

  9

  Philippe was barely breathing. I knelt beside him and cut away his shirt with my small knife. A large wound just below his heart still bled. Having seen men die on the battlefield, I was amazed that Philippe was still alive and that he’d managed the strength to crawl as far as he had through the trees. I also realized there was nothing I could do for him.

  “What should we do?” Maryam asked.

  “There is nothing we can do except pray for his soul,” I said.

  “He was a fellow warrior,” she said sadly, kneeling in the familiar position that I knew meant she was praying.

  “Yes, he was,” I replied quietly.

  I studied Philippe again. His sword was missing. There was no sign of his horse.

  “Who do you think could have done this?” Maryam asked. “Was it this High Counsel?”

  “I don’t know. Philippe was always circling back to see if they were being followed. It could be they . . .”

  Philippe reached up and grabbed my arm, and I yelped in surprise. His eyes flew open, and with every bit of will he had, he focused on me. My heart pounded in my chest and my breath stopped.

  “Templar! You must save her. I’m nearly done. The High Counsel will not rest until he crushes her and her father. Swear to me.” So Philippe could speak English! I had been right after all.

  “Philippe, what happened? How were you hurt?” I asked.

  He struggled for breath.

  “The High Counsel left a small force behind, trailing north. They must have found my tracks from my earlier scouts and guessed I would ride back to check. Six of them ambushed me.” He coughed then, and a horrible gurgling sound came from his chest. He groaned in agony.

  “Where are they now?”

  “Four of them are dead,” he said. He stopped, still struggling to breathe.

  “Let me see if I can treat . . .”

  “NO!” he said, and squeezed my arm so tightly that I thought the bones would break. Even near death his strength was remarkable. He groaned and closed his eyes, then raised his head again to speak.

  “No. Leave now. Celia will move everyone from the villages to Montségur, our fortress, but the High Counsel will not give up easily. You are a soldier. You are needed there. Celia needs you. Jean-Luc, the others, they are far too young . . . and inexperienced . . . Good men, but they have never seen a real battle. Celia . . . she said she saw something in you. I was not . . .” He closed his eyes for a few seconds, but then his head came up again.

  “I . . . was not . . . impressed,” he said. He gripped my arm. “But you have returned here, so you must be braver than I thought. Now go. They will need your help. Go.”

  “Philippe, I will see you are given a Christian burial—” I started to say.

  “No! No time. We are Cathars! We care not for the church and its rules. Leave my bones where they fall. Go. Swear to me you will go to her,” he said. “Templars give an oath to protect the innocent, do they not?”

  “Yes.”
r />   “Then as a soldier, promise you will defend her. On my soul, she and her people . . . our people . . . are innocent,” he groaned, and closed his eyes again.

  “You have my vow, Philippe. I will go to her,” I said, placing my free hand over his. “Everything I can do, I will. On my honor as a Templar.”

  Philippe nodded. Angel whined again as Philippe took one more ragged breath and life left him. Maryam bowed her head and said a few more quiet words. For reasons I couldn’t understand, I felt a profound sadness. Philippe had certainly not cared for me, but I offered up a silent prayer for this man who had so bravely given his life for his friends.

  “Let’s go,” I said, starting back through the woods toward the stream. Maryam called behind me.

  “Tristan, wait. What about Philippe? We can’t just leave him here.”

  “You heard him. He made his wishes clear.”

  “Yes, but you can’t just not bury the poor man,” she said. Sir Thomas had once told me how the Saracens had very strict laws governing the handling and burial of their dead.

  “Maryam, I know how you feel. But Philippe’s faith was his own. It is not our place to question him. He asked me to go to Celia’s aid as quickly as possible. Burying him will take hours.”

  “Stop!” she shouted at me. I stopped.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Tristan? What is going on here?”

  “I . . . You saw. Philippe is dead; Celia and her people need my help.”

  “Do they now?” I wasn’t sure but I thought I detected just an edge of disgust or maybe sarcasm in Maryam’s voice.

  “Yes. You heard Philippe. They are in trouble. I promised I would try to help them.”

  “So you’ll forget your ‘vital’ mission and traipse off to help someone you just met and hardly know?”

  “Maryam, please. Philippe just gave his life for his people! They are obviously in grave danger. You heard me swear an oath to help. An oath, Maryam. We Templars tend to take such promises very seriously. I cannot—”

  “Tristan, I don’t believe you for a minute,” she interrupted me. “You’re using this oath as an excuse to go back to this girl.”

  “Well, you are entitled to your thoughts. But I assure you . . .”

  Maryam held up a hand.

  “What do you think you’re doing, squire? Putting you—and me, for that matter—in danger? Before you met this girl, you were single-mindedly focused on getting to England with your ‘dispatches. ’ Have you stopped to consider everything? What if you go to this place and find Celia? What if you don’t make it out alive? What will happen to your mission then?”

  “If you didn’t want to come with me, maybe you should have gone with Robard,” I said. But I regretted it instantly, for I’d said it more harshly than I’d wished. Maryam didn’t deserve such a sharp reply.

  She didn’t flinch from my words though.

  “Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. And I have my reasons. But nothing before this has dissuaded you from finding a way to England. Not Sir Hugh, not nearly drowning in a storm or being stranded in a strange country. But you meet this girl, you swear an ‘oath’ and all of a sudden your mission is forgotten. I think Robard was right. It’s not oath at all. You are smitten.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Are you questioning my honor?”

  “Is it? Is it really ridiculous? You tell me.”

  Maryam’s words made me wince, for in truth she was right on the mark. For reasons I could not explain, I had thought of little more than Celia since watching her and her group ride off. When we’d encountered the High Counsel on the beach, my first thought was of her safety. Though I barely knew her, I was suddenly consumed with finding her and making sure she was safe. Was this what being smitten meant? I had no idea. Before I’d left the monastery, I’d barely even seen a girl. And more important, did I make a promise to Philippe only because it gave me the chance to see her again?

  “Maryam . . . she . . . I am not smitten,” I said defensively.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I am not,” I said.

  “Are.”

  “I am . . . Stop it! She . . . I . . . am only . . . I have an obligation to her since she came to my aid when I was shipwrecked. Now I’ve promised Philippe whatever help I can give. There is a debt unpaid.”

  “Really? All I heard her do was ridicule you for joining the Knights Templar.”

  “She did not.” All right. In truth, really, she had. But Maryam hadn’t heard any of the nice things she’d said. Or seen her face in the moonlight. She hadn’t witnessed the ice-blue pools of Celia’s eyes. Oh dear.

  “Hmph.” Maryam sounded disgusted.

  I tried to apologize. “Maryam, I’m sorry . . .”

  She held up her hand again. I was becoming very familiar with the hand. At least it didn’t have a dagger in it.

  “Let’s go,” she said with disgust. She pushed past me and made her way back to the stream, turning north. She said nothing for a long while as I stumbled along behind her.

  “How are we even going to find her?” she finally asked, her voice still dripping with anger.

  A good question. A very good question.

  And in truth I had absolutely no idea.

  IN THE SOUTHERN PYRENEES

  10

  We hiked along for several leagues. Before leaving the campsite, I’d found more wild grapes, so at least we had something to eat. With the sun high in the sky we paused to rest awhile. After catching our breath, we kept to the stream, and I kept careful watch for the spot where Celia and her followers had left its shallows. I was no forester, and truly missed Robard then, but studied the ground as closely as I could. Drawing on my memory of conversations with Celia and her group, I knew only that their base lay somewhere north. Without some kind of trail to follow I would most likely miss it completely.

  A few leagues farther north, I found a spot where several horses had climbed the bank. The tracks kept to a trail through the woods, and so we followed. A few hours later, twilight approached, and the woods opened into a wide meadow. The countryside had gotten hilly, and from the clearing, I could see mountains far off in the distance. No one had said anything about mountains. I guess since Mont meant “mountain” in French, the name of her fortress, Montségur, should have warned me.

  “We should rest here for the night,” Maryam suggested, and I agreed. We had journeyed far and were weary. Angel ate a few grapes from my hand, then dropped immediately to the ground and was asleep instantly, her tongue lolling gently out of her mouth. I gave Maryam some grapes as well, and we found comfortable spots on the ground to sleep through the night.

  The next day as we crossed the meadow, the tracks joined up with a dirt road that wound through the forest. The hoofprints of Celia’s horses soon mixed with the signs of other travelers, including carts and wagons. After another hour of walking we entered a small village. It was little more than a wide spot along the trail, with a tiny chapel, an inn and a few other buildings lining the crossroads.

  “Tristan, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Maryam said. “Do you think we might be able to find something to eat here besides grapes?”

  We stood off to the side of the trail and watched what few people there were in the village milling about. The church looked deserted, and we were too late in the day for morning mass. A small blacksmith shop was busy, and a few women gathered near a well across the path from the inn.

  “Let’s give it a try,” I said, heading toward the inn.

  Angel waited, curled up in a bed of grass a few steps off the trail. Maryam and I crossed through the center of the village and entered the front door. It was dark inside, with only one window at the front letting in any light, and smelled like wet dirt and wood smoke. A small fireplace with a sputtering flame took up one end of the room, and a doorway covered by a cloth curtain led away to the back. No one was in the main room, but we heard the sounds of activity beyond the curtained door.
r />   “Salut?” I called out. Hello.

  The curtain was pulled back and a woman of indeterminate age emerged. She wore a simple peasant frock of gray cloth, and a brown head scarf. She eyed us suspiciously, and for an instant a tremendous weight pressed down on me. I had a vision of Sir Hugh riding into the village and questioning this woman. She would tell him how we’d stopped here just a few short days ago and which direction we’d headed. But we needed food. There was no way around it.

  This was never going to work. I was stuck here, and could speak enough French to get by, but Maryam and I could never pass as natives. As soon as I asked for food, she would know I was an outsider. Sir Hugh would be able to find us easily.

  I spoke to the woman in the best French I could muster, silently cursing myself for not paying closer attention when Brother Rupert had sought to teach me his native tongue.

  “Aliments, s’il vous plaît?” I asked, pointing to Maryam and myself.

  She said nothing, moving to the fireplace where an iron pot hung on a hook over the coals. Using the front of her smock, she lifted the kettle off the hook and brought it to the table, motioning for us to sit. I peered into the kettle and saw some type of still-bubbling pottage.

  The woman went through the curtain and returned seconds later with two wooden bowls and spoons, a small loaf of bread and an earthen jug. She sat it all on the table before us and made motions for us to fill the bowls and eat. So we did.

  The pottage tasted far better than it looked. Maryam smiled and concentrated on eating. The woman reappeared with two cups and poured wine from the jug, and Maryam’s eyes went wide.

  “Tristan,” she whispered. “I’m forbidden to drink wine.”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll try to distract her somehow,” I said.

  The woman stood a few paces away, watching us. I lifted my mug and raised it in her direction.

  “Croisés!” I said, letting her know we were Crusaders. Perhaps I could win us some points by appealing to the woman’s sense of Christian duty. She smiled and nodded, then left for the back room again. I drank down a large gulp of wine and quickly poured what was in Maryam’s cup into my own. A few seconds later the woman emerged with a small wheel of cheese, setting it on the table before us.