The Seeker - Finna's Quest

by E L Russell

  Helena sent two of their party to slip through the forest in search of brigands and villagers with instructions to reconnoiter on the ridge, where those remaining made camp in a circle of boulders.

  “No fire, no noise,” Helena whispered, before pulling Finna aside. “We need to know more about this village. It seems deserted, but I suspect the people are hiding in the woods nearby. Check out the out lying farm buildings first for information. We need to know what’s ahead for us. We’ll know more when the other two return.”

  Finna took her short sword and dagger and slipped from the camp. Breathing in the cool welcome air of the evening, she waited until her eyes adjusted to the meager light of the half-moon before descending farther. She’d left her bow behind because she couldn’t figure out a way to hide it and she didn’t want to be caught with it. Dodging boulders and smaller rocks, she stopped halfway down on a large outcrop of rock and re-evaluated her path to the river.

  A twig snapped behind her and she spun around. Scanning the area, she saw nothing until a large bird erupted from the brush to her right and she stepped back in surprise. Her foot connected with thin air and she fell from her vantage point.

  * * *

  Finna woke with in waves of pain. She breathed in small pants and didn’t move. Surely her head would burst. The unexpected smell of roasting meat made her gag and she swallowed hard. Fighting to remain conscious, she opened eyes to mere slits and focused her blurry vision on a figure in a hooded robe. He sat immobile, across a small fire. Struggling to raise herself on one elbow, she gave herself away with a small groan that escaped in spite of her efforts.

  “You need to lay flat, Daughter. You cracked your head.”

  Hammers from hell banged in her skull and when black clouds closed in on her, she shut her eyes and welcomed them.

  “No, no my dear. You must remain awake. You most likely have a concussion.”

  She couldn’t do it. Her lids kept drooping. When he jiggled her shoulder, the hammers pounded with a renewed urgency and she pushed his hand away. No touching. That was what she meant to say, but wasn’t sure if she had.

  He jiggled her shoulder again. “Open your eyes. Let me see what color they are.”

  Why does it matter?

  “I don’t see them. You can do it. Open them.”

  A cold cloth settled on her forehead and startled her awake. She tried to sit.

  “Your bleeding stopped and I cleaned the wound. If you insist on sitting, I will help you, but your head will not enjoy the experience.”

  That voice. Pain blinded her and she stopped thinking.

  The monk eased an arm behind her shoulders and lifted her more upright, allowing her to lean against the rock wall at the back of a shallow cave. A mistake. The world around her spun in woozy circles and she flung her arms wide to reach for support. Shutting her eyes made the rotation worse and she opened them, anchoring her sight on the only light she saw. While the pain remained, the spinning campfire slowly ground to a halt. Keeping her head still, she glanced at her surroundings. Not much. The cave couldn’t be more than a deep overhang.

  “Better?” the man asked is a low gentle voice.

  Hardly, but at least she remained conscious. When she turned her head with the utmost care to survey the rest of the small area, the movement sent another shot of pain through her head and made her stomach lurch. When she reached up to the back of her skull, a large goose egg filled her hand. Sarding hell. No wonder she hurt. How clumsy could she have been to step off a rock?

  With both eyes half open, she took stock. The small area she sat in had barely room for the two occupants. Unless they were hidden, the man had no weapons and she assumed he had no horse or she’d have seen it earlier. His only possessions seemed to consist of a small cloth bag and a walking stick. Good, because she was in no condition to fight.

  “I am Brother Thomas, a lone Cistercian monk on my way to the Holy Lands. And you?”

  “I am Finna Magnusson with the French Crusade,” she said. “I was hunting for food.”

  “You may be late on that front. A band of Germans bound for the crusades are working their way up the river pillaging everything they can get their hands on. All I had to offer them was a blessing, although it was not apparently what they sought. It seems blessings are in low demand with that lot.”

  Her foggy mind latched on to his information. “How many Germans?” She must report back.

  “Six, maybe eight, about the same number as your group up on the ridge. I hope you are not thinking of engaging them in any way.” He handed her a cup with no handle. “It is a tea that will dull the pounding in your head.”

  Taking it with both hands, she cradled the heat before taking a sip. “How did you know of my group beyond the ridge?”

  “They are not as noisy as you,” he tapped her head with his finger, “but loud enough for me to perceive their presence. I don’t want you to fight and kill the others.”

  His words penetrated her muzzy thoughts like the arrows she wished she had. I don’t want you to fight and kill the others were strange words for someone talking to a crusader.

  “If I could just steal from some of them without killing them, would you help?”

  “I am a man of God. You would ask that of me?” He tapped his lips with a forefinger and looked down at her with a frown.

  Brother Thomas was tall. Even in a sitting position, she realized he was considerably taller than most men she knew.

  “It surprises me you would ask for help.”

  True, but how did he know that? Before she’d fallen and knocked herself silly, she would never have asked . . . or needed . . . help. Considering how she felt now, however, she hoped she could even stand without assistance. She took a deep breath, thinking oxygen would clear her head.

  Ugh.

  It made her nauseous and she returned to shallow breaths. “All I need is a distraction. Will you help?”

  By way of an answer, he reached for a ratty bag and rummaged through it before pulling out a little red jar. Removing the cap, he tapped some of the red powder into a small empty container and after replacing the stopper, handed her the container. “A pinch of the red dust in whatever anyone drinks is enough to cause a long, deep sleep. Do you understand?”

  He stared at her so hard, she thought she would never forget, but was there more in the soul-searching look he gave her?

  7

  Confronting the Enemy

  Recovery

  The next morning, the monk was nowhere to be seen and nothing remained of his meager possessions. His special bag and walking stick were also gone. Finna’s annoyance that Brother Thomas had left her without a goodbye evaporated when she noticed her lack of pain. He’d said she would feel better in the morning. Praise the St. George. When she inhaled the heavenly aroma of a roasting bird, the queasiness of smelling cooking meat was gone as well. Starved and pleased he’d left her food, she picked the bird’s bones clean while scanning the forest below from the front of the cave-like overhang. The sun, high in the sky, told her she’d slept away nearly half the day.

  Questions that had skipped through her head earlier without purchase, once again danced through the lifting fog in her brain. The voice, the one in her head, was it possible Brother Thomas was the owner of that voice that pestered and scared her? She shook her head slowly, testing her injury. What nonsense. She had to finish her mission and get back to Helena and the others. They would be worried about her.

  Questions, however, continued to niggle at her. It was strange how Brother Thomas, a lone Cistercian monk, had suddenly appeared when she fell. While there was no question he’d helped her, and she had needed help, she hadn’t trusted him. She patted the outside of her pocket and discovered the small jar of sleeping potion. It reminded her of Helena’s charge of her. She rose to her feet.

  Steady. Good, she could stand. She lifted her head and sniffed. A new scent, one of freshly killed game led her to four dead quail and one partridge. B
rother Thomas had carefully positioned a bag by the fire. There were too many birds to be just for her. What was Brother Thomas thinking?

 

  “Brother Thomas?” There was no one there to own the voice.

  Maybe the knot on her head affected her brain. The monk had not said outright he wouldn’t help her with the Germans, but he had given her the ingredients of a plan. She needed to figure it out. In the back of the small overhang, almost out of sight, hung a leather bag with its stopper swinging from a leather string. When she sniffed carefully, the unmistakable yeasty aroma of beer drifted to her nose. The bag had not been there before. Had it? Strange, that it had been left open. Assuming the monk wanted her to drink, she shuffled toward it, carefully placing her feet to maintain her balance. She managed a couple of swallows and as she shoved the stopper in, an idea came to her.

  With a renewed spirit, a clear head, and a steady gait, Finna left the cave with a bag of dead birds and a sling pouch of beer slung over her shoulder. She made her way down the steep hill toward the river, breathing deeply of the crisp morning air, which cleared her wits and sharpened her purpose. She kept ever on the alert for marauders or farmers.

  Finding the first group of houses vacant, she trekked farther along the river road and passed several more scattered homes, again, all empty. Her guess was everyone had fled the greedy pillaging Germans who had taken everything in their path. The late afternoon sun brought only frustration and a renewed throbbing to her head. With wobbly legs, she scanned the area for a place to rest and an opportunity to quell her thirst.

  “Halt.”

  A young boy stepped from the tall grass that grew along the river. He held a long wooden shaft in both hands, and spread his legs spread wide in a challenging stance. “Who are you and why do you walk my road?”

  He was perhaps twelve years and although she knew she could take him, she did his bidding, eyeing the surrounding area for hidden associates. He spoke a dialect of a German and she replied in kind.

  “I am Finna, on my way to the Holy Lands to honor the memory of my dead father who fought there. I was unaware this was your road and not open to pilgrims.” She crossed herself and prayed the Almighty would pardon the lie she hoped would gain sympathy from the lad.

  He looked at the path behind her. “You are alone?”

  “I go with God.” She felt her face grow warm and she ducked so as not to give away the falsehoods she told.

  He appeared unmoved. “What’s in your bags?”

  Seeing no value in another invention of the truth, she answered honestly. “Birds and beer.”

  His jaw dropped and his grip lessened on his stick. “Oh.” He looked like a stiff breeze would blow him over and Finna looked him over more closely.

  “Were the soldiers good to your people?” She knew the answer, yet his answer, nonetheless, appalled her.

  “They beat my father senseless and stole our winter food supply.”

  So, he had no love of the Germans marauders either. “Will you help me get your family’s food back?”

  His drooping posture transformed to one of strength. “Aye.” After a pause of consideration, he added, “But as you see, I am not armed and they outnumber us.” He hung his head. “I could not even fight them. They laughed and shoved me aside with my mother.”

  She tapped her temple. “Then we shall outsmart them. I have a plan. What is your name?”

  “William.”

  “I am Finna.” She stepped toward him with an extended arm. “Let us swear on it, to find the German bastards. Here is my proposal.”

  * * *

  Since William had been spying on the Germans, locating them was easy. He knew exactly where they were and led Finna to the modest house of a recently displaced farmer.

  A challenge came immediately when an armed German renegade appeared at the edge of the property with one hand on his sword. “Halt or die.”

  She replied as she had to William. “I am a crusader on my way to the Holy Lands to honor the memory of my dead father who fought there. I was told German crusaders were on this road and I hoped to travel with you.”

  “You are a skinny wench for a war.” The man examined her from head to foot. “Maybe you have other uses.”

  She ignored the sexual innuendo of his petty perusal. True, she had grown thin with the dearth of supplies, but she was still a warrior with surprising skills.

  “I bring fresh birds, and well-aged local beer to contribute to a meal, as well as my fighting abilities.”

  He scoffed and roughly grabbed her proffered right hand. To his misfortune, he’d misjudged Finna’s strength and her left-handed, battle-trained, skill. She pulled her short sword from her pants in one motion and brought it down flat on his arm with such force, she heard a bone in his forearm snap.

  “Oops.”

  As he howled, she knocked him in the head with the hilt of her weapon.

  “I told you I had skills.”

  William appeared like magic from the tall reeds and pulled the unconscious body into the stalks well away from the house.

  Putting a finger to her lips for silence, she offered him a drink of her beer. While he drank greedily, she removed the jar the monk had given her from her pocket. The boy watched with wide eyes as she spit on her index finger before dipping it into the red powder. None too gently, she opened the sleeping German’s mouth and roughly rubbed the potion on his tongue and cheeks. Wiping her finger on her pants she said, “It’s a sleeping potion and will keep him out of our way through the night. Drag him farther from the house and tie him up. Keep his sword and hide nearby. When those within are unconscious, I’ll signal you to join me.”

  Giving him a moment, she banged on the front door of the dwelling and confronted those within. “If you will start a kettle of water boiling, I will clean the birds myself. Don’t drink all the beer while I cook. Save some for me.”

  While they stood open mouthed, she congratulated herself on how clever she was and set to work before anyone could object.

  The Germans made short work of the bag of beer and Finna turned her back and pulled feathers off the quails, wondering how soon the potion would work.

  Success. Before she could strip the birds, she heard one and then another German drop.

  “What is this?” the remaining man thundered. “What have you done, you daughter of a whore?”

  The big burly German struggled to staggered from the chair, pulled his knife, and lunged at her. Finna leapt back and drew her short sword. The man stood unsteady and she mocked him.

  “Didn’t you get your share of beer? What kind of friends are they if they didn’t share?” St. George, protect me. The man was huge. It would take a great deal of drugged beer to put him out.

  If she couldn’t take him down, this adventure would be over. The boy would not be able to defend himself or save her from a foul death. Her crusading would end.

  8

  The Next Thing

  Onward

  The mountain of a man staggered and lurched sideways, toppling the crude table and when a plate clattered to the floor, it seemed to confuse him. In slow motion, he turned toward Finna, but not before she clouted him on the head with the hilt of her sword. As he dropped to the rough floor, she said, “Rest in peace, you bastard.” With her hands on her hips, she admired her handy work. No dead bodies. Since the plan couldn’t have worked without him, she thought Brother Thomas would approve.

  Leaving nothing to chance, she dipped her wet finger in the small jar and gave each man another dose of red powder before waving a white cloth out the front door alerting William.

  The boy arrived in seconds and the two went to the barn where they both stood and gawked. Did you know these were here?” Finna asked the boy. “Three wagons loaded with food?”

  William, his mouth gapping open, shook his head.

  “And six horses.” Finna couldn’t believe it. Six. “Are any of these yours?”

  “The little one. That o
ne is ours.” He went to the horse and ran his hand over the nickering creature’s neck.

  Finna quickly assessed the steeds. “Workhorses. Excellent. They can pull the wagons in pairs.” She guided the small horse and another from the stall. “Distribute enough food in one wagon to provide your family with food for the winter, William. You can also keep these two horses needed to pull it.”

  A whoosh of air exploded from the boy’s lungs. “My ma has been fraught with worry. She thought we would starve. Thank you.”

  Finna understood far too well. For all that Cecelia put on a confident face, coping with the long trek to Constantinople without supplies had given the leader many a sleepless night. The extra food in the barn would make their journey considerably easier. Her spirits rose with William’s and she couldn’t wait to show her small group of gutsy warriors what she’d seized.

  “My crusaders will come and help us with the other two wagons. When we leave, return to your parents.”

  William bobbed his head and then his whole body. “I bless the day I met you, my lady.” He turned in a circle and laughed out loud.

  It was contagious and Finna joined him, feeling uncommonly good.

  When William had gathered his happy wits, he gave her important information. “Down the road is a trail wide enough for large wagons. It goes north through a gap in the ridge and it is there you should intercept your French Crusaders . . . if they are headed in the direction you said.”

  “We will use that route when I return with my friends.” Not burdened by birds or beer, Finna darted off to the ridge where they had made camp two days ago. Knowing she was a day late, she ran all the way crossing her fingers they were still there.

  * * *

  Dread drilled a hole in Finna’s heart at the sight of the empty campsite. She couldn’t believe her comrades would leave without a sign of some sort. She scanned the area for clues. Crusaders made crosses out of anything and everything. Bending, she picked up one made of stripped bark and mindlessly started to crumple it with her hand, but stopped. Letters. Someone had scratched them on the soft underside of the bark.