Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights)

by J. K. Swift

  “It is all right, Noll," Seraina said. “I understand. Outsiders make me nervous, that is all. But, you may be right.”

  Seraina had once told Noll that it was his fire that made him who he was. She could no more blame a cat for eating a wounded bird. And that so long as his laughter came just as often as his bursts of anger, he was living the life the Weave had intended for him.

  But it had been some time since Noll had last laughed.

  Right or not, it was done. The Venetians would be here tomorrow, or the day after. It did not matter how much gold it cost, Noll was not going to ask any man to fight beside him if he was not prepared.

  “Will you stay here for the night?” Noll asked.

  Seraina stared out over the courtyard. Her green eyes were fixed on a section of the outer wall. She seemed to not have heard him.

  “Seraina?”

  She blinked, and turned toward Noll. “Yes? No, I cannot stay here. I must head back to Thomas tonight.”

  Noll nodded. “Of course,” he said. “How far do you go? I can get you a horse…”

  “An hour north of White Elk Glade. It is easier to go on foot.”

  Noll felt the previous worries over Seraina’s safety begin anew. “Stay off the roads, then. Habsburg patrols have begun to blockade the northern ways. It will not be long before they close them down completely.”

  “I have little use for roads,” Seraina said. “You should know that by now.”

  Chapter 4

  The blackness cleared, one dark layer at a time, and Thomas forced his eyes open. His chest heaved and air rushed into his lungs, which sent his heart thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird.

  “Easy now. The Weave welcomes you back, but no need to rush into her embrace.”

  The voice’s owner, an old man, appeared above him and, for a moment, Thomas thought he dreamed again of the trapper that had taken him in after the death of his parents. But this man’s long, powder-white beard and wizened eyes did not belong to the trapper of his memories. The man placed the palm of one leathery hand against Thomas’s chest and within seconds the palpitations slowed.

  Glancing around him, Thomas saw he lay on a bed of spruce boughs covered with a plush lambskin blanket. Another heavy skin was on top of his naked body and pulled right up under his chin. Though he could not see them, he felt the snugness of bandages wrapped around his middle and one leg.

  At first he thought he was in a large tent, but then realized his head was inches from the base of a giant spruce, and the walls of the tent were, in fact, the tree’s overgrown limbs stretched down to the ground. A tiny, smokeless fire burned on the far side of the natural room, and beyond that was an opening in the evergreen wall just large enough for a person to squeeze through.

  The old man held a wooden bowl to Thomas’s mouth. The lukewarm broth, thin but pungent, flowed past his cracked lips and traced a route clear down to his stomach. The man pulled the bowl away before Thomas could drink his fill.

  “Enough. For now. It would not do to sodden your roots just yet.”

  After working the saliva around in his mouth and swallowing, Thomas found his voice.

  “Seraina?”

  The old man smiled. “She is fine. Do not fret over her whereabouts, as I suspect she will be along shortly.”

  “Who are you?” The strength and clarity of his own voice surprised Thomas. Starting at his toes he began flexing his muscles one by one, in an attempt to gauge the severity of his injuries.

  “Some names are worth knowing, Thomas Schwyzer. Mine is not one of those. I did not kill you in your sleep, so I suspect you can tell that I am a friend, and that should be enough.”

  A rustle to Thomas’s right made him risk turning his neck, and what he saw sent his heart hammering off the walls of his chest once again. An enormous wolf, its fur the same downy white as the old man’s hair and beard, sat on its haunches less than two strides away. It caught Thomas’s sudden movement and turned its great head toward him. Its lips curled up to bare pink gums and jagged teeth longer than a man’s finger. A guttural warning echoed up from somewhere deep in the back of the beast’s throat.

  Thomas found himself scrambling back to lean on his elbows and his head banged against the trunk of the giant spruce. Pain lanced down his side and his leg throbbed as blood coursed through the limb.

  “Oppid! Get back. Our patient does not need to see the likes of you just yet.”

  He reached out and pressed his hand against Thomas’s chest. Thomas risked a glance at the old man and wondered if he had been saved by a hermit touched by madness. But there was something about the way the man spoke and the rhythm of his words, and before he knew it, Thomas was once again lying under the warm lambskin. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the snarling wolf.

  The old man began talking to the beast as though Thomas was no longer present. “Even if he meant us ill, a man in his condition is no threat to either one of us. Surely you can see that? Settle down now.”

  The beast kept its amber eyes fixed on Thomas and slowly lowered itself onto its belly. After a moment it rested its massive head on top of paws the size of full-grown rabbits.

  “Is that your animal?” Thomas asked once he could speak.

  “Oppid is my companion,” the old man said. “You have to forgive him. He is not the trusting sort.”

  “But he is tamed?”

  “Tame?” The old man looked at Thomas and laughed, revealing straight teeth even whiter than his beard. “By Ardwynna’s Grace, of course he is not tame. He is a wolf.”

  That did little to set Thomas at ease. He could not keep his eyes from the wolf, and finally the old man sensed his discomfort. He said a few words in a tongue unfamiliar to Thomas and the wolf padded to the doorway. But before he exited the tree shelter, he turned his golden eyes on Thomas and gave him one last blood-curdling snarl, as if to say, I will not be far.

  With the wolf gone, Thomas relaxed. He continued the self-assessment of his injuries. He felt the stiffness of stitches on his thigh, as well as his torso and chest, but there were no severed muscles or ligaments from what he could tell. Even though he was concealed beneath the blanket, his nakedness was uncomfortable. The Knights of Saint John were forbidden to sleep naked, and it was a rule that was strictly enforced.

  “I owe you my life,” he said.

  “Not me. Seraina is the one that tended your wounds. And she did a fine job, I should say. You were already on the mend when I first saw you.”

  Thomas glanced down at the line of stitches stretching down his side. “It would seem her skill rivals that of Hildegard of Bingen,” Thomas said.

  One side of the old man’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “Ah, you mean Sibyl of the Rhine? Your church did well to claim her as one of its own, I will give you that. But tell me, why has she not been ushered into Sainthood when so many undeserving ones have?”

  The hostility in his words caught Thomas off guard. “It was meant as a compliment. I know very little of Hildegard. If not for her texts on healing, I doubt I would even know her name.”

  “You know only what the church would have you know. Nothing more.”

  “I know God saw fit to imbue her with great healing skills. Is that not enough?”

  “Why is it that you Christians are so eager to attribute all the good in this world to God and all things evil to the Devil?”

  “God sets us all on the path He sees fit,” Thomas said.

  “Well, your god had nothing to do with Seraina’s skills. Seraina worked hard for her knowledge. I have never seen a disciple so devoted.”

  “You were her teacher?”

  “One of many.”

  There was a slight rustle at one of the makeshift branch-walls and Seraina slipped through. Her eyes went wide when she saw Thomas sitting up.

  “You are awake!”

  She dropped the sack in her hand and was at Thomas’s side before he could speak. She took his hand in hers and placed the other on his forehead.<
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  “How do you feel?” her eyes glowed in the half-darkness of the shelter and Thomas found himself unable to look away.

  “Good,” he said. “Better than good, all things considered.”

  Seraina took his hand in both of hers and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. “And you will feel even better soon. The worst is over.” She turned to the old man. “Gildas, give him some broth.”

  Gildas cleared his throat. “I already did.”

  “He needs more,” Seraina said. “I can feel it in his heart rhythms.”

  The old man grunted. “Very well. He is your patient, after all.” He held out the bowl for Thomas to take. “But if he needs more he should be strong enough to feed himself.”

  Thomas began sipping at it slowly, and his hands shook at first, but once the liquid reached his stomach he drank in greedy gulps. Before he could empty the bowl, Seraina laughed and reached out her hand to cover his own. She took the broth from him and he fell back into the bed.

  “That is enough,” she said. “For now. I can see Gildas is about to throw a fit.”

  “How long have I been here? And, for that matter, where is here?” Thomas asked, glancing around at their cave-like shelter of tree branches.

  “Six days,” Seraina said. “We are only a few miles from the hollow in Kussnacht where you found me. You were too injured to move any further. But no need to worry. We are well-hidden. Leopold’s men could never find us here.” The words bubbled out of her and she seemed to take great delight in wiping the remains of broth from Thomas’s chin with the sleeve of her dress.

  Six days? Thomas clenched his fingers and flexed his leg muscles. They responded well and did not feel like they had been inactive for six days.

  Gildas seemed to sense what was going through Thomas’s mind. “Seraina exercised your limbs for you, when you could not. Your recovery may seem miraculous to you, but it is nothing of the sort. It is thanks to Seraina’s hands keeping your blood flowing from your heart to your extremities and back again.”

  Thomas stopped flexing his thigh muscles and was suddenly very aware of how naked he was under the lambskin blanket. He looked at Seraina.

  “You have my gratitude,” he said. “I hope it was not too… much trouble.”

  She shrugged. “You would have done the same for me, I am sure.”

  Thomas caught the trace of a smile on her lips before his eyes dropped to his hands. A breeze rustled the walls of their shelter, and a few green needles drifted down onto his bed. He was grateful to have something to focus upon.

  “And my clothes…?” he said, to no one in particular.

  “I burned them,” Seraina said. “They were ruined and bore the stink of memories best forgotten.” Her eyes dimmed for just a moment, and then flared to life again like a candle burning too hot for a thumb and finger to extinguish. She pointed to the sack on the ground. “I have brought you all new clothing. It is time to make some new memories.”

  Her words came too late for Thomas. His mind had latched onto the colossal form of his boyhood friend lying still and filthy in a dark prison cell. Thomas closed his eyes to shut it out, but that was a mistake, for the image only grew more real. He could see Pirmin’s swollen face, beaten beyond recognition. Bruises and great purple welts in the shape of hobnailed boots lined his chest and ribcage, and his once muscular arm lay blackened at his side, seeping puss and a foul, cloudy liquid. He snapped his eyes open before his mind could force him to relive the rotting stench that went along with the death of his best friend.

  Thomas looked at Seraina and worked the dryness from his mouth. “And Pirmin? Do you know what became of his body?”

  Seraina nodded. “Noll saw to him, but do not worry about that now. You should focus on your own recovery.”

  Thomas pushed himself up on one elbow. “Was he buried on holy ground? I saw to his shrivening, but it would all be for naught if he is put to rest anywhere but church land.”

  “I have not yet visited his grave,” Seraina said softly. “But I am sure Noll would have seen to it.”

  Thomas grimaced as he raised himself higher. “I must go and see for myself. Will you take me there?”

  He attempted to swing a leg out from under his blanket but the movement pulled at his stitches. Pain swept up his side and his head pounded.

  Seraina placed her hands on his shoulders. When she spoke her words were soft but firm. “I will take you, in time. But not until you are strong enough.”

  Thomas resisted for only a moment before he felt his strength drained away by the effort. He collapsed back into the blankets and closed his eyes until the throbbing in his skull subsided. He had to see Pirmin’s resting place. He would not risk his friend being turned away at Saint Peter’s Gate because Thomas had neglected his duties. But, he also knew his limits.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the green canopy above. “Tomorrow, then,” he said.

  Seraina leaned back and lifted her hands from his shoulders. “That is not for us to decide. You have been through a great deal and we must allow the Weave time to welcome you back into her fold.”

  “I will be capable of travel tomorrow,” Thomas said.

  They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills, until Gildas spoke up. “Ready or not, he means to set out tomorrow, Seraina. I suggest we be prepared to accompany him.”

  Later that afternoon, with a little prodding from Gildas, Seraina agreed to let Thomas stand. After pulling on his new breeches, Thomas stood with Seraina’s help. With his arm around her shoulders, the two of them shuffled between the bed and fire until a light sheen covered Thomas’s brow and the breath rattled in his chest.

  Gildas and Oppid sat together on the ground and watched. The old man, with his back pressed up against the trunk of the tree, chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass. The intense way the pair eyed Thomas made him nervous, but he tried to dismiss the feeling and concentrate on taking one painful step after another. After all, who would not be uncomfortable limping about in front of a giant wolf?

  When Seraina finally eased Thomas back into his bed, he grunted with relief. As darkness settled in, Gildas stoked the fire and they ate a simple meal of cheese, blackberries, and crunchy white tubers Thomas had never before seen. Although suspicious at first, he found them to be delicious and, because of their high water content, thirst quenching.

  “He eats well. That, at least, is a good sign,” Gildas said.

  Seraina smiled at Thomas and nodded. “His body has begun to take over the healing process. I suppose I am no longer needed. Of course, I suspect someone will have to help him into his boots in the morning.”

  Thomas smiled weakly. The exercise had exhausted him, and his body demanded sleep as it attempted to digest the simple meal. He fought off the closing of his eyes once, but could not find the strength to resist when they shut a second time.

  Later, he was woken by a hair-raising howl that belonged in the coldest hours of a full-moon night. Confused and disoriented, Thomas tried to sit up. He clutched at weapons that were not there.

  But Seraina was. She stood over him and placed a hand on his bare shoulder.

  “Shh… it is only Oppid,” she said.

  There was still enough light from the fire for Thomas to make out the fine features of her face, and of course, her eyes. “Lay back now…”

  Somewhere outside their forest shelter, Oppid cried out to his kin once more. This time it was longer and, it seemed to Thomas, filled with anguish. Despite the comforting sound of Seraina’s voice, and the warmth of her hand on his skin, Thomas felt a chill roll up his spine.

  Sleep finally overtook Thomas, for Oppid did not howl again. Nor did any wolf answer his calls.

  Chapter 5

  The meeting chamber was on the uppermost floor of Salzburg Castle. It was a long, rectangular room with high ceilings and smooth leather over the lower half of the walls. Wooden panels with intricately carved golden rosettes covered the wall’s upper reaches. At
one end of the room, upholstered benches lined the three walls. At the moment, a half-dozen men sat on them, doing their best to appear comfortable and relaxed.

  The architect had had a good sense of court politics, and Leopold appreciated the irony of the room. The horseshoe seating arrangement allowed no obvious head of the table position and every person in the room was able to press his back up against a wall. The design was meant to put members at ease, but Leopold thought everyone looked small and feral the way their eyes darted around at one another when he entered the room. One by one they slid themselves up their respective walls and stood to greet the Duke.

  There was not a prince among them, Leopold noted. They had all sent stewards or marshals on their behalf, as was the minimum requirement when summoned to a war council by another prince. Leopold had expected as much. The other princes had no love for Leopold, or loyalty for that matter. But they would obey the King’s Law. However, there was one man present Leopold had not expected to see: Sir Henri of Hunenberg.

  Only one person remained seated: a portly man of late middle years, but with the powder-gray hair of someone much older. His deep red robes splayed onto the bench on either side and contrasted with the dark leather of the walls. He made no effort to leave his seat in the center of the horseshoe.

  Leopold briefly acknowledged the greetings of the other men then strode directly to the Archbishop.

  “Duke Leopold,” he said holding out a hand bearing only one single ring of gold, but mounted with an almond-sized gem.

  Leopold dropped to one knee and kissed the ring. “My dear Archbishop,” Leopold said, raising his head. He seemed to notice the red robes for the first time. “What is this, your lordship? Has the Pope finally welcomed you into his house and promoted you to a cardinal?”

  The Archbishop eventually smiled at Leopold, but it took some time to appear on his lips, and there it died without ever reaching his eyes. The Arse-bishop of Salzburg, as Leopold liked to call him, held the position of Legatus Natus. It permitted him to wear red, although a different shade than that of a cardinal, even in the presence of the Pope.