“It was too late for us to join the crusade,” Rutger said. “I went north, to Týrshammar, for a few years.”
“Týrshammar,” Feronantus echoed. “Near Gotland?”
“Aye,” Rutger said. “It’s on an inhospitable rock. The wind blows all the time, and the winters are even more miserable—and longer—than they are here.”
“It sounds idyllic,” Feronantus said. “It is no wonder they raised a citadel there.”
Rutger laughed briefly. “There are stories about the men who come from the North,” he said.
“There are always stories,” Feronantus said.
Rutger nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “That there are, brother.” He smiled. “I enjoyed the one you told last night. I wish I had been able to join you in the Holy Land. How glorious that must have been, to be a part of King Richard’s return.”
They reached the door to the main house, and Feronantus paused. “It rained a lot,” he said, “and we didn’t get much sleep. It wasn’t exactly glorious.”
Rutger brushed past him and pulled the door open. “You haven’t been to Týrshammar,” he said. “You will look at everything differently after a winter there.”
Inside, Geoffrey and the other knights from the previous day were waiting, along with a number of the other Shield-Brethren who were at the chapter house. The communal room was crowded and overly warm already.
“Greetings, Feronantus,” Geoffrey said, clasping Feronantus’s hand in the same way that Rutger had. “I was surprised to discover this morning that you had not lodged with your brothers last night. Is there some explanation for this lack of civility?”
“I was not alone last night,” Feronantus said bluntly, and his words drew reactions from a few of the assembled men.
“Men of the order do not congress with whores,” Geoffrey said.
“Nor was I,” Feronantus replied, fighting to hold his anger in check. It was highly irregular for him to spend the night in the same room as an unmarried woman of age, more so one who was a personal attendant of Queen Berengaria, but the common room had been overflowing with revelers and sleeping outside the door would have drawn too much attention to them. He had sat quietly in the dark until he had heard Maria’s breathing become slow and regular, and only then had he stretched out on the floor and gone to sleep. He had woken first this morning and had left the room as quickly and as quietly as he could imagine. No one saw him enter or leave the room, and other than their brief conversation when she had returned last night, there was little record of his ever having been in the room.
Yes, it had been crude and unchivalrous behavior on his part, but one of the many things he had learned while in King Richard’s company over the past year was that proper decorum could get you killed. Every time they were discovered during Richard’s flight across Italy and the Alps, it was because the king had acted too much like a king and not an itinerant merchant or nameless knight returning to his homeland.
Geoffrey cocked his head to one side, studying Feronantus intently. He had flatly denied Geoffrey’s insinuation without offering any other explanation, and he could tell the quartermaster was puzzled by his lack of exposition.
The problem was there was no easy way to explain Maria. In many ways, he was glad she had departed earlier this morning. Traveling alone with her was a constant source of confusion; they needed to be able to focus on their respective duties without distraction. The Shield-Brethren might believe his plea for assistance, but they would have difficulty understanding why she would have been joining them.
“I will be staying with you from here on,” Feronantus said, giving the quartermaster a means to disregard the issue of the previous night’s lodging. “Though, I hope we will not be staying here overlong.”
“Yes,” Geoffrey said, taking a step back and pushing his tongue into his cheek. “King Richard’s concern about the ransom may be nothing more than the fertile imagination of a man who has been imprisoned too long. And if we march on the imperial caravan, could it not be construed that we are making an aggressive move of our own?”
“Only if they attack us before we have a chance to explain ourselves,” Feronantus replied.
“And what explanation would we give them? The same one you gave us yesterday? Do you have any letters from Richard to support your story?”
Feronantus shook his head.
“The imperial ambassadors will be very suspicious of anyone offering aid and protection during their journey. As would I, if I were in the same position. How can we convince them our motives are pure?”
“Maybe we should wait until the French attack them,” Rutger suggested.
“If the French even attack. In the meantime, where are we? Riding alongside the caravan?” Geoffrey asked. “Do you not see how that could be even more insulting to the emperor?”
“I think the emperor cares more about the money actually arriving than how it is protected during its journey,” Feronantus pointed out. “I do not care how insulted his ambassadors may be. If there is no French plot, then we have simply ensured that the English ransom is delivered. If there is a French plot, then our aid will be useful and respected.”
One of the other knights spoke up. “Queen Eleanor supported our order in the previous crusade. We sought to pay our debts by aiding her son. Would not that include doing whatever is in our power to assist in his safe return to England?”
“This is a game between the emperor, the king of France, and King Richard,” Geoffrey said. “We do not wish to antagonize any one of the three by choosing a side.”
“Even if one of them were an aggressor against fellow Christians?” Feronantus asked.
“That is a matter of perspective, boy,” Geoffrey snapped. “You were in the Holy Land with King Richard. You saw the mess he caused.”
“He won back access to Jerusalem,” Feronantus said. “The other princes wanted more glory. They wanted to sacrifice more of us. By making peace with Saladin, King Richard saved many lives. He acts while others stand around and shake their swords and plot against each other. You may not like the message I have brought to you from King Richard, but the gist of it is that he seeks to prevent bloodshed. Why are we quibbling about aiding him? We are not assisting King Philip in stealing England’s coin. The emperor has not promised us a share of that money if we assist in ensuring that it arrives safely. Nor is the emperor offering us a portion of this money to be his sword arm in whatever action he desires to take in Italy. It may not be our place to condone the actions of a king or an emperor, but it is our place to make sure that what is promised actually happens.”
“We have to protect them from their own base desires,” Rutger said.
That comment won him a few guffaws from the other knights and a stern look from Geoffrey. Rutger stood fast by his words, though, and Feronantus laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder in support.
“King Richard could have asked us to help him escape,” he said, “for is he not protected by the decree of the Pope that all crusaders be allowed to return home after they have served the Church in the Holy Land? But he hasn’t, for that would be beneath the dignity of a king and a righteous knight. The emperor seeks to put him on trial for his actions in the Holy Land—actions that our order participated in. Are we not on trial as well? We aren’t protecting the money for Richard’s sake, or to take a side in this conflict between these three men. We’re protecting the money because it is our duty to do so.”
After some deliberation, Geoffrey nodded. “Very well,” he said, “but we are not going in such numbers as to make the imperial escort nervous. Is that satisfactory?”
Feronantus bowed his head. “Aye, brother, it is. We seek to supplement their company, not threaten it.”
“I will lead it,” Geoffrey continued. “And you are coming,” he said, pointing at Rutger. “You will be in charge of the base desires of our mounts.”
“Shoving hay in one end and shoveling shit away from the other is the
cycle of life, Sir Geoffrey,” Rutger said. “It is an honor to be included in such a critical role.”
“Perhaps when you speak less rashly in the future, I might be inclined to offer you a more elevated position,” Geoffrey said to Rutger. He clapped his hands once, forestalling any further discussion. “Pack your heavy gear,” Geoffrey said to the remainder of the men in the room. “There is no reason for us all to be as foolish as Rutger.”
Maria rode south from Mainz. It might have been quicker to follow the Rhine, as she and Feronantus had after leaving Speyer, but that would have felt too much like doubling back on their existing route, and she knew she would not be able to find freemen like she needed there. She had to reach Strasbourg, at least, and probably go farther. Maybe even into France. She had come to Speyer from Queen Berengaria’s court in Poitiers, and so knew the route she had to take.
She wore a plain robe and cloak and kept her hair tied back and hidden beneath a hood, trying to minimize the fact that she was a woman riding alone, but she could only do so much to hide her shape and size. She had worn men’s clothes in the past, and while it had been an effective disguise, it was a difficult charade to maintain. Her best assets at this time were speed and the invisibility afforded by the judicious use of silver coins. Many a farmer was happy to feed both her and her mount for a few shards of silver. Country folk were very good at not asking too many questions and forgetting they had seen her as soon as she passed beyond the next hill.
She would reach Strasbourg in a few days. She knew several inns there with garrulous staff, and they could tell her where to find English freeman. Richard had said that his army had been scattered during its return from the Holy Land. She had wanted to press him as to why this was the case, but heeding Queen Berengaria’s admonishment to curb her tongue in the presence of the king, she had said nothing.
Besides, she knew why. She didn’t need to ask him. He had a history of leaving people behind.
The Shield-Brethren knight, Feronantus, on the other hand, was not the sort to abandon anyone. Richard’s chivalry was too feigned, too much the sort of courtly behavior effected by troubadours and young men. Feronantus was the opposite, and he intrigued her. During the few days they had traveled together since leaving the imperial court, she had discerned little about him (and he, in turn, had asked few questions about her—and his lack of curiosity was almost as interesting as his reticence). He spoke German fluently, suggesting that he had grown up in the empire; he knew French and Latin and a bit of Arabic—all of which was conversant with what she knew of his order’s training; and while he didn’t seem to be educated, he was clearly intelligent. She could discuss literature and philosophy with him, and while he would not necessarily know of the works she mentioned, he was able to engage her on their contents. On martial matters, she had no doubt he was exceptionally trained.
She saw why Richard sought to keep him near. He was quiet, dutiful, and unassuming; yet he listened carefully, was very aware of his surroundings, and completely confident in his ability to deal with any sudden conflict.
She had felt very safe traveling with him, and for part of the first day of her ride south, she felt exposed without him riding beside her. After midday, however, she set aside such romanticized notions and reasserted her own training.
Richard had been right about her, though she had not been sent to spy on him. Queen Berengaria had other goals in mind.
FOUR
The sea trip from London to the island of Walcheren on the coast of the Holy Roman Empire was typically an uneventful crossing, though to minimize exposure on the open water, Willehalm Zenthffeer ordered the fleet to hug the English coast for most of the day following their departure from Queenhithe. Storm clouds were boiling along the eastern horizon on the second morning, and even though the captain of the lead ship expressed concern about turning the ships out into the North Sea, Willehalm gave the order anyway.
During the evening meal the previous night, several of the other ambassadors had expressed their concern about the weight of silver each ship was carrying. Hubert Walter, the queen’s exchequer, had made it clear to them several weeks ago the approximate sum that was being given to them, and Willehalm could tell the number had not really sunk in. Not until the wagons started arriving at the docks and the soldiers had started unloading the barrels. It had taken most of the morning to load the ships.
Six ships. Each laden down with a full crew and cargo. Each carrying enough silver for any one of the ambassadors to buy a title and land in Spain or Italy—as well as a private army to protect their new holdings. All that silver made them nervous, afraid that someone would try to steal it. Willahelm privately thought they were all fools, for not one of them had given any thought to taking it themselves.
As soon as the ships made the turn to starboard, the storm pounced on them, shrouding the six ships with dark clouds. Winds blew the sails taut, making the masts creak and the rigging sing, and the decks were awash with rain. For a few hours, there had been concern that one of the smaller ships would be swamped by the high waves, but her captain managed to get the ship’s nose pointed into the brunt of the storm.
It blew them off course, and they finally reached Middelburg a day later than they had been expected. Another day would be lost making repairs and adjustments for taking the ships upriver. Once the ships were secured at the docks, Willehalm went ashore to find out what the weather was like on the Lower Rhine.
And to get a decent meal. The food in England had been abysmal. His stomach had grumbled incessantly the entire time he had been in London, and his bowels were still unsettled.
He took a carriage to an inn several streets away from the noise and stench of the docks. His purse was bulging with silver. He had opened several barrels on each ship prior to leaving England, just to make sure that England wasn’t sending his emperor barrels full of sand and rock. Spending it on a good meal and a bottle of wine were part of his privilege.
Partway through his meal, he was approached by a man who claimed to speak for the king of France. Willehalm had the innkeeper bring another glass to the table, and he poured the man a measure of wine.
Then he listened intently to the man’s proposal, and when his visitor explained how a French invasion would result in an eradication of all things English, Willahelm glanced down at his plate of decidedly non-English food.
Willehalm smiled.
An hour’s ride east of Strasbourg, Maria came upon a small village caught in the throes of some celebration. The main cluster of houses was set along the verge of a broad forest that blanketed the long valley. There was a handful of farms and fields prior to reaching the village green, and Maria judged that the number of families living in this village was less than three dozen. And yet, it appeared that several times that number were staggering around the main square. On the southern edge of the village, she found a long swath of open land that had been marked off by stakes topped with red strips of cloth.
On the far side of the field, she spotted tall posts with white circles on them.
Archery targets.
There was a field filled with horses, and a pair of dirty-faced boys who appeared to be in charge of watching the animals. Saddles and tack were neatly stacked along the fence. The boys eyed her with some suspicion as she dismounted—taking in, no doubt, the dry mud on her boots and the disheveled disarray of her hair (which she had not brushed out in the last few days), but their moods changed when she tossed each a silver coin. They broke into gap-toothed smiles and jostled each other in their enthusiasm to unsaddle and brush down her horse.
“What celebration is this?” she asked, wishing that Feronantus were with her. His German was much better than hers.
“End of harvest,” one boy said.
“Ember Days,” the other replied.
Maria nodded sagely as if she understood what the boys were saying. The Church had been slowly transforming all the local customs as its priests raised their churches and exhorted the
local peoples to worship Jesus Christ. This confluence of rites led to confusing aberrations—not quite pagan, not quite Christian, but understood and celebrated nonetheless. All that mattered, really, was that an excuse had been enjoined for festivities, and those festivities included games of skill and martial prowess.
She wandered through the village, smiling and nodding as drunken men bumped into her. Some of them leered, a few pawed at her, and most of them were intoxicated enough that they were easily avoided. She followed the cheering and jeering, and eventually managed to reach the edge of the field where an awning had been raised over a low platform.
Tables and chairs were scattered across the wooden stage. At the near end, chairs were clustered around a narrow table across which men tested the strength of their arms against one another. At the far end, there were no tables, and the chairs were all facing the field. Sprawling in these chairs were the men competing in the archery tournament.
There appeared to be three groups: local hunters, who wore rough, homespun clothing and who were disgruntled about having to compete with strangers; a quartet of Germans, who all wore finer clothing and who appeared to be not as in command of the tournament as they’d expected to be; and a final group of three, who wore unadorned clothes that were of the same quality or better than the men from the city but which had been worn much longer. The last three were also more unkempt, more boisterous, and more drunk than any of their competitors.
A serving woman struggled past Maria, and she quickly intercepted the woman, dropped several coins down the front of her low-cut gown, and plucked both of the jugs of wine she was carrying from her hands. She flashed the woman an understanding smile and shoved her way through the crowd to the platform. Wine sloshed out of one of the jugs onto her cloak, and the wet stain only made her illusion more complete.
She crossed to the archers and started pouring wine into empty cups. One of the locals eyed her suspiciously, trying to place her, and she turned her back on him quickly, moving on to his partners. The men from the city were readying their bows and arrows for the next round of shooting, and she took the opportunity to fill their cups without having to worry about being accosted by them. Behind her, one of the three complained loudly about having to wait for more wine, though if she would shake her ass a bit more he wouldn’t mind waiting longer.
Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden Page 3
