Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

“By who in England?” John asked.

  Maria glanced up at him and said nothing.

  “Wait a minute,” Robin said. “We just attacked a bunch of imperials, French, and German marauders—in Germany—so that a shipment of silver, taken from English citizens, could be delivered to the Holy Roman Emperor? So that King Richard could be freed?”

  “Oh, shit.” Will sighed. “Here we go.”

  “The same King Richard who abandoned us in the Holy Land?” Robin continued. “He left all of us behind. His entire army. Many of us died for him. Died so that he could negotiate a dismal peace treaty with Saladin. We got nothing. We were coming home with nothing. And our leader—our king—had offended so many of our Christian allies that he had to sneak back home. He left us on the beach at Acre. Do you know what we had to do to get back to Italy?”

  “No,” Maria said softly, “I do not.”

  “And you think that we’re just going to stand here and let you give this treasure to the Holy Roman Empire?”

  “I do,” she said. She stood still, gazing at Robin, waiting for his response.

  Robin sputtered, unable to form words.

  “Let it go, Robin,” Will said gently. “She”—he shook his head—“it doesn’t matter. Just let it go.”

  “You’re not the only ones who have been maligned by the king,” Maria said. “I serve Queen Berengaria, his wife, whom he also abandoned in the Holy Land. I know well of the betrayal that you speak. Richard may be an arrogant and foolish man who thinks much too highly of himself, but he is the king of England, and England stands by him.” She gestured at the wagons behind them. “There is all the evidence you need.”

  “You lied to us,” Robin ground out.

  “I told you the truth,” she countered. “As much as you needed to know.”

  “I don’t like being lied to,” Robin snapped.

  “I won’t do it again,” she said, meeting his gaze, and he was somewhat taken aback to realize she meant it.

  “Go home, Robin,” she said, her voice becoming gentler. “As you said, you’ve attacked Germans and French while on German soil. Don’t do something foolish and make England hate you, too. Go home; be with your kin.”

  “She’s right, Robin,” John sighed. He laid his large hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Let’s just go home.”

  “Fine,” Robin said. “We’ll go.” He shrugged off John’s hand and pointed at the scattered coins in the road. “But we’re taking some of that with us.”

  “Take as much as you each can carry,” Maria said. “I’m sure your king will understand.”

  Robin smiled grimly at her. “If he doesn’t, he can come collect it. Personally.”

  EIGHT

  “Check.”

  Henry glared at the chessboard. It was the third time Richard had threatened his king. The English monarch’s style of play was confounding in both its irreverence and cunning. Richard had little regard for the safety of his pieces, but each white piece tantalizingly dangled in front of Henry turned out to be a trap. He had almost lost his queen twice already, and staring at the pieces on the board, Henry realized that he was definitely going to lose her this time when he moved his king to safety.

  He was spared the loss by the appearance of Wecelo beside the table. “The wagons from England are here, Your Highness,” his steward said.

  “They are?” Henry said, and then he caught himself. “Yes, of course they are,” he said in a much calmer voice.

  Richard was smiling at him, and Henry fought the urge to knock the chessboard aside. “We can come back to this game later,” he said.

  Henry tipped over his king. “It’s not that important of a game,” he said, rising from his chair.

  “No,” Richard said, that infuriating smile still on his lips. “It isn’t, is it?”

  Henry made a strangled noise in his throat and stalked out of the room, his steward and the king of England trailing behind him. Henry tried to figure out what could have possibly gone wrong with his plan. Had he not been clear enough with Otto? Had Otto missed the caravan? Had the ambassadors stayed on the Rhine all the way to Speyer? There were too many questions, and he forced them all aside. He would have answers soon enough.

  He strode out of the castle, blinking heavily as he emerged into the clear winter day. There had been frost on the ground and rooftops this morning, a sure sign that winter was rapidly approaching. He peered at the wagons clustered in the great yard of his estate. There were more than he’d expected, and they were all bursting with barrels and crates.

  He stared at the men who stood beside their horses. They weren’t wearing his colors.

  “What’s this?” he exclaimed.

  “It would appear to be an inordinate amount of silver,” Richard said, coming up behind him.

  “I can see that,” Henry snapped. He waved a hand at the men. “Who are these men?”

  One of them strode forward. He stopped before Henry and dropped to his knee in an appropriate bow. His white surcoat was stained with dirt and something darker, and he was wearing maille beneath it, but Henry recognized him. It was the man who had been with Richard at Dünstein—the man the king had claimed was his personal attendant. “I am Feronantus, knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae,” the man said. “And my brothers and I are delivering the shipment of silver from Queen Eleanor of England.”

  “What?” Henry said. “Where are my ambassadors? Where is my imperial guard?”

  “It is with great sadness that I tell you that they are all dead,” Feronantus said. “We came upon your party as they were being attacked by bandits and marauders. We did our best to save them, but alas, we were too late.”

  “Bandits?” Henry couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Yes,” Feronantus said. He raised his head and looked up at the emperor. “German bandits.”

  Henry shut his mouth quickly, swallowing his response.

  Richard leaned over, chuckling. “Just because I am your prisoner,” he said quietly in Henry’s ear, “does not mean I am a fool. Check, and mate, Your Highness.”

  After taking a long and relaxing bath, putting on a new gown, and having an opportunity to get all of the tangled knots out of her hair and re-braid it, Maria presented herself at Richard’s quarters.

  The king was seated by the window of his room, a writing desk across his lap. He looked up as she came in, and he idly motioned for the servant to leave them before returning his attention to his letter.

  Maria wandered over to a nearby chair and sat, folding her hands in her lap.

  “Everything worked out?” Richard asked as he finished signing his name to the letter.

  “For the most part,” she replied.

  “And Berengaria’s portion of the ransom?”

  “Redistributed to English hands,” she said.

  Richard nodded. “I will suffer this ransom to be paid for the sake of peace between the Holy Roman Empire and England, but I will not suffer my wife having to pay any portion of it.”

  Maria hesitated. “Should I tell her?” she asked eventually.

  “Of course not,” Richard snorted. “Whom did you give the money to?” he asked.

  “A freeman named Robin, of Locksley.”

  “And what is he going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “He was…”

  “What?” Richard asked when she trailed off.

  “He was a charming man,” she said, “but somewhat prone to indignation.” She weighed whether she should say anything more and decided she had said enough.

  “Do you think he’ll spend the money foolishly?” Richard asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Wisely?”

  “No,” she said after a moment.

  “Hmm,” Richard said. “Perhaps you should go to England and offer your assistance.”

  “I should?”

  “Yes, I think you should,” Richard said. “I have received word that my brother John
is spending too much time in Paris, letting the king of France fill his head with nonsense. My mother has enough on her mind that she doesn’t need to worry about my brother getting it into his head that he might be a better king of England than I.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Maria asked.

  “Distract John,” Richard said. “I’m sure you can think of some way to get under his skin. Talk to this Robin of Locksley; change his mind about what he should do with the money.”

  “Are you asking me to start a rebellion in England?”

  Richard shook his head. “You? No,” he said. “I am asking you to do no such thing.”

  Maria shook her head. “The queen warned me to be careful of your devious nature,” she said.

  “Of course she did,” Richard said with a grin.

  Maria stood, smoothing the front of her gown. “Your Majesty,” she said, curtsying, “I regret that I cannot stay longer here at Speyer.”

  “I am saddened by the idea of your departure as well,” Richard said. “I bid you a safe journey.”

  “And I hope that you may be reunited with your homeland soon,” she said.

  Richard made a small noise in reply, and his gaze drifted toward the window. She took this as a sign their conversation was over, and she curtsied one last time before leaving Richard to his contemplation.

  “Oh, Maria.” Richard stopped her as she reached the door. “Take Feronantus with you. Now that Henry knows he is no longer a simple servant, there is no point in him staying here, is there?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Maria said. She pressed her hand against her breast. “I don’t see any reason he should stay.”

  “He’s good company, isn’t he?” Richard said.

  Maria was glad the king couldn’t see the flush rising in her cheeks. “Yes,” she said quietly, “he is.”

  - END -

  ONE

  Light from the rotund moon reflected off the ocean on the outboard side, allowing them to keep the longship oriented. Land was the darkness on the other side of the karvi, the sleek and narrow longship. It was closer than the ship’s captain preferred, but Kjallak Arvidson had overridden his concerns. If they were too exposed on the water, they might be sighted by the Danish marauders they knew were somewhere behind them—a veritable fleet of four longships. There were only a dozen men on the karvi—less than a third of the number the boat could comfortably hold—and they could not afford to get caught. The karvi had a very shallow draft; it could hug a shoreline safely. If they were spotted, they could beach the boat easily too, and head inland.

  Of course, in that case, their journey would take longer, which was why Kjallak had risked taking to the sea.

  His men dozed on their benches, their oars raised and locked. Kjallak sat in the stern, staring out at the moon-dappled water. Beside him, Halldor, his second, leaned against the raised tail of the ship, snoring occasionally.

  The wind was behind them, and it pushed gently against their sail. There was a current too, and the combination of wind and water propelled the boat at a steady pace. It felt like a good omen.

  Kjallak had risked sailing at night in order to make up for the time they had lost a few days ago when a northern storm had driven them aground. They were expected in Visby and were already overdue.

  A tremor ran through the hull of the karvi, and Halldor stirred beside him. Kjallak stared ahead, peering through the dim night, but he saw nothing beyond the pale planks of the longship. He heard the captain’s voice, calling out to the lookout in the prow of the boat, and he winced slightly when a small light sputtered to life. The lookout had lit a lantern, and he cringed at the idea that they were making themselves so visible on the open water.

  He stood and walked carefully down the center of the boat. Around him, the men started stirring on their benches, shaken out of their nocturnal stupors by the tremors.

  “What is your man doing?” he hissed at the captain when he reached the forward benches. “We can be seen.”

  The captain held up a hand, all his attention devoted to listening to the night and the ocean. Kjallak held his tongue and listened as well, trying to hear what the captain was hearing. He felt the stern of the boat drift outboard slightly.

  “Oars,” the captain shouted suddenly, startling Kjallak. “Get them in the water!” The captain leaped up, darting for the rack midship where the oars and poles were stored. “Outboard side,” the captain commanded.

  The boat shook again, the tremor much stronger this time, and Kjallak staggered, falling back against the nearby bench. The karvi groaned beneath him as it came to a complete stop in the water. The lookout was shouting something, waving his lantern down near the railing.

  The men got their oars in the water, and they pulled frantically. They had no rhythm; each was pulling out of time and tempo with the man next to him. The captain shouted at them to get it right.

  The boat spun slowly around its bow, turning until the stern was pointing at the moon. The captain finally got the sailors organized, and the boat struggled free of whatever had seized it. As the prow swung around, redirected by the sailors and their oars, the narrow karvi listed to the inboard side.

  “Some of her seams are done up; we need to put in to shore,” the captain said, stomping over to Kjallak. His mouth was turned down as if there was something more he wanted to say, but he only shook his head and shoved past Kjallak. “Raise your lantern, boy,” he called to the lookout. “We need to see where we’re going before we all drown.”

  “It is ill luck,” a voice said behind Kjallak, and he turned to look up at his second, who seemed unconcerned about the listing angle of the boat.

  “Aye,” Kjallak said. “We’ve had our share of it.”

  “It will turn,” Halldor said simply.

  Kjallak was used to his second’s taciturn—and yet seemingly endless—optimism, but he didn’t have the same temperament. “I hope so,” Kjallak sighed, wishing—for neither the first nor the last time—that he and Halldor weren’t so dissimilar. “It’ll take two or three days to re-peg and tar the hull. If we’re lucky and there’s a hold nearby, we might be able to get some horses and go overland.”

  “Add a day to your reckoning,” Halldor said, shaking his head. “Tomorrow is the equinox. There will be a blöt and feasting. If we arrive at a hold, we will be guests, and there will be no avoiding it.”

  Kjallak frowned. Another delay, he thought. Was this entire journey cursed?

  TWO

  Sigrid Pettirsdottir rolled across the dusty yard behind the longhouse. She kept her grip on the haft of the lang ax and swept the butt at her opponent’s legs even as he followed up the blow from his shield that had knocked her to the ground. He dodged her counter, giving her just enough time to get her feet under her and raise the ax in the high guard. The pair circled warily, each looking for an opening. She was sweaty inside the quilted linen armor-cote, her hair itching under the felted wool lining of the spangenhelm. She ignored all that, though—her eyes remained locked on the centerline of her opponent’s body, just below the neck.

  Äke Fair-Haired was a seasoned warrior half again her size, armed with a practice sword and a heavy round shield that covered him from mid-thigh to shoulder. Äke moved with care, his eyes remaining locked to her frame too. Her bearded lang ax was blunted—a practice weapon like his sword—and even though it wouldn’t shear through his maille, a heavy blow from the ax could crack bones.

  Her foot caught momentarily on a tuft of grass as she circled, and the hitch in her movement was the mistake Äke had been waiting for. He punched his shield at the center of the lang ax’s haft and stepped forward to her right, his sword licking out toward her shoulder. It was a good attack and should have been successful, but Sigrid had anticipated him—her stumble had been a ruse to draw him in.

  As he thrust forward, she stabbed the butt of the ax into the edge of his shield, rotating it in his grasp. The rim of the shield struck him in the chest, throwing his sword b
low off, robbing it of its speed. She moved into the blow, catching it on the haft of her weapon and passing his sword over her head. Bringing the butt of the ax across his chest as she stepped in to check him with her hip, she threw him to the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs and send his helmet rolling across the yard.

  Stepping out of reach, she grounded the butt of the ax and leaned on the head, catching her own breath as the cheers and laughter from the other Sworn Men watching them washed over her. Äke half laughed, half gasped himself as he lay flat on his back.

  “Aye, the lang ax is a man’s weapon,” she teased when she had the breath to spare. “I can see that now. It’s certainly done for one man today.”

  Äke sat up, shaking his head ruefully. “Fairly spoken,” he said, “and well tested, skjölmdo.”

  Sigrid grinned as she stripped off her helm. It was the first time he had spoken of her as a warrior—a Shield-Maiden—instead of simply referring to her as girl. It had been nearly a year since she had taken her vows to the Jarl, her father, and while the Sworn Men accepted her presence in their ranks, their respect was more elusive. Äke, though, was First among the Jarl’s Sworn Men, and the others looked to him for guidance and leadership. If he spoke of her differently, then the others might follow suit.

  She offered Äke her arm, and he took it, hoisting himself to his feet. He held on to her arm for a moment, though, standing close to her. “It is but one bout,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

  She tensed, feeling a familiar flush start up her cheeks.

  “That is what others will say,” he continued. “Do not let their words unsettle you. It does not matter. One bout is enough on the battlefield, yes?”

  “Aye,” she agreed, swallowing her anger.

  Äke grinned at her. “It was a good throw, skjölmdo. You could have done much worse to prove your point.” He released his grip and clapped her on the shoulder. “Gods,” he said loudly, addressing the crowd, which was drifting away. “I am thirsty. Is it time to start drinking yet?”