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

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  “Aye,” Sancho said. “It was.” He gazed at Lazare intently as he drank from his cup. “The archbishop of Toledo went to France to gather an army to aid the king of Castile and, on his return, he deigns to stop in my kingdom to speak to me about setting aside my differences with Castile against the Moors. Why did he not seek this audience with me before he went to France?”

  Lazare swallowed another sip of wine before answering. “Because he didn’t have an army with him before he went to France,” he said carefully. Without an army, any conversation between Sancho and the archbishop would have been between Navarre and the Church in an attempt to set aside differences between Navarre and Castile; now, it was not a conversation, but a veiled command to join the crusade against Castile’s enemies.

  “The archbishop can come to me if he seeks my assistance,” Sancho said. “Otherwise, he and his army of marauders should march on to Castile as swiftly as possible. And you”—he pointed a finger at Lazare—“I hope you are a better smith than you are a diplomat.”

  “The last is undoubtedly true, Your Majesty,” he said before he gulped the rest of his wine. “As to the former, I will deliver your words to the archbishop, and I am certain the Templars are already inclined to move farther south expeditiously.” He bowed to the king, and turned to depart.

  “Priest,” Sancho called, bringing him up short. “What you have said about aiding the knights of Calatrava, does that extend to other people of Iberia as well?”

  “Why wouldn’t it?” Lazare asked, though he wondered if he fully understood Sancho’s question.

  FOUR

  Rain water sluiced off the narrow overhang of the porch, spattering the muddy ground around the villa. The clouds were portentous and gray, and they hung low in the sky, trapping the chilly air close to the ground. It had been raining since the previous night, the skies weeping a continuous stream of water as if hidden dams that had been frozen shut since winter began were now open.

  Ramiro sat on a wooden stool, a wool blanket wrapped around his aching shoulders. He always felt the seasonal change coming, a dull throb in his jaw and left shoulder. It had been a week since he had run off the deserters and buried the dead man in the hills; two nights ago, the dreams had come back. Nightmare memories of the battle at Alarcos. The last defense of the old citadel. The waves of armed Moors scampering up the siege ladders. The lines of archers sending volley after volley of arrows over the walls. The screams of the dying Christian soldiers to whom no succor could be given.

  And then the dreams would change. The Moors would grow furry legs and their helmets would turn into glowing eyes. Their curved swords would become wicked fangs, and they would scramble across the stone bulwarks of the citadel with a nimbleness that defied rational thought. The dead would reanimate, and the shambling ranks of rotting soldiers were a solid wall behind him, constantly pressing forward against the few living knights. They couldn’t fall back, not with the ranks of the moaning dead behind them. They could only stand their ground against a monstrous enemy that boiled over the walls.

  In the dream, he already had his scars and the dead flocked to him because he was the least disfigured of them all. He was their radiant king, and they all rallied at the sound of his beautiful voice. He always woke just after he gave the command to push the eight-legged invaders back, the throaty sound of his shout echoing in his ears.

  Several of the goats called out to him from the pen, and he shifted his weight on the stool, shivering slightly beneath the blanket. He knew he should go back inside the villa; he should crawl back into bed with Louisa and wrap his arms around her swollen frame and hold her tight. She was unlikely to suffer the constraint—especially in sleep—and for a little while the dreams wouldn’t come back.

  The child was due sometime in the next month. He had hoped to give it a lifetime of solitude and peace, a simple life free of the conflict that had left its mark on him, but what he had learned from Diego the deserter continued to gnaw at him—a persistent poison that infected his dreams. A reminder that the war would never stop.

  “You didn’t sleep,” Louisa said as she waddled across the main room of the villa. She was a fine-boned woman and her distended belly seemed to constantly endanger her balance.

  Ramiro shook his head as he inspected the heavy pot suspended over the fire in the hearth. “I had the dream again,” he said.

  When she reached his side, she ran her long fingers through his hair and he closed his eyes as she stroked his head. She was half his age; in the beginning he had questioned her desire to be with him. What could a woman like her see in an old crippled soldier like him? Was he a convenient shield against the suitors in her village who had persistently taken an interest in her late father’s farm? Was he like the wounded lamb that could no longer care for itself? Worthy of love because he was so clearly an outcast and pariah? He had resisted her affection for so long that, when he finally allowed her to touch his face, he wept for having denied himself the simple pleasure of another’s touch for so many years.

  “You are awake now,” she said soothingly. “It cannot hurt you.”

  He nodded slightly, leaning into her ministrations. She stroked harder, running her nails across his scalp. Like she did with the goats when she fed them scraps of carrots and beets from their garden. “The Almohads are back,” he murmured, finally telling her what he had learned a week ago. “There is an army on the plain. They mean to march on Toledo.”

  “They won’t come here,” she said.

  He didn’t share her conviction. The ache in his shoulder told him otherwise. He glanced down at the wooden spoon in his hand. He was holding it loosely, fingers wrapped around the shaft, thumb resting on the wood. The same way he held a sword.

  It was buried out past the orchard, wrapped in the white tabard of the order with its red cross and fleur-de-lis. Along with his maille. He half hoped the roots of the oak would have claimed the oilskin bundle, but he knew the tree would give back its secret cache readily enough.

  The thaw had come. The ground would be soft.

  FIVE

  For the first few days after the army reached Toledo, Brothers Lazare and Crespin remained with the army, assisting in the menial work of establishing camp. Helyssent was eager to press on and cross the mountains that lay to the south, but the archbishop reminded him that the Templars and the rest of the crusaders from the north were here to assist the king of Castile. They would wait for the other allies that Alfonso VIII had convinced to join him in his war against the Almohad caliphate.

  While the army waited outside the city, the archbishop and Abbot Amairic retired to the archbishop’s estate within Toledo. Several of the other lay brothers accompanied Amairic, but Lazare opted to remain with the army, as did Brother Crespin. The pair had become friends during the travel from Toulouse, and while Crespin was not as intellectually curious as Lazare, his stolid belief in the Scripture and his dedication to God provided an engaging counterpoint.

  It was with some shame then that, one morning, Lazare crept soundlessly out of the narrow tent he shared with Brother Crespin an hour before sunrise. The sky was clear, brightening in the east, and he set off toward the city at a brisk pace. It was a chilly morning, and his breath steamed around his face as he walked. It would take him until shortly after dawn to reach Toledo; by that time, the cold grip of night would be loosened from his bones.

  In time, he hoped he might be able to bring Crespin into his confidence; but for now, he had to keep secrets from his fellow Cistercians.

  Lazare had seen the sigil scratched into the soft sunbaked brick of the alley several days ago when he and Crespin had come to the city’s markets. The farmers and merchants were still setting up their wares when he reached the marketplace, and none of them paid any attention to the sight of a priest wandering through the near-empty square. He turned down the alley without hesitation, his eyes flicking up to the wall as he passed, noting once again the lines scratched in the brick. As he walked down the
alley, he kept watch for another sign like the first and he spotted it scratched into the upper corner of a dark wooden door after the first turn. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him, and then he stopped at the door and rapped lightly.

  There was no immediate answer, and he waited, a tiny spark of fear blooming in his heart. Had he misunderstood the signs? Was no one here? And then he heard muffled sounds behind the door and it slowly opened, revealing nothing but dim shadows and the dim light of a banked hearth.

  “I am a good servant,” Lazare said quietly, “who seeks a good master.”

  “A good master is he who accepts no students,” came the muffled reply after a moment.

  The door did not move, but Lazare stepped up to the portal and pushed it slightly. It swung inward and he stepped into the dark house. The door shut behind him, and he stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light inside. He heard and felt more than he saw the presence of the other person. Several twigs and a log were added to the slumbering blaze in the hearth and it slowly woke, orange tendrils of flame curling around the thick slab of wood. As the growing fire illuminated the room, Lazare got his first look at the man who had answered the door.

  He was entirely nondescript: robes neither too threadbare, nor too refined; hair and beard kept in the prevailing style of the day; neither too fat nor too thin. Dark blotches of ink stained the fingers of his right hand.

  The room, while sparse, contained a tall cabinet filled with books and a lectern and bench, along with a table covered with sheets of paper and various writing implements and ink pots. A heavy tapestry hung on the wall opposite the cabinet, and it depicted a fantastic scene of woodland creatures in a forest of tall trees with slender branches and silver leaves.

  The man, having fed the fire, returned to Lazare, squinting at him as if the light was still not strong enough to bring the Cistercian’s features into complete focus. “I am Marcos,” he said, linking his fingers together as he examined the Cistercian priest.

  “Lazare. I come to you from Paris, by way of Clairvaux. I have read some of your work.”

  Marcos grinned at him, tilting his head to the side. “My work?” he echoed. “I have written nothing and created even less.”

  Lazare raised his hands, showing his palms. “I, too, create nothing.”

  Marcos grabbed Lazare’s right hand and felt the calluses at the base of his fingers and along the edge of his thumb. “A smith,” he divined. “And a philosopher.” He let go of Lazare’s hand, nodding. “Wine?” he asked, wandering toward the table.

  “It is too early for me,” Lazare begged off, his stomach rebelling at the idea of sour Iberian wine.

  Marcos shrugged, taking no offense at Lazare’s refusal of his hospitality, and he poured a measure for himself from a jug on the table. “You are not the normal courier,” he said.

  “I am not here to carry books back to Paris,” Lazare explained. “I am with the crusaders.”

  Marcos shook his head. “Rodrigo returned with an army, did he?” he sighed. “How can he have failed us so?”

  Lazare wandered over to the table and glanced at the scattered pages. They were covered with a fine flowing script he knew was Arabic. “How has the archbishop failed?” he asked.

  “How much of the history of Iberia do you know?” Marcos said.

  “I know the story of Roland,” Lazare admitted. “And I have learned that the king of Navarre is not on the best of terms with the king of Castile and the archbishop of Toledo.”

  Marcos offered a short laugh as he raised his cup. “You know so little,” he said. “Who killed Roland?”

  “Saracens,” Lazare said.

  “Saracens,” Marcos repeated, shaking his head. “It was the Basques.” He sat down on the bench, idly looking at the cup in his hands. “The Basques are neither Christian nor Moor. They’re Basques. They’ve been here for hundreds of years; they remember the Visigoth kings. The Muslims tried to rule them and failed. The Christians tried, and their hero, Roland, was butchered along with hundreds of knights—all of whom were slain as Charlemagne’s army was retreating, having failed to conquer Iberia for the Frankish kings. The Muslims came from the south and they, too, have tried to subjugate the Basques and failed.”

  “But the crusade is not fighting the Basques; it is to drive the Almohad caliphate out of Iberia.”

  “And replace it with what?”

  “A Christian nation,” Lazare said.

  “And the Basques?”

  Lazare said nothing, for he knew—as well as Marcos did—what would eventually happen. The Church would be unsettled by the presence of non-Christians and would make an effort to bring them under the rule of Rome.

  “This land—from the Pyrenees to Gibraltar—is neither Christian nor Islamic,” Marcos explained. “The Basques are a distinct people, but they are a part of the peninsula. Do you see? This land has its share of Jews and pagans in addition to those who believe both the Bible and the Qur’an. Some call this land Iberia; some call it Al-Andalus. Most call it home. A Christian crusade isn’t going to save Iberia. Putting this land under the sway of Rome is going to destroy what has been carefully cultivated for the last four hundred years.” He raised his cup, hesitated, and lowered it again. “Roland was an invader,” he explained. “He was driven out by those who belong here.”

  “But there are songs about Roland. Stories of his virtuous stand against the infidel,” Lazare protested.

  “There are songs about El Cid too,” Marcos replied. “And most disregard the fact that he fought for both Muslim and Christian coin.”

  “Who?”

  “Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar,” Marcos said. “A Castilian who fought many campaigns against either side until, in the end, he fought for himself.”

  “A mercenary,” Lazare said. “But why did they write songs about him?”

  “He conquered Valencia and made it his home, and said he would be beholden to neither king nor caliph. His people would live freely, coexisting with each other. That is Iberia.”

  “And you think the crusade will destroy this Iberia?”

  “Toledo has been a center of learning for more than a hundred years because Christian, Jew, and Muslim can all live in harmony. We have an understanding with the archbishop. Tolerance provides us with access to the literature and sciences of the Muslims.” He gestured at the pages on the table. “If I want to read Plato and Aristotle, I don’t learn Greek, I learn Arabic. There are many translations and commentaries written by Arabic scholars—easy to find. The original Greek?” He shook his head. “Lost to Christendom.”

  “That is where you are finding the material you send to Paris,” Lazare realized.

  “Aye, we have the library collected by Gerardo da Cremona, but it will take years to finish translating it all to Latin.” He stood up and shuffled through the pages on the desk, showing Lazare a sheet covered in Arabic that looked much like any of the other pages on the desk. “This is part of the Almohad Creed. It argues for the existence of the Islamic God in a cogent and reasoned manner; to disagree with the author’s conclusions is to disagree with the methods of rational inquiry as laid out by Aristotle in his Metaphysics. Translating it is…both illuminating and terrifying.” Marcos sighed and put the page down. “I am committing heresy every time I translate a passage into Latin,” he said, his words spoken proudly but his voice was soft.

  After a moment, the translator raised his head and stared at Lazare. “Why are you here?” he asked, finally realizing the import of something Lazare had said earlier.

  “I am looking for a sword,” Lazare said.

  Marcos’s brows pulled together. “Durendal?” he asked, recalling the mention of Charlemagne’s champion, Roland. When Lazare offered a tiny nod, Marcos shook his head. “It is a myth,” he said. “Such a sword doesn’t exist. You would have better luck looking for Tizona.”

  “Tizona?”

  “El Cid’s sword.”

&nbs
p; Lazare raised his shoulders. “Perhaps I will seek that blade as well.”

  “Why?”

  Lazare looked down at the page of Arabic script. “How much news do you hear from Christendom?” he asked, considering how much to tell Marcos. “Regarding France? And England?”

  Marcos shook his head slightly. “Our queen is English, named after her mother—Eleanor of Aquitaine. Leonor, as she is known here in Castile, is the sister of both the Lionheart and John, who is king of England now. I know that John is concerned about Philip, the king of France, and he seeks allies to forestall an invasion by the French.”

  “Yes,” Lazare said. “They used to be friends, but that friendship has been strained of late. King John’s subjects are ill at ease too. There is talk of a revolt.”

  “There is always talk of revolt,” Marcos said. “Countered only by the cost of such an uprising.”

  “Some happen without much bloodshed. Provided the people have a clear symbol to rally behind.”

  “Ah,” Marcos said. “Like a sword, perhaps. Like that one in England, once upon a time.”

  “Excalibur,” Lazare said.

  “Yes, Excalibur. Why aren’t you looking for that one?”

  “I have been,” Lazare said. “I’m looking for any of the swords of legend.”

  “Why don’t you make one instead?” Marcos asked.

  “If it were that easy,” Lazare pointed out, “I wouldn’t be here now.”

  SIX

  Louisa kissed him lightly on the right cheek, and as he walked away from the villa, along the path that ran between the gardens and the apple orchard, she remained outside, watching him go. Just before the land dipped and the house disappeared from view, he turned and raised his hand. She was a tiny figure, swollen around the middle. She rested one hand on her large belly and was shielding her eyes with the other. Spotting his wave, she returned it in kind before turning and disappearing back into the villa.