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

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  Ramiro dropped into the main courtyard of the citadel. A half dozen horses milled about in a roped-off arena, and several exhaled noisily at the scent of fresh blood on his robes and knife. Ramiro ignored them and moved stealthily toward the first tent. There were two men inside, and the first died from Ramiro’s knife without ever waking up. The second man caught sight of his face and had to be held down as he thrashed in fear. The man’s panic only made him bleed out faster.

  Ramiro moved from tent to tent, repeating his silent assassinations, ten men in all. Once he had finished with the tents, he moved on to the keep. It took him longer to find the residents as they were scattered throughout the building. The four sleeping in the great hall before the fire were his final challenge, and he squatted on his heels for some time, watching them sleep, deciding on the best way to kill them all. Three of the four had thrown off their sleeping furs, and he decided that the one farthest from the hearth—huddled beneath a woven blanket—would be the one he let live.

  He always let one live so that the Moors would know what had happened. They would know who had come among them and slaughtered them all.

  The first died noisily, coughing and gagging on his own blood, which woke one of the others. He managed an abrupt shout, cut short by Ramiro’s sword, but it was enough to rouse the third, who reached for his weapon. Ramiro beat it aside, stepping on the man’s arm to keep the weapon at bay, and drove his sword into the man’s chest.

  The fourth man moved under his blanket, sitting up, and Ramiro raised his sword. The blanket slipped down and the light of the dim fire revealed long black hair that fell down over an oval face. As the figure recoiled from him, the blanket slipped farther and revealed a vast belly, hard and swollen.

  Louisa…?

  Ramiro started awake, gasping for air. His heart hammered in his chest, and his skin was slick with sweat. Nearby, his horse whuffed air noisily; in the distance, he heard the mournful cry of a night bird. The moon was high in a sky that was beginning to fill with clouds. Atop the hill nearby, a glow of firelight limned the walls of Castillo del Ferral.

  He had been dreaming. Except for Louisa, it was always the same. He had killed so many men in nameless citadels throughout the years that his mark was known. He always left a survivor to tell the tale of the Beast of Calatrava.

  ELEVEN

  The castle at Calatrava perched on the eastern end of a mound that was longer than it was tall. The Guadiana River lay across the plain like a discarded line of blue thread, and its banks were lined with pale dirt. The river’s course protected the northern flank of the citadel, and the rest of the hill was protected by sections of wall built from interlocked stone and masonry. A moat had been dug years ago, diverting the Guadiana around the entire hill.

  The Templars crossed the moat near the western end, where the wall was nothing more than a contour of loose stones, and surged up the slope to secure the flat top of the hill. The Moors in the citadel had several trebuchets, but only a few were pointed back across the hill. They hurled rocks halfheartedly for a while and stopped when the Templars quickly figured out their range.

  A line of crossbowmen protected the first wave of infantry who reached the wall. While some attacked the gate, the rest tried to get ropes and hooks in place so that they could scale the outer wall. The Moorish resistance was sparse. It seemed that every arrow shot from the wall was answered by two or three crossbow bolts. In less than an hour, the Templar soldiers gained control of the outer wall, pulling down the Moorish standard that had been fluttering from the top of one of the square towers.

  The second wall was more stoutly defended and the Moors threw down rocks and burning pitch to keep the attackers from reaching the base. The assault took several hours, during which the heat from the sun started to take its toll on the attackers. As many collapsed from exhaustion as died from arrows, but still more came.

  The gate fell eventually, and now that the path into the citadel was open, the knights could attack. They came, a river of white and silver that flowed across the hill, through the gates and into the main yard of the citadel. Templar knights on horseback roared into the castle like a torrential flash flood, foaming and overwhelming the Moorish defenders, leaving nothing in their wake but a blood-slicked field of corpses.

  Calatrava, which had been lost to the Christians for nearly twenty years, was retaken in less than a day. It was a victory that should have boosted the morale of the Christian army.

  Lazare and Crespin were among the group that followed the Templar commander and the abbot as the pair hurried through the camp toward the Castilian compound.

  The Christian army sprawled along the banks of the Guadiana River, and given the somber mood brought about by the oppressive heat, it would have been easy to think that this army had been savagely defeated. The camp felt deserted, filled with supine bodies that shifted only to chase what meager shade their tents could provide. Only the Castilian camp showed much life, as the men of Castile were accustomed to the heat of the high plain.

  The standards hung limply above King Alfonso’s tent, the walls of which were rolled up in an effort to take advantage of any breeze that might find its way through the dust-choked camp. The king was quietly standing beside a table, examining a large map, when Helyssent and Abbot Amairic arrived.

  “Where is he?” Helyssent raged without any preamble as he stormed into the king’s tent. “Where is Miramamolin? The force protecting Calatrava was nothing but a rabble.”

  Helyssent was wearing a pale linen robe, loose leggings, and his riding boots—concessions to the heat, as he normally paraded about in a padded tunic and heavy tabard. There were sweat stains on his chest and under his arms. His hair hung lank and damp about his face.

  The king raised his gaze from the map and regarded the sweating Templar. Lazare was impressed by the king’s poise. He was, like the abbot and Brother Crespin, sweating profusely in his Cistercian robes, and he fought the urge to pant when he breathed. The king gave no indication that he was perturbed in any way by the suffocating weather.

  “I have word that he and his army have left Seville,” King Alfonso said.

  “Why was he not here?” Helyssent snarled.

  “It will take him more than a week to reach and cross the Sierra Morena,” Alfonso explained patiently. Lazare marveled at the king’s restraint. The Templars’ departure from Toledo had thrown Alfonso’s plans into utter disarray, and while the Order of Calatrava and the bulk of the Castilian army had managed to catch up with the Templars shortly after the assault on Calatrava had begun, the rest of the army was still arriving. “We will be fortunate if we can manage to arrange our armies properly before al-Nasir crosses the mountains,” he said. “Now is not the time to hurry ourselves into battle.”

  Helyssent’s sunburned face darkened. “We are here to destroy the Moorish threat,” he said. “The longer we stand around in this heat, the more sapped our strength will be. We must march and fight. We are stronger than the Moors.”

  “Al-Nasir has twice as many men,” Alfonso said.

  “He doesn’t have God and the Templars,” Helyssent replied. “And the other military orders,” he added hastily, noticing Don Ruy in the group that had gathered.

  “You do not know the terrain,” Alfonso said. “You have never fought al-Nasir. Your arrogance will cost us the battle.”

  Helyssent bristled. “I took Calatrava without losing a single Templar,” he said. “There are other citadels scattered about this plain that my knights can take as readily. The Moors cannot stand up to our swords and lances.”

  “That is your opinion,” Alfonso said, his voice hardening. “But this is my kingdom. My command.”

  “This is a crusade ordered by the Pope in Rome,” Helyssent said. “We are the sword of God. We are under no command but His.”

  “You are marauders,” Alfonso snapped. “Murderers—”

  “You call yourself a Christian ruler,” Helyssent shouted, interrupting the king. “
And yet you make treaties with the Muslims. You let Jews live openly in your cities. They plot—”

  “Your oaths to God are meaningless,” Alfonso shouted. “You are nothing more than wild dogs—”

  “You welcome them into your house. You lie with them, and they will slit your throat—”

  Alfonso gave up trying to shout over the Templar leader and he strode over to one of his guards and pulled the man’s sword out of its scabbard. Helyssent faltered for a moment as the king turned on him with the naked sword, but he stood his ground, his indignation straightening his back. Alfonso raised the sword and may have struck at Helyssent had Don Ruy not forced his way through the crowd and interposed himself between the two men.

  Alfonso stopped, his eyes bright with rage. His grip on the sword was firm. “Stand aside, Don Ruy,” he growled.

  “I cannot, Your Majesty,” the master of the Order of Calatrava said.

  Helyssent tapped Don Ruy smartly on the shoulder. “What sort of king—what sort of man!—would strike another Christian?” he sneered.

  Alfonso raised the sword slightly.

  Abbot Amairic stepped forward, clutching his cross tightly in his raised hands. “This is not what God wants,” he pleaded. “This is nonsense. We are not here to fight each other. Set aside your sword, good king. Master Helyssent, calm your spirit.”

  Lazare followed Amairic, slipping through the hole created by the abbot. The archbishop’s words echoed in his head. The safety of all people in Toledo…Having watched the crowd’s reaction as the two leaders had shouted at one another, he realized how many of those assembled were from the north. Too many foreign soldiers…

  The abbot reached Helyssent’s side and laid a hand on the Templar’s arm while still holding his cross aloft with his other hand. “We have journeyed far from our homes to aid the king of Castile in his war against the Moors,” he said, “and so removed, we have only our faith to sustain us—the unfaltering knowledge that we do God’s work in this land. Miramamolin—the infidel—will not march on Rome. He will not be allowed to continue to subjugate good Christian peoples. We must remain steadfast in our crusade.”

  Everyone seemed to relax as the abbot spoke. Alfonso lowered his sword. Helyssent nodded gruffly, stepping back from Don Ruy. The tension in the sweltering tent lessened.

  But then the abbot kept talking. “We are surrounded by heretics,” he said. “And our crusade will cleanse—”

  Without thinking about the ramifications of his actions, Lazare jumped forward and reached around the abbot’s shoulder to clap his hand over the Cistercian leader’s mouth. Amairic spat and shook his head, startled by Lazare’s grip, and Helyssent shouted in surprise. A noisy chatter rose in the crowd behind them.

  “My apologies,” Lazare said loudly and forcefully, making himself heard. “The abbot has had too much sun.”

  The abbot struggled in his grip. With a growl, Helyssent turned and grabbed Lazare’s shoulder. Don Ruy, in turn, grabbed Helyssent. The noise of the rabble increased.

  “Enough,” Alfonso said. He did not raise his voice, but his tone was that of a man used to issuing a command and having it carried out. The strident voices of the crowd petered out and Lazare, the abbot, Don Ruy, and Helyssent all stood motionless, caught in a bizarre contortion of grabbing and being grabbed.

  “We have all had too much sun,” the king said. He turned and dropped the sword noisily on the table. “Go,” he said, his back to the crowd. “There will be no more discussion of these matters today. We shall meet in the morning, after daybreak, and continue this discussion as reasoned, rational men.”

  Helyssent opened his mouth, but Don Ruy shook the Templar’s sleeve and wagged his head. Helyssent glowered for a moment at Don Ruy’s grip, and when the master of the Order of Calatrava did not move, Helyssent released his grip on Lazare. Don Ruy followed suit, and only then did Lazare remove his hand from the abbot’s mouth.

  The abbot jerked himself away from Lazare, sputtering in anger. “How dare you—” he started.

  “No,” the king interrupted. Alfonso turned back toward the group. “There will be no accusations. We should all reflect on our own words, our own actions, in this meeting. We should abase ourselves before God and ask if we have served Him well in the last few minutes.”

  The abbot made to say something but Alfonso cut him off with a curt shake of his head. “Go,” the king said. “Leave me. Until the morning.”

  The abbot whirled on Lazare, raising a finger and waggling it in front of Lazare’s face. Lazare was more concerned about the Templar commander, who he felt was still staring at him.

  The crowd started to disperse, and Lazare heard more than a few muttering discontentedly at the king’s command. The abbot glanced at Helyssent and nodded slightly, and Lazare wondered what sort of signal had just passed between the two men. The abbot shouldered his way past Lazare, and with a loud exhalation, Helyssent withdrew as well.

  Don Ruy was appraising Lazare openly, a tight smile on his lips as if he approved of what Lazare had done. Lazare shrugged slightly, knowing that he would be summoned to the abbot’s tent as soon as he left the king’s camp.

  “Not you,” the king said as Lazare started to turn away. Lazare sighed, and when he looked at Don Ruy, the master of the order’s smile tightened.

  “Rodrigo, the archbishop, mentioned that I might find you useful,” the king of Castile said as the pair of servants finished setting out a small meal of bread, olive oil, and wine. He was seated in a high-backed chair behind the table on which the map was still spread; Lazare sat on his left, perched on a narrow wooden stool. The plates of food were arranged along the edge of the table. The king leaned forward, picking up a thick piece of bread and tearing off a large chunk. He pressed it into the dish of oil and swirled it around.

  “I am but a mere instrument,” Lazare said quietly, and when Alfonso glanced at him with a curious expression, he shook his head gently. “The archbishop is overly kind in his praise,” he said more loudly. “I am but a mere lay brother of a minor order of monks.”

  “A Cistercian, yes?” When Lazare nodded, Alfonso raised the dripping piece of bread to his mouth and took a large bite. “I understand a number of your order traveled south with your abbot. Abbot Amairic’s interest in the crusade is readily apparent in every bombastic utterance, but what of the rest of your company? Are you as zealous in your devotion to the mission of Rome, or were you hoping to accomplish other deeds?”

  “My order has ties to the Order of Calatrava,” Lazare said, reaching for a piece of bread himself. “Your original call for aid mentioned the loss of one of their citadels late last year. We thought we might be useful to the order if they managed to retake that land.”

  “By fighting alongside them?”

  Lazare shook his head. “We are monks. We can help the sick and wounded. Some of us have other skills. Brother Crespin, for example, is a stone mason. I have some experience with smithing.”

  “Stone and sword, eh?”

  Lazare inclined his head fractionally as he dipped his bread in the oil.

  “But you do more than make horseshoes, nails, and the occasional sword, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

  “You know something of the old philosophers.”

  “A great deal of knowledge comes through our abbey,” Lazare said, dismissing the notion of his education. “I know very little of its substance.”

  The king picked up his cup of wine. “Don’t take me for a fool,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

  “Your actions today are going to put you at odds with your abbot. Depending on his mood, he may take a great deal of offense at being handled so roughly—in front of witnesses—by one of his laity. You do not seem terribly concerned that the head of your abbey might declare you unfit to remain a Cistercian.”

  “I…it had not occurred to me,” Lazare said truthfully.

  “Precisely,” Alfonso s
aid, sitting back in his chair.

  “I am not sure what you are implying, Your Majesty,” Lazare said.

  “I don’t believe you are truly a Cistercian monk,” Alfonso said.

  “That is a curious supposition,” Lazare said.

  Alfonso raised his cup. “You aren’t denying it,” he said.

  “I had an interesting conversation with the archbishop before we left Toledo,” Lazare said. “He and I talked about the subtleties of saying yes and no, and how one might have a conversation wherein nothing that could be construed as a rational demonstration of facts would be said, but both parties would still feel they expressed their thoughts quite plainly. Do you have conversations like that, Your Majesty?”

  “I believe I may be having one right now,” the king said with a laugh.

  “Previously, the archbishop spent time at the cathedral in Pamplona, not taking an audience with the king of Navarre—which is not the same thing as avoiding the king, mind you. I went in his stead, as Abbot Amairic was not willing to act contrary to the archbishop’s desires.”

  “And you had no problem acting contrary to the archbishop’s desires?”

  “The king of Navarre wished to meet a representative from the northern coalition that was traveling through his land. Would it not have been tantamount to an invasion if we had not paid our respects?”

  “Did you know that the archbishop and Sancho were out of sorts?”

  “I did not, at the time. I did, however, hear of Sancho’s disagreement with both the archbishop and Your Majesty.”

  “And…?”

  “And I am a Cistercian monk from France, Your Majesty. My opinion matters little.”

  “Or it might matter a great deal, depending on who you might be if you were not a Cistercian monk.”

  Lazare weighed his next words carefully. “The king of Navarre expressed a hope that I might be a better smith than I am a diplomat,” he said.