Scarlet From Gold (Book 3)

by Jeffrey Quyle

  The railing around him was nearly empty; only a few pilgrims remained, and the light coming in through the golden yellow stained glass windows overhead was dim, and tinged with orange red, and coming in at a sharp angle. It was late in the day. Marco had spent a long time at the rail while listening to the voice of the saint speak to him. His pilgrimage was finished, just as the day was finishing.

  He had come as a pilgrim by accident, he thought to himself, and yet he had gotten as much out of the visit as anyone in the cathedral that day. He pressed himself up off his aching knees, and looked around. A priest discreetly pointed to the door that was the exit, and Marco worked the stiffness out of his muscles as he walked away from the altar. He turned at the doorway and looked back at the ornate sculptures. The orange light of the sunset was covering the entire structure now, and to Marco’s eye, it had an ominous appearance, as if blood had been coated over it all. He feared that the sight was a premonition of things to come in whatever conflict seemed destined to come.

  Minutes later Marco was outside the cathedral, and walking through the cathedral grounds. He found the main gate he had entered through, and went down the road to the Gateway Inn, just a couple of dozen steps down the road. He looked in through the smoky window glass and saw his friends sitting at a long table, Dex and Pivot, Saul, Sophia, and Mary, plus the two newlyweds, Lars and Ginger, had somehow found them as well.

  Marco pushed the door open and reached the table before he was spotted and greeted by a happy round of salutations.

  “Where have you been?” Dex asked. “We thought maybe the cathedral priests had converted you into one of their own and made you a resident of the place.”

  “I thought you’d already decided to go on to Barcelon, in the company of a wealthy widow who was returning to her home in the city in her private carriage, delighted to give such a handsome young pilgrim a comfortable ride,” Saul outrageously proclaimed, drawing an impromptu raising and clinking of glasses in a toast with Lars, before Ginger’s disapproving stare made the young groom hurriedly lower his glass.

  “Well, neither of those was the case. I just happened to take longer than most other pilgrims, I guess,” he spoke. Marco hadn’t thought about hiding what had happened to him, nor had he thought about proclaiming it. But at the moment he joined his companions, he realized how impossible his tale would sound if he were to try to tell it, the story of the spirit emerging from tapestry and the saint speaking from the grave.

  “Well, have a seat,” Saul said expansively, moving aside, and Marco sat down between he and his sister, Sophia, the quiet, pretty woman who was a nun alongside her own mother. He sat and listened to the chatter of the others, occasionally adding something as they all ate and drank and enjoyed the feeling of achievement for having succeeded in reaching the end of the pilgrimage.

  “We’ll turn around and head back home tomorrow,” Mary said as the evening wore down. “I suppose we ought to turn in and get a good night’s sleep in our beds.”

  “Is there no one else’s bed for me to sleep in?” Saul asked, then sighed. “Very well,” he shook his head mournfully and stood up, then helped his mother and sister as well. “I hope we’ll see you all in the morning, and maybe share the road again.

  “And you,” he grabbed Marco’s shoulder, “good luck to you on this mysterious fate you’re heading towards, my young friend. Take care.” And with a final round of handshakes and hugs, the trio was off to their room for the night.

  “I suppose we ought to take you up to the room to settle in for the night too, since you’ve got a long journey ahead of you,” Dex said, looking at Marco. “These newlyweds will probably go out for a moonlight stroll now anyway,” he suggested to Lars. “The cathedral looks beautiful in the moonlight.”

  They said farewell again, and then Dex, Pivot, and Marco went upstairs to where Dex unlocked a door and lit a candle in a snug room under a gable, where two beds and a temporary cot covered most of the floor space, and Marco slept soundly during the last night of his pilgrimage.

  Chapter 3 – The Fight at the Inn

  Marco rose in the morning, and saw that Dex and Pivot were already out of bed and out of the room. He pulled his boots on, packed up his pack and weapons, then went downstairs and found the two men drinking hot coffee and talking to the morning cook.

  “Will you join us for a bite?” Dex proposed, and Marco sat down.

  “You’re going to go out the east gate of the city, and then follow the road for oh, about five hundred miles,” Dex told him.

  “How long will that take?” Marco asked. The number was meaningless in one sense, since he had to travel the route, regardless of distance. Yet it was daunting as well, a number that meant a long journey ahead.

  “It will take you around a month, I imagine, if the spring weather isn’t too bad,” Dex estimated. “We’ll be going back to the cathedral today, so we’ll pray for you to have a safe and quick journey, with maybe a little adventure here or there to spice things up!” he laughed.

  “If you want a bit of advice, you ought to get a violet tattoo on your shoulder while you’re in town this morning,” Pivot spoke up.

  “That’s not a bad idea, father,” Dex said.

  “Why?” Marco asked, bemused by the idea of a tattoo.

  “Well, just like there are places that show special favor for those who are on a pilgrimage, there are places that will show favor for those who are returning from a pilgrimage,” Dex explained. “If you see a place that has the swift signage for pilgrims posted, there’s almost as much chance of receiving hospitality there while on your way back as if you were on your way to the holy place.

  “It’s worth a try. The tattoo will cost you very little, it won’t take long, and it won’t hurt very much,” Dex grinned as Marco finished eating a bread roll. “And here’s a little bit of coin from father and me,” he said as he held out his hand and dropped the money on the table at Marco’s seat. “You’ll need some money if you’re on the road that long, no matter how many pilgrim stops you make along the way.”

  “Thank you,” Marco hesitated only a moment before accepting the coins. It was a generous offer, but he knew that the two men meant it well, with his best interest in mind, and he knew they would feel hurt if he refused the coins. And he knew he would need the money along the way.

  “We’re ready to head to the cathedral too, so we can take you to a tattoo parlor on the way, if you like,” Dex offered, as Marco picked up the coins and said his thanks.

  The three of them headed out the door, and Dex looked up at the cloudy skies above. “You may want to get a good, strong cape to wear on the road,” he advised as they started walking. They passed by the gates to the cathedral, and Dex steered Marco to a small shop door in an alleyway. “Best tattoos in the city. Father and I got ours here!” he laughed.

  “Good luck, Marco,” the two men both embraced Marco at once, then stepped back. “I hope we’ll hear that your story ends happily someday,” Dex said, then patted Marco on the back one more time, before the two men left their young pilgrimage protégé behind.

  Marco had to wipe a tear from his eye before he turned and looked inside the tattoo shop. It was not an appealing sight. An elderly woman stood next to a wall that displayed dozens and dozens of sharp needles.

  “Come in laddie,” she beckoned him to a chair. “What would you like? A pretty girl? Two pretty girls? The name of a pretty girl?” she asked Marco as he edged inward, feeling caught like a fly in a spider’s web.

  “I completed my pilgrimage yesterday, and I’d like to get a violet tattoo,” Marco replied.

  “You look pretty young to need indulgences already. Are you that sinister?” the woman asked with a smirk.

  “No, I didn’t ask for indulgences. I just stopped at the cathedral and prayed for direction,” Marco answered as he removed his gear and piled it on the floor next to the chair.

  “Take off your shirt too,” the woman directed, “and give me two brass pe
nce.”

  Marco obliged her on both counts, then sat down. “Do you want it here,” the crone touched his shoulder, “or here?” her hand moved to his chest.

  “I thought it was supposed to go on the shoulder,” Marco commented.

  “It usually does, but it’s easier to display if you can just pull the neck of your shirt over to the side, I’ve been told,” the woman told him. “And that’s pretty practical when you’re standing on a door step in the rain, asking for shelter. And besides, you’ve already got this other flower tattoo here,” she tapped his shoulder. “It’s a pretty one.” Marco glanced out of the corner of his eye, not having realized he had such a tattoo on his body.

  “That’s fine,” Marco agreed with a shrug, after looking down at where the woman had the skin of his shoulder bunched up to display a large, colorful tattoo, one whose origins he didn’t know.

  “Lean back, close your eyes, and relax,” the woman told Marco, and moments later he felt a prick in his skin, followed immediately by another, and then another, as the tattooing process was quickly inflicted upon his skin.

  “Here, right over your heart. Maybe it will protect you from heartache,” the tattooist said several minutes later, as Marco opened his eyes and flinched. He saw that she was using a sponge to wipe away bloody smears. “The swelling will go down and the pain will stop in just a couple of days. It’s a nice flower; this one turned out very well. I hope you enjoy it.”

  Marco carefully pulled his shirt back on, and re-strapped his belongings so as to avoid irritating the new tattoo. He hoped that Dex and Pivot were right, that it would prove useful in facilitating his journey towards Barcelon. He nodded to the tattoo artist, and left the shop to return to the main road of the city, the one that ran east and west – the one that would set him on his path towards Barcelon and beyond. He stopped at a secondhand clothing shop, one where his offer to pay with coins instead of bartering with other goods seemed to be a puzzle to the owners, and he acquired a sturdy poncho, one that appropriately had swifts and violets woven into a pattern on its surface.

  And then he was off, leaving the great cathedral city behind and headed towards the east.

  The sun was not far above the horizon, so that Marco sometimes squinted and sometimes walked with his head lowered as he moved in the opposite direction of the incoming pilgrims who were arriving in the city. And he continued to walk.

  For ten days he traveled along the route, a lonely traveler moving against the steady spring season flow of pilgrims who had started their travels to the shrine as soon as the weather had broken. The days were growing longer; even since his memories of the days when he had appeared on Station Island – not so long ago – Marco could tell that there was more daylight.

  The first few days of the journey were relatively easy, as the pilgrim’s way stayed within river valleys that had relatively easy slopes and only moderate changes in elevation. Some evenings he stayed where inbound pilgrims stayed, and listened to their stories about harsh weather in the mountains that were behind them, or ahead of him in his case, and how thankful they were to have an easy road for the rest of the way into Compostela. There were a few stories about robbers in the mountains as well, and Marco clinched his jaw in anger at the thought of pilgrims being preyed on.

  After ten days he began to climb higher, as the road left the valleys and started working its way up towards the mountain passes at the higher elevations. His poncho kept him dry and warm, as random showers at the lower levels occasionally became flurries in the evening at the higher elevations.

  Marco was anxious to make progress, driven by the geas, the one that the spirit of Ophiuchus had said had been laid upon him by Lethe, driven to move constantly forward as he had felt driven before Dex and Pivot had persuaded him to slow down and make his early journey a pilgrimage. He walked after sunset on many days, and sometimes simply bedded down beneath bushes on the ground.

  He grew thinner as he traveled without always stopping to eat, and after more than a fortnight, as he reached a high altitude pass at night, he decided he had to splurge and eat a meal at an inn, even though the establishment had no image of a swift above its door. The proprietor told him there was no lodging, because a large party of nobles were riding on the pilgrimage and had paid handsomely to rent out nearly every room, but for a pence Marco secured a spot in the stable loft.

  He dropped his belongings in the spot he selected among the bales of hay stacked above the stables, as he heard several sets of boots trod past the stables and enter the inn. There was a burst of indistinct shouts, and then silence from the inn as Marco descended down the ladder; he was eager to return to the inn and eat a hot meal.

  As he approached the kitchen door, he saw the cook come running out, and the woman ran into Marco as she flung the door open, spilling them both to the ground, as two men came running out the door after the cook.

  The men grabbed her by the arms and roughly lifted her off of Marco.

  "Not so fast, my pretty," one of the men said to the cook, then slapped her viciously, making her wail with profound fear.

  "Hey!" Marco exclaimed in shock and dismay.

  "You don't look like you're worth anything," the other man said as he looked at Marco. And then, to Marco's horror, the man raised his sword and stabbed it down at Marco's chest.

  The tip of the sword plunged down at his heart, and as it pierced his poncho and clothing, it struck squarely upon the violet tattoo on his chest. There was a bright flash of light, and the sword momentarily glowed as a charge of energy ran up the blade from Marco to the attacker, killing the man in an instant.

  The cook and the man holding her looked at Marco and the dead man's body, then the man let loose of the cook and looked at Marco in fear.

  "What did you do?" he asked plaintively, as he backed towards the kitchen door, fearfully hoping to escape from the frightening turn of circumstances unfolding in the stableyard.

  "Stop!" Marco commanded, but the man gained the doorway and fled inside.

  "What's happening?" Marco asked the cook as he scrambled to his feet.

  "My lord, there's a whole gang of robbers who just took over the inn," the cook answered. "How did you kill him?" she asked as she pointed at the dead man.

  "I'm not sure," Marco answered.

  He drew his sword as there was a sound at the door again.

  "What idiocy are you babbling?" a man asked the robber who had fled, as a trio of criminals returned to the scene.

  "Well, what have we here?" the new man asked as he spotted Marco in the dim light in the yard.

  "He's the one, Maurin!" the returnee exclaimed as he pointed at Marco.

  "So, is he a sorcerer?" Maurin asked as the trio spread around Marco, while the cook fled to the stables.

  "Are you a sorcerer?" the man asked Marco directly, as a way to distract him, for one of the men around Marco thrust his sword forward in an attack at that moment.

  Marco’s extraordinary sword responded to the attack with a riposte that let the blade easily strike and wound the attacker faster than the eyes of the others could follow in the darkness. The sword then instantly twirled Marco’s body around to fight the other man as well, catching him in astonished disbelief as Marco’s sword sliced across his neck.

  Without hesitating, Marco faced the man who had spoken, and who was waving his sword wildly in a desperate attempt to protect himself from the flurry of violence that had erupted inexplicably.

  Marco easily swatted the man's sword to the side as he wounded him too, and left him in a bleeding heap on the frozen ground.

  "Oh my lord!" the cook cried from the stable door. "You did it! Can you save us from all of them?"

  "How many are there?” Marco asked as he stood in the yard. “Come with me into the kitchen,” he told the girl.

  “There were a dozen or more,” she told him as she timidly walked up to him. She followed him into the kitchen, and they knelt there by the stove, staying low and out of immediate s
ight of anyone who might happen to look into the room.

  “Well, there are four fewer of them now,” Marco told the girl. There were voices speaking in the nearby dining room, and a woman suddenly screamed.

  “Go to the doorway of the dining room and tell the robbers that Maurin wants two of them to help him, then come back in here and hide,” Marco told the cook. The girl, one who looked naturally timid, looked at Marco fearfully, but seemed to take courage from his presence, for she stood up and walked away. Marco let out a deep sigh himself, not sure how it was possible he had fallen into such a dangerous and unexpected battle.

  “Maurin said to get in here right now!” he heard the cook shout in a surprisingly authoritative voice, and then he found her running towards him, and crouching down next to him. “There are ten of them in there, and they are separating the men from the women. Some of the men have been injured by the robbers,” she warned Marco.

  “Thank you,” he whispered as he heard the door open. He stood up, and saw three men come into the kitchen, leaving seven out among the hostages, he counted.

  “Who are you?” one man asked.

  “Where’s Maurin?” another asked.

  “I’m here because of Maurin,” Marco told them as he walked towards them, then as he got closer, and the men looked about in confusion, but without concern, Marco suddenly ran at them and let his sword take over the battle, slaying one man immediately, wounding another, and tangling Marco in a battle with the third man that carried the two of them back through the door into the dining room, where the women shrieked at the new eruption of violence, as Marco landed on top of his opponent and used the hilt of the sword to punch the man unconscious.

  Marco looked up quickly, just in time to see two of the robbers come running at him with long knives in their hands. He used his sword to slice the arm of one of the men and make him drop his weapon, but the other one stabbed his knife into Marco’s right shoulder, making his gasp in pain as he loosened his grip on his sword and toppled to the side of the struggle.