Chatelaine of Forez

by Vijaya Schartz

  Artaud bent to accept the magic blade with veneration. His skin quivered when he touched it, smooth, warm, like a living thing. He took the offered scabbard as well. "I wouldn't want to offend the Great One."

  "Fear not the Goddess. She smiles upon us." Melusine's gaze followed him with pointed interest. "Besides, She would not want the life stirring in my womb to come into this world without a father."

  Artaud's arm froze mid movement as he sheathed the sword. He rested his gaze upon her face and closed his slack jaw with a snap. "A child? Are you sure?"

  Melusine touched his shoulder in a familiar gesture. "Actually, the Goddess doubled her blessing. She is giving us twin sons."

  "Two sons?" He slammed the blade into the scabbard and dropped it unceremoniously upon the table. Then he encircled her slim waist and pressed her against him. His heart pounded to the beat of a runaway stallion.

  She chuckled in his embrace. "I am pleased to see you like the news.

  "You make me truly happy, beloved Melusine." He kissed her flower-scented hair. "Sons will insure the continuity of our line."

  "Aye." She leaned her head upon his chest and he relished their closeness.

  "How do you know all that?" he whispered, his chin on her silky hair. "It's only been two moons since our betrothal, and it does not show."

  She raised a limpid green gaze to his. "An immortal always knows these things."

  * * *

  Early June 1029

  Two weeks later, from the ramparts of Montarcher, Melusine waved to Artaud and Ida with a heavy heart. She would miss him. She would have preferred to go with him as he left with his men, but he'd refused to endanger her, especially in her delicate condition.

  "Besides, there will be more intimidation than battle," he'd said. "I'll return very soon."

  But what if the archbishop harangued his Christian followers, and the city resisted its rightful lord? There might be bloodshed. At least, Artaud now had Caliburn to keep him safe. While Damas remained behind, Ida accompanied her brother as his second in command.

  Melusine would have protested about staying home, but it happened to be that Tuesday of the month, and before sunset she'd need the protection of her abode in the swamps, to evade discovery in ondine shape. She kept telling herself that this separation was for the best. She refused to let her personal feelings compromise Artaud.

  That afternoon, she escaped the castle of Montarcher on foot, through one of the many secret tunnels. Under an invisibility spell, she hurried through fields and pastures toward her palatial abode, carved in a cliff and hidden by a magic fog, on her small island in Fae Lake, near the swamps.

  As the road neared the familiar body of water, she had to weave her way around oxen struggling to pull heavy loads of cut granite stones. Men and horses led food carts piled with vegetables. Children herded pigs, goats and cows. A long train of supplies slowly made their way toward the nearby hill of Couzan.

  Melusine remembered with a pang the words of Commander Damas at the last banquet. The construction of his new castle must have started. He had wasted no time. It seemed the entire area buzzed with the frenzy of a disturbed beehive.

  That must be why the commander had refused to accompany Artaud to Lyon, arguing that his lord would not need his expertise, or his men, on such a simple mission. She suspected Damas did not remain behind to protect Forez, as he professed, but to oversee to the construction of his castle.

  Safe in her invisibility, Melusine hurried toward her secret abode, promising herself to check on the progress of Damas's castle. Why such a haste, and why the lies and the secrecy?

  * * *

  That night, as ondines never sleep, Melusine swam along the lazy waters of the River Lignon, where it bathed the rocky hill of Couzan. To her surprise, it wasn't dark and sleepy. The hammering of the stone cutters and the cries and rhythmic chant of the laborers filled the night. Many fires kept the rugged outcrop aglow, and from the dark waters, she could see the tall tripods with ropes, and the scaffolding, manned by many workers.

  Closing her eyes, Melusine lay back in the cool water and allowed her spirit to leave her body. It flew slowly over the hill like a silent owl, awarding her a perfect view. The outside rampart, half way up the hill, stood tall and strong, with square merlons at the top, to give soldiers and archers protection from outside attack.

  Crowning the hill was another wall, encircling the castle proper. At one end of the long, rectangular fortress, stood a tall square tower of impressive girth and height. It surveyed the river like a standing guardian.

  Melusine noticed the placing of stones in a herringbone pattern. She'd never seen it before. A very effective technique to make stronger walls. Where did Damas learn it? She would remember this for future projects.

  Inside the walls, many tents and buildings sheltered workers, servants, soldiers, horses, even livestock. A garrison already lived there, and the barracks could house many more soldiers.

  An unusual stone building stood unfinished without a roof, like a gutted house, but its design, rounded at one end, disturbingly resembled a chapel. May the Goddess protect her. Damas was of the Christian faith. Would he also invite priests and monks to reside in his fortress? She shuddered with foreboding.

  Outside the vast kitchens, entire pigs roasted on spits to feed the night workers. Damas had spared no expense... all with the gold he'd stolen from Artaud's mines and rivers.

  Obviously, Damas had prepared and studied for a long time before announcing his intent to build his castle. The work must have started in secret long ago. At this rate, with workers laboring night and day, his fortress would be battle ready in a few weeks. It would be larger, stronger, and better defended than Artaud's castle in Montarcher. May the Great One protect Artaud.

  By the time her beloved returned from Lyon, Damas would be in a position to challenge Artaud's authority as ruler of Forez.

  * * *

  Artaud had not expected the citizens of Lyon to rebel against their lord. Still, arriving at twilight, he found the gates of the old city across the wide Roman bridge closed.

  He turned to Ida. "Let's set camp outside the walls."

  Ida pointed to the soldiers on the ramparts, wearing the purple surcoat of the archbishopric embroidered with the Christian cross. "Did lookouts detect our army on the move?"

  "Possibly." Artaud shrugged. "Most likely a Christian vassal loyal to the archbishop warned him of the impending attack even before that."

  Ida grimaced. "I hate traitors."

  Artaud and Ida advanced toward the gate with a small group of soldiers several paces behind them.

  Artaud motioned for them to stop and approached the closed gate alone. "I am your lord, Artaud of Forez. I order you to open this gate!"

  A volley of arrows whistled in response. Artaud raised his shield, but the volley was aimed at Ida and his men. Arrows knocked harmlessly upon their raised shields.

  Artaud returned to Ida and his escort, motioning for them to return to camp.

  "Enough of this," Artaud told Ida as they rode over the bridge. "We'll attack under cover of night."

  "Night?" Ida frowned.

  "Unconventional, I know, but they won't expect it."

  After the town was asleep, Artaud ordered the assault upon the gate. Fortunately, the oak door, seldom used and brittle with age, splintered under the repeated thrusts of the ram. From then on, the city offered no resistance, except for a few pockets of purple-garbed soldiers, easily outnumbered and overcome.

  When Artaud forced open the door of the basilica, however, he found no trace of Archbishop Bouchard. Neither could he find the secret passage through which he might have escaped.

  As he searched the prelate's sumptuous apartments for a clue or a secret door, a young boy dressed in bright green silk came to him and knelt, head bent.

  "My lord." The boy couldn't be much older than Guilli. "My name is Angelo. I know where His Grace is going."

  "You do? Where did he go?" Artaud
struggled to hide his frustration.

  "He's on the road to Dijon, my lord." The youth met his gaze with wide brown eyes. "To the castle of his brother, Renaud of Burgundy."

  "Truly?" The information had come too easily. Was it a trap? No. Artaud could detect no lie in the boy... as if he wished for his master to get caught.

  Artaud motioned to his men. "We ride to Dijon, now. We must stop him before he enters Burgundy."

  He turned to the boy who still knelt. "Thank you for your loyalty to your overlord, Angelo."

  The boy smiled. Then Artaud noticed something else in the youngster's eyes... glee, and an intense hatred for the archbishop... for reasons too vile to express.

  * * *

  Artaud led his galloping party on the road to Dijon. Soon, he saw in the distance a small group of riders, too richly attired to be simple farmers, despite the straw cart pulled by two farm horses. Farmers did not ride, nor did they travel at night, and straw did not justify half a dozen mounted guards.

  Artaud slowed his horse and motioned to Ida. "Keep the men following behind at a slow pace."

  Ida nodded.

  Artaud galloped ahead. When he reached the straw cart, he trotted to the head of the suspicious party. Turning his black stallion around, he faced the cart, barring its way. The driver drew hard on the reins, and the farm horses came to an abrupt stop.

  The guards struggled to calm their startled mounts, barking orders, then faced Artaud, lances pointed at him.

  Artaud chuckled at the guards. "Look behind you before you do something foolish."

  The guards glanced over their shoulders at Ida, leading Artaud's advancing knights. Realizing they were grossly outnumbered, the cart's escort lowered their lances.

  Ida directed her men to encircle the suspicious party, then Artaud dismounted and walked to the rear of the wagon. Artaud grabbed a bale of straw by the twine and threw it to the ground.

  "What do we have here?" He couldn't help a grin of victory.

  Ensconced in a hollow between bales of straw, cowered the archbishop and a pubescent boy.

  "You seem comfortable enough, Your Grace." Artaud motioned to the driver. "Turn the cart around."

  The driver obeyed under the questioning look of Artaud's knights.

  He motioned to them. "Escort His Grace to camp, and bring him to my tent. Take the boy back to the town… take the guards prisoners."

  An hour later, Artaud stood in his tent, Ida at his side, with the archbishop sitting on a stool, his back to the central pole. A tall candelabrum spread its flickering light throughout the space. The prelate's ample belly overflowed around the small seat. Armed men stood guard all around the inside of the tent, and more lined the outside.

  "So, you didn't think I would dare come to face you in Lyon?" Artaud savored the sweet taste of victory.

  The archbishop spat in the trampled grass of the tent. "How dare you treat a Prince of the Church like a common thief! Baron Damas would never allow such an insult to a Christian prelate."

  "Damas is keeping watch on Forez for me." As he said it, something twisted Artaud's gut.

  "Is he, now?" Interest reached the archbishop's pale, rheumy eyes.

  "Enough about Damas." Artaud allowed himself a smile. He had Bouchard under his thumb. "Lyon is part of my heritage. Or have you forgotten your place in the order of things?"

  "A Pagan does not deserve to rule such an important Christian town... or the lands of Forez, for that matter," the archbishop grumbled.

  "Is that so?" A subtle threat slipped into Artaud's voice. "Many of my barons are Pagan, and with their Christian counterparts, they elected my ancestor to rule them."

  "But Christianity is on the rise. We shall see you and your Pagan friends burning in hell for all eternity."

  "Not as long as I rule!" Artaud took a calming breath. He would not allow his enemy to goad him into an angry fit. "I brought peace and tolerance to my lands. You are the one bringing strife and war."

  "I fight the just cause of the Lord Almighty." Bouchard's intense conviction chilled the spine.

  "That doesn't give you the right to purchase my vassals' lands." Artaud lined his words with steel.

  Bouchard's brow rose in surprise, then he shrugged. "They were more than happy to sell it to me." He averted his gaze with open disdain. "I paid them a handsome price."

  Artaud shuddered. Rome with its riches could probably afford to buy all of Forez. "I am claiming back these lands from you, and you shall sign an agreement acknowledging you cannot own any land in Forez."

  Bouchard straightened, his lips drooping with lofty scorn. Did he think himself so high and mighty? "And why would I do that?"

  "Because if you don't, I shall make your life a living hell." Artaud had quickly assessed Bouchard's propensity for young boys. "I will publicly denounce your depravities to the emperor, the pope, and all the kings of this continent.

  "How dare you?" Bouchard paled as understanding sank home. "And how am I expected to survive, if I cannot collect monies from my religious estates in Forez?"

  "You make plenty of profits from the monasteries and churches established within the walls of Lyon." The venerable city, Christian since Roman times, counted many. "I shall also afford you a tenth of the tax I levy upon the rich merchants of the great town." It would not be said that Artaud oppressed his prelates.

  A greedy spark flashed in the archbishop's drooping eyes. Lyon was a prosperous center of commerce, at the junction of major trade routes. With such an agreement, Bouchard could still live like a prince... and Artaud kept control of Forez, and his flourishing city of Lyon.

  Bouchard pursed his lips. "You drive a hard bargain, Lord Artaud. I must say the offer is fair. And since I am not in any position to disagree, I choose to accept this arrangement. I hereby swear allegiance to the rightful lord of Lyon and Forez."

  Artaud could read Bouchard's dishonesty about his allegiance, but it didn't matter. A sealed contract would make it stick. "Then let's make it official."

  Artaud snapped his fingers. Two soldiers set up a trestle table between Artaud and the archbishop, who now sat facing each other across the table. Ida brought forth a stool for Artaud and a rolled parchment with the written contract. Artaud took the parchment from Ida's hands, then unrolled it on the table, turning it so Bouchard could read.

  Upon his silent gesture, Ida brought a tray holding a quill, an ink horn, a lit candle, and a stick of wax.

  "Is everything to your liking, Your Grace?" Artaud hid his jubilation.

  Bouchard seized the quill, dipped it in ink then scratched his name at the bottom of the parchment. The victory seemed too easy. Artaud did not trust the archbishop to keep his word, but at least he had his lands back, and no more monasteries or churches would pop up in Forez.

  Artaud pushed toward Bouchard the stick of wax and the candle. "But if you cross me again, I will crush you like a bug under my boot! You may be a Prince of the Church, but I know your dirty secrets. And as a feudal lord and warrior, I will always protect my lands, and the freedom of my people."

  Uncertainty flickered in the bishop's pale eyes. He blinked a few times then sighed in surrender, as he applied his signet ring to the spot of hot red wax under his name on the page. "I do take your meaning, Lord Artaud."

  Artaud turned the document then sat, took the quill and signed his name next to that of Bouchard. He plopped a dab of wax and sealed it with his own signet ring.

  "I must say, I admire your cunning." Bouchard sighed again. "Your strategy was splendidly crafted."

  Artaud had Melusine to thank for it, but he would not let the man sway him with compliments. "Since we are now in agreement, you are free to go, Your Grace."

  Chapter Ten

  Lyon - July 1029

  Ensconced in the padded high chair of the audience hall of his basilica, perspiring in the humid heat, Bouchard sighed as he waited for his right hand man, his most trusted spy and messenger of many talents... known and feared as the man in black
.

  He waved Angelo away with a smile. "I need absolute privacy for this next audience, dear boy."

  Angelo, smiled sweetly. Armed with the wet cloth he'd used to cool his master's forehead, he retreated in a whisper of angel wings. He did not, however, leave the room but remained at a distance to observe. No matter. The boy couldn't hear what would be said.

  A tall, slender man in black leather walked into the vast audience room, his boot heels striking the marble floor in cadence with clipped steps. He genuflected before Bouchard and kissed his enormous ring of office, an amethyst polished to a shine. The sweet scent of rare spices emanated from his person.

  Then he rose, lean and handsome, and smiled fondly upon his master. A steely glint touched his baby blue eyes. "You have need of my services, Your Grace?"

  "Aye. I worked all night to craft my message." Bouchard smiled at the handsome man. "I want you to carry the missive to Lord Damas of Couzan in Forez." He reached inside the fold of his purple robes and drew a folded piece of parchment.

  The man in black flashed a skeptical smile. "Any other messenger in your house could do that for you, Your Grace."

  Such a cunning man. Bouchard handed him the missive. "This particular mission is of the utmost secrecy, and will also require your special skills."

  "I see." The handsome man in black unfolded the parchment and read it slowly.

  "‘Tis about what we discussed earlier."

  The handsome brow barely twitched. "Then I am your devoted servant, Your Grace."

  "If you happen to be caught on the way, I want you to destroy the missive, and if you are interrogated, I expect you to take every detail of this mission to your grave if need be." Anything less would spell disaster for Bouchard.

  The spy's half smile exuded confidence. "Have no fear, Your Grace. It would take an army to catch me. But I would never betray your secrets. Not as long as I live. I lay my life at your feet for the taking." He bowed deeply.