Under her glamour of invisibility, she swam toward the shore and observed through the fog. Soldiers with torches moved in groups along the waterline. More soldiers carrying crossbows boarded a slew of small boats lining the beach, then rowed them out over deeper water.
A cunning maneuver. They were well prepared to shoot a dragon out of the sky over the lake. Melusine would have to improvise, in order to get rid of these archers, too.
A shudder prickled her spine. Projecting her farseeing gift like a bird over the area, she observed more troops gathering in and around the foggy swamps. As Artaud had suggested, there was only one efficient way to organize such a hunt, and Damas knew it, too. Once again, Melusine thanked John-John in her mind for the timely warning.
The movements of the troops matched that of a well organized hunting party. On one side monks and villagers wrapped up in furs prepared to beat up the game toward a line of hunters. But at the opposite border of the swamp stood archers in chain mail, not hunters. A few mounted knights carried spears and swords... no doubt to claim the glory for themselves in the end.
A quick scan of the villagers' minds confirmed Melusine's fears. These were her mortal enemies. They wanted to see all magic destroyed, and all Pagans burned at the stake. Melusine shuddered at the images of fire in her mind. What a horrible way to die.
Hoping to glean information on the progress of the operation, Melusine let her mind touch that of an enemy captain leading a small group of archers. Through the man's apprehension, she read his purpose. He feared the dragon but was determined to lead the hunt. He, too, knew what kind of prey he hunted and would gladly see it dead. A frisson of dread skittered along Melusine's golden fishtail.
Then she recognized a familiar yet disconcerting presence among the soldiers. Damas of Couzan himself! He'd come in person to lead hundreds of soldiers in this hunt. They wore the golden lion of burgundy on their blue surcoats. The mounted knights surrounding Damas wore the cross of Couzan, and others the Christian cross.
So, Damas had made a pact with the archbishop and his Burgundy brother again. This alliance did not augur well for Artaud. Melusine spread her hands upon her round belly. Dear Goddess, please protect Artaud and our babies.
Artaud insisted she must make it look as if there was naught to chase, no dragon, no ondine, no magic. She must turn this hunt into a natural disaster. Demonstrate the swamps too dangerous a place for men, and this endeavor pointless and futile. Fortunately, this December had started mild, without a hard freeze.
Over the past few days, Melusine had helped Artaud and a few loyal men prepare the traps. They'd secretly dug many pits and trenches, and located the deepest and most treacherous whirlpools. All would serve their purpose nicely.
Only if all else failed, would Artaud and his most trusted knights descend from the nearby hill, where they hid in the wintry woods.
Please, O Great One, help us today.
As the timid glow of the winter sun filtered through the mist, the line of monks and villagers advanced. They slapped tree trunks with sticks, beat small drums, twirled noisy whirligigs, blew wood whistles, and rattled chains, to scare the monster out of his lair. Little did they know their prey was watching them.
At the edge of a deep pool connected to the lake by an undertow, Melusine focused on the half-witted mortals, who marched blindly through the fog. Weaving a glamour to mask the edges of the pool, she watched two dozen men splash into the icy waters. The strong eddy whirled them around despite their cries, and took them deep under, into the whirlpool leading to the bottom of the lake.
Their screams, muffled by the fog, alarmed those closest to them. Shouts erupted along the human line. Many more men broke ranks and stepped into the pool to attempt a rescue, only to be pulled in by the strong undertow, and disappear under the murky waters.
Melusine watched sternly. That would teach these fanatics not to hunt magic creatures. The beating line dwindled and slowed. Melusine thickened the fog, so they couldn't see their surroundings.
The men stretched farther apart to keep the line. Spread too thin, they lost sight of each other. Just as Artaud predicted. Separated, they stumbled into mud-filled trenches, deep sink holes, or treacherous waters. Others wandered aimlessly, lost, unable to find their bearings.
Good. Now, to the land archers. Unfamiliar with the area, they knew naught of the peat bogs they bordered. The trick would be to make them walk into them.
As for the other archers waiting in the boats on the lake, Melusine had an idea... a nasty surprise for them, too.
* * *
Avoiding the peat bogs to his left, Damas rode ahead of his knights through the sticky mud. The fog lay so thick on the ground, it masked the uneven terrain. The humid cold penetrated his woolen cloak. His destrier stumbled into a hole and whinnied in complaint to the harsh conditions.
"Dumb horse." Damas slapped the animal's neck and shifted his weight in the saddle, to keep his balance as his mount recovered its footing.
"What foul weather to be chasing dragons," his nephew Abelar, a knight only a few years older than his son, uttered. "Cold and damp as death's white glove."
"Aye. But if we bring down the beast today, our fame will reach the far corners of the known world." Damas would forever be sung as a hero of Christendom, and accepted in all western courts, with influence and riches gathered at his feet for the taking.
Despite the height of the saddle, Damas couldn't see far ahead either. Bare tree trunks jutted like black poles at odd intervals in the mist. Although he'd been there before, he did not recognize his surroundings.
"What a stench!" Abelar coughed and covered his nose.
Damas could smell the distinctive odor of peat. "‘Tis the bogs."
"Are we lost, Uncle?"
"Of course not." Where was he? "This way."
Leading his knights away from the stink of the peat bogs, Damas searched for the line of beaters. The dragon would be between the two lines, and he wanted to be celebrated as the first to spot it, and the last to finish off the beast.
On a clear day, he would have heard the beaters pushing the prey toward his archers, but the fog muffled all sounds.
"Damn that infernal dragon to hell."
* * *
With what remained of the beaters confused and lost, and Damas and his knights away from the archers, Melusine had free reins. The peat bogs lay between the lake and the swamps. All she had to do, was convince the archers on land to move their line to face the bogs.
She touched the mind of the same captain from whom she'd gained information earlier. His state of agitation would make him easy to influence. Melusine used a convincing mind voice... that of Damas.
"The Dragon is coming from the lake. Move your archers to face the distant shore."
Immediately, the captain conveyed frantic orders. "The dragon is coming from the lake! Move, move, move. Spread the line. Get ready for the fist volley. Upon the lord's signal."
Estimating the distance and the arrow flight from her experience in many battles, Melusine bid her time. Her awareness gliding like a disembodied soul, she watched the men form ranks and march forth.
In the meantime, she made her voice heard by the other archers waiting on the boats. "The dragon is coming from land. Prepare to fire."
Eagerly, the archers on the boats knocked their arrows.
"Fire at will!" As she sounded like Damas in their heads, captains and archers on both sides of the bog repeated the order. Used to fire blindly, trusting their leaders, the archers on both sides launched the first volley. Then another.
The archers in the boats heard the gruesome whistling and saw the cloud of arrows coming their way, but there was no escape. Men collapsed, boats tipped, those thrown overboard fell to more arrows. The screams of the wounded and the desperate calls of the drowning filled the air, but Melusine remained deaf to them.
Land archers at the edge of the bogs fell victims to friendly volleys as well.
Encouraged by
her success, Melusine made Damas's voice resound for the archers on land. "March toward the shore and keep firing!"
The soldiers still standing stepped forward. Blind to their target, they kept firing into the fog as they struggled through mud. Soon, they realized they'd ventured into treacherous bogs. The more they struggled to escape, the deeper they sank. Too late for them. The peat bogs never released their victims.
Melusine opened her eyes as her consciousness returned to her ondine body. On shore and on the boats, sheer panic reigned. Men screamed, some in pain, others in fear. The survivors tripped over each other to get away, causing the boats to lurch and spill more men into the icy waters. Few could swim.
Farther into the swamps, Damas was discovering dead monks and villagers in scores. His frustrated roar echoed in Melusine's mind, and she smiled. He would soon find out his soldiers had killed each other.
The victory was complete. Melusine touched Artaud's mind. We won, my love. Now you can march upon Couzan.
She sensed relief in Artaud's mind.
Satisfied, Melusine flicked her tail and dove into deep waters. Damas and the archbishop would think twice before hunting dragons, or any other magic creature, in the swamps of Forez.
* * *
Artaud, who had waited up on the hill bordering the swamps, could see as the fog lifted, the extent of the debacle. Melusine had won her battle. The soldiers, mired in the swamps, could offer no help to save Damas's castle. Now was the time to act.
He motioned to Ida in full chain mail but no surcoat. She, in turn, signaled silent orders to his men. With little sound, riding knights and foot soldiers in nondescript gear, advanced through the woods toward Couzan's castle.
As he neared the fortress, Artaud could see from the road that the gate stood wide open to allow daytime traffic.
Ida chuckled. "Damas underestimated you, brother."
"Aye. He felt so confident in his secret scheme and impending victory, that he left the gate open for his victorious soldiers to return."
Artaud would never let such a strategic opportunity pass him by. He was prepared.
As they rode, he addressed his men. "It takes a short while to completely close that gate. They must think we are Damas's men returning from the battle in the swamps. We must fool them as long as possible, so that when they finally realize who we are, it's too late to close the gate."
His foot soldiers deployed a Burgundy banner stolen in the last battle. They went first, in broken ranks, bedraggled, pretending to return home, tired and cold, to warm themselves to a fire.
Artaud and his knights followed in the same manner, ready to gallop through if the gate started to close. They came very near without reaction from the ramparts. The men on the barbican did not seem to notice anything amiss. They stared at the returning soldiers. They did not know any of them anyway.
When a cry went up from the battlement, all foot soldiers and riding knights rushed through the gate before it closed. Then Artaud's foot soldiers climbed the stairs to the barbican to keep the gate open... Until all of Artaud's soldiers were inside.
Only a few guards defended the fortress. A costly mistake.
"Close the gate," Artaud ordered after all his men were inside. None of Couzan's knights or Burgundy soldiers would retake the fortress now.
After a short fight in the outer bailey, and another to get to the keep, the Castle of Couzan belonged again to Artaud of Forez.
Liberating the soldiers imprisoned in the overcrowded dungeon brought up a wave of cheers. They looks malnourished, and Artaud ordered them fed immediately.
Later that day, Damas returned to his castle with only a few loyal knights at his side. He found the gate closed, and the battlements manned by Artaud's soldiers.
"Artaud, I will kill you for sure," Damas yelled from below the walls.
"Just come and try." Artaud signaled his archers, rescued from the dungeon.
A volley of arrows chased Damas and his knights away from the proximity of the gate.
Damas spit on the ground and turned his horse around. Then his knights followed him back to the river road.
Artaud had won, but as long as Damas lived, Forez would not be safe.
Chapter Fifteen
Lyon, a week later - December 1029
Bouchard paced his private audience chamber, hands behind his back, but his frustration did not ebb. He whirled upon the source of his disappointment. "You fouled this mission miserably. My brother Renaud of Burgundy will no doubt rant about this fiasco. How could you lose over four hundred of his archers, without an enemy soldier in sight?"
Damas bowed slightly, humbled for a change. "I apologize, Your Grace. But the bogs murdered the men. The fog and the treacherous terrain..."
"And meanwhile, Artaud took your castle right from under your nose... How does that make you look as a strategist?" Bouchard scowled at him. "You lost a non-battle, and your castle to boot."
"I know, Your Grace, and I still don't understand it." Damas raked his silver-streaked hair.
"How could Artaud know of your plans?" Bouchard dropped into his favorite chair.
Damas sighed. "The only explanation for such losses is that magic was involved."
"Black magic?" Bouchard froze and narrowed his eyes on Damas. "Do you have any proof of that?"
"Possibly." Damas held Bouchard's stare. "The few surviving archers all swore they heard my own voice giving them orders to change course and to shoot."
"So?" Bouchard waited, fingers drumming the arm of his chair. "How does this qualify as black magic?"
"I was nowhere near them when the order was given... and how could I be on the lake and across the bog, to give that order on both sides at the very same instant?" Damas shook his head, lips pressed together. "Someone else used my voice and gave the orders. I know ‘tis impossible, yet it happened."
"Sorcery... the forbidden black arts. We live in dangerous times." Bouchard would get rid of these evil practices in Forez. "But how is this connected to Lady Melusine?"
Damas raised one brow. "As you know, it happened on the very day she disappears from her castle."
"Right." Not enough to win a witch trial. "Did you see her in the swamps during the hunt?"
"Of course, not." Damas rose suddenly. "We could not see anything through that godforsaken fog."
"I cannot deny ‘tis a strange coincidence." Bouchard rubbed his smooth jowl. Could he use that tenuous thread to charge Artaud with sorcery? He might have to.
* * *
Montarcher, late December 1029
Melusine shifted in her chair at the center of the high table, cupping her growing belly with one hand. Her other hand held Artaud's on the white tablecloth.
How she relished the warmth of the giant Yule logs in the two massive fireplaces. She also enjoyed the plentiful and delicious food, as well as the entertainment. Minstrels traveling south, and pilgrims on their way to Santiago of Compostella in Spain, always stopped in Montarcher for the winter solstice. They appreciated the hospitality and boundless generosity of the lord of Forez.
She leaned her head upon Artaud's shoulder. "I so love the peace and serenity of the winter solstice festivities."
"I welcome peace." Artaud sighed deeply. "‘I am tired of battles."
"I'm glad the castle of Couzan offered no resistance," Ida declared with conviction from Artaud's right. "Servants and villagers embraced the change of master in stride... like they did time and again."
Guilli, at the other end of the high table snorted. "They had no choice, after losing all their men in the swamps, what else could they do?"
"Still," Ida sighed. "Damas escaped unscathed."
Melusine smiled. "I suspect he is licking his wounded pride with the archbishop in Lyon, right now. With the winter upon us, he poses no immediate threat."
Guilli winked. "Nothing ever happens in the heart of winter. Right?"
"True enough." Melusine nodded slowly. "When snow blankets the cold countryside, war recede
s into the background. Even the wild life retreats into silence."
To the harmonies of stringed instruments, minstrels sang, while acrobats and jugglers capered and twirled to the music. The guests gasped, as one did a particularly daring somersault, then the acrobat curtsied to a round of applause.
Artaud squeezed Melusine's hand and gazed into her eyes. "How fare you, beloved?"
"I am well." She smiled.
"And the..." he hesitated. "The baby?" At least he didn't say twins, or boys, since only witches could know these things in advance.
Melusine did not share her misgivings. In her previous marriage with Sigefroi, she had given birth to boys, but never to twins. "The baby is warm and happy, and enjoys the music."
Artaud smiled warmly then returned his attention to the performers.
Melusine had grown to admire Artaud. He looked out for his people and made them forget the harsh winter by offering a haven of comfort and togetherness. Pagans and Christians celebrated together, albeit for different reasons. All partook in the good spirit of the season.
As the Goddess had promised, the larders overflowed, and the grain was plentiful. As long as Melusine and Artaud followed their appointed path, Forez would thrive under Her divine protection.
Melusine's keen ears detected a commotion outside the double doors of the Great Hall. She squeezed Artaud's hand.
"What is it?" Artaud's face tensed.
The music stopped abruptly on a string of clashing notes. The conversations ceased.
The doors burst open. A gush of cold wind and snow flurries rushed inside. A knight on his destrier rode straight through the arched entrance into the hall, in a fracas of hooves, startling the diners. Entertainers scrambled out of the way.
The messenger dismounted in front of the high table and saluted the lord and lady of Forez. Puddles of melting snow dripped to the flagstone from his boots and purple mantle. He wore the Christian cross on his chest. An envoy from the Church?
Chatelaine of Forez Page 16
