Chatelaine of Forez

by Vijaya Schartz

  A shiver coursed along Melusine's spine. Dear Goddess, please, keep us safe from religious fanatics.

  Artaud cleared his throat. "What brings a messenger to my hall on such a festive day?"

  The knight barely bowed then pulled a rolled parchment out of a leather sheath hanging from his saddle. He handed it to Artaud across the trestle table. "For Lord Artaud of Forez."

  Artaud raised a brow and glanced left at Melusine, then right to his brother and sister, and finally took the document. The many dangling seals attested to its very official nature. Whispers filled the hall and the guests stared, as their lord broke the main wax seal and unrolled the parchment.

  Melusine closed her eyes and extended her sense of sight to read the missive through Artaud's eyes.

  In the month of December, in the year of the Lord 1029, I, Archbishop Bouchard of Lyon, declare by this edict, Artaud, Count of Forez, and his wife, Melusine, excommunicated and forever banned from the kingdom of heaven. Their unforgivable sin is having congress with demonic creatures present in the swamps of Forez. One of them, an evil dragon, caused the death of hundreds of faithful soldiers and monks come to defend the true faith against dark forces.

  As a favor to such a high lord, this is a kindly warning. Unless the two rulers of Forez leave for exile before spring, His Holiness the pope will be asked to ratify this edict and bring the wrath of God to rain upon Forez, to smite the evil nesting there.

  Artaud paled but did not speak, seemingly deep in conflicting thoughts. How could they accuse the dragon of killing their men? But this was neither the place nor the time to discuss such a topic.

  Brushing the messenger's mind, Melusine realized the knight had no knowledge of what the message contained. But she wouldn't let Bouchard intimidate her. As Pagans, neither she nor Artaud laid claim to the Christian heaven. Still. A large part of the civilized world did, and if the pope ordered it, they would take arms against Forez in the spring.

  The messenger bowed. "Is there a response for His Grace, my lord?"

  "Nay." Artaud shook his head. "I have no response at this time, sir knight."

  Melusine smiled at the man. "Would you like to join us to celebrate Yuletide?"

  The knight bowed to Melusine. "Nay, thank you, my lady. I am joining holy monks at a nearby monastery for the Christmastide agape."

  The knight saluted and mounted his destrier. He turned it around then trotted across the flagstone, toward the closed double doors.

  Servants hurried to pull open the oak doors for him. Gusts of wind lifted swirls of snowflakes as the man rode straight out through the arched opening, and kicked his destrier into a gallop. The doors quickly closed against the cold wind.

  Artaud clinked his dagger against his silver goblet and declared. "Enough interruptions. Let's enjoy this happy season together."

  Conversations soared louder than before. He motioned for the servants to bring more wine. Minstrels and acrobats reclaimed the floor and escalated their skilled demonstration, while the guests returned their attention to the food and entertainment.

  Scroll in hand, Artaud rose from the table and glanced at Melusine, then at Guilli and Ida. "Come. We have much to discuss."

  Melusine took Artaud's offered arm and leaned upon him as they walked toward the stairs leading to the upper levels of the keep.

  Guilli, on their heels couldn't contain his curiosity. "What is it? What did the message say?"

  Ida's voice reached Melusine from behind as they climbed the narrow winding stairs. "Nothing good, I wager, especially if it's from Bouchard."

  * * *

  Once in the library, Artaud could no longer contain the hot rage roiling in his gut. "Intimidation. This is pure intimidation. I refuse to run. If they want my lands and castles, they'll have to take them from me at sword point."

  Melusine laid a calming hand on his arm. "The archbishop excommunicated you without proof. You would be justified to defend yourself by revealing his wrongdoings to the pope."

  "Excommunication?" Ida gasped and brought one hand to cover her mouth.

  "Aye." Artaud helped Melusine ease into his armchair. "And Bouchard should not play this game. He is far from blameless for a prince of the Church."

  Ida frowned questioningly. "What are you talking about, brother?"

  Artaud grunted. He owed his siblings the truth. "Bouchard has an unhealthy predilection for young altar boys."

  Guilli sat on the arm of a chair across the sturdy table and sneered. "I wager the pope knows it and doesn't care."

  The thought had crossed Artaud's mind, too. "You may be right."

  "Still." Ida straddled a stool, closing the circle.

  "You should tell the pope anyway," Guilli ventured.

  Ida shrugged. "No message can be sent to Rome right now. All the mountain passes in the Alps are blocked by ice and snow until the thaw."

  Guilli glared at his sister. "Bouchard could send his missive by waterways down the Rhone River, then across the Mediterranean sea. ‘Tis possible. I've seen maps."

  "That would take even longer." Melusine raised her questioning gray gaze upon Artaud. "What are you going to do, beloved?"

  "I am not denouncing the archbishop to the pope." Artaud struggled to keep his voice calm. "Such base tactics are not worthy of us. We have right on our side."

  Melusine's smile lit up her limpid gray eyes. "The Goddess will protect us."

  Artaud hoped so. He squeezed Melusine's shoulder then faced his siblings. "We shall prepare for a long siege. If or when Christendom attacks, we shall fight for the right of all to worship according to their chosen beliefs."

  Guilli nodded gravely. "Christians and Pagans alike, as is our tradition."

  "Aye." Artaud bit his lips. This decision could cost their lives. "And the unfortunate souls, whom the king of France keeps chasing into exile, like the Jews. I want them all to find a safe haven in Forez."

  "‘Tis a noble goal, brother. I shall be honored to fight at your side." Ida always seemed eager to don her chain mail, but Artaud may not be able to keep her from burning at the stake, and it bothered him.

  Guilli nodded with confidence. "Our people will fight with us."

  Artaud didn't share his brother's assurance. "They always did before... but the monks might preach against us."

  "And what about Damas?" Ida straightened on her stool. "He is defeated, but still at large."

  "True..." Artaud raked his hair. So many unknown elements. "But our people trust our military might, and our castles have proven their strength."

  "We need to take a stand and make a better world for our future children." Melusine's voice soothed him. She shielded her round belly with both hands. "They deserve to grow up in a kinder world."

  Overwhelmed by so much support, Artaud kissed Melusine's hair lightly, enjoying the scent of mint and lavender. "It won't be easy, but I believe these walls can withstand any attack."

  Melusine touched his hand on her shoulder, and the contact calmed him, somehow. "Especially since we have the Great One's protection."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two months later - March First, 1030

  At the top of the small outcrop among the trees, Damas signaled his knights and pulled on the reins. While his mercenary army of foot soldiers spread out and hid among the trees in the bare woods, he shaded his eyes against the rising sun. A quarter mile away, stood his fortress of Couzan, atop its rocky spine. A steep, wide path of sturdy flat stones climbed from the river road to the main gate.

  In front of the gate, carts already lined up. They brought supplies from the neighboring farms, milk, eggs and cheese. A few merchants hauling their meager wares hoped for a lucrative day.

  Damas's favorite knight and nephew, young Abelar, pulled his destrier closer. "The almighty be thanked for the unusually fair weather, uncle."

  "Aye. ‘Tis a good omen." Damas needed a turn in his streak of bad luck. Losing to Artaud and spending months in his dungeon, then retaking Couzan by ruse from th
e inside, only to lose it again after a disastrous dragon hunt in the swamps... Pagan magic and all Pagans be damned to the flames of eternal hell.

  Along the river, the first blades of grass pierced the moist ground softened by the early thaw. Damas inhaled the invigorating scent of damp earth, chain mail, and oiled leather. After spending the worst of winter in the luxurious halls of Lyon and Burgundy, where he hired this new army, he was eager to taste the sweet comforts of his rightful home... but he had to conquer it first.

  Damas turned to Abelar. "Are you certain none of their lookouts escaped?"

  "Certain, uncle." The young knight straightened his back in the saddle with obvious pride. "We easily located their hiding places and disposed of them before they could report our arrival."

  "Good." Unlike his mercenaries, the faithful knights of Couzan knew the lay of the land almost as well as he did.

  "I must congratulate you on your shrewd strategy, uncle. No one will expect you to retake your castle this early in the season."

  Damas chuckled. "The simpletons think I am defeated, and consider winter a natural truce from war."

  "An outdated belief." Abelar smiled devilishly, his beardless chin jutted toward the top of the rampart. "Look at these patrols on the wall walk. They have no idea an entire army is at their gate."

  Damas steadied his destrier. "I see no logic in laying a long siege, or scaling the stark walls under enemy fire, when ruse can swiftly win the day."

  "Amen to that." Abelar crossed himself. The impressionable youth paid too much heed to the monks' sermons.

  Damas knew many secret passages into his castle from the countryside, but he refused to entrust such knowledge to an army of mercenaries, not even to his devoted knights. He had slain the masons who constructed the underground maze, so only he and his wife would know of its existence.

  Today was the day, but Damas didn't dare rejoiced yet. "By now, my lady wife must have decoded the message I sent by carrier pigeon. Our trusted men still inside the castle should be ready to help."

  "We can only hope Lord Artaud's garrison did not uncover them." Abelar crossed himself again.

  Damas shook his head. "They are posing as servants. No one looks twice at servants."

  He squinted to focus on the castle's main gate. Within moments, it would open to let in the waiting supply carts.

  Abelar followed his gaze. "I hope they don't make out the covered wagon before it crosses the gate."

  "They won't." The large, four-wheel ox cart in the line contained a score of fully armed mercenaries. They had orders to swarm the barbican and keep the gate open during the charge.

  The full contingent of mercenaries on foot waited silently behind the trees for the signal to attack. No animal dared peep. As a hunter, Damas knew even silent woods could reveal their presence. Fortunately, the fortress stood too far, for their defenders to notice the unnatural silence.

  A captain wearing the lion of Burgundy on his surcoat brought his destrier close to his on the small outcropping. "The men are ready to charge, my lord."

  "Good." Damas smiled at the prospect of retaking his fortress. "Show no mercy, no pity, no quarters. Slaughter them all. Promise your men a gold bit for each enemy slain this day."

  The captain saluted, a wide smile on his face. "That alone will give them wings, my lord."

  "I expect it will." Damas didn't intend to make good on his promise, and would only give them a pittance. Many would die today, and soldiers didn't know how to count anyway.

  Abelar's fair brow furrowed. "Gold, my lord? Are you sure?"

  "What better than gold to motivate these mercenaries? They do not fight for their lord, lands, or family. They need a strong incentive... the prospect of gold will give them courage, and they'll want to survive to spend it lavishly."

  "I see..." Abelar smiled. "We shall need them again to take Lord Artaud's main castle."

  "Aye." Damas wished he was already attacking Montarcher. Patience... in a day or two. Before news of his return reached enemy ears.

  Muffled orders from various directions broke the silence. The woods came alive with foot soldiers creeping closer to the tree line.

  Damas watched his castle with jubilation as the heavy grate of the portcullis lifted in a slow grinding of gears, and the massive oak doors opened wide. Young servants bounced out of the castle, carrying baskets, skipping playfully down the road leading to the village. The first carts rolled through the gate and stopped, one by one, as the guards inspected each load.

  When the large covered wagon halted in the gateway and erupted with armed men, Damas held his breath. The few guards at the gate drew their swords and called for help. Outnumbered, swiftly overwhelmed, they fell, massacred by the savage mercenaries.

  The foot soldiers in the woods yelled a battle cry, repeated in the roar of a thousand throats. They surged from the tree line, rushing up the rocky slope, toward the steep stone path and the castle gate, like a colony of hungry ants.

  "Go, my bloodthirsty soldiers," Damas whispered under his breath. "Go retake my castle."

  A frantic horn blared from the ramparts. A volley of enemy arrows whistled through the air in a dark, malevolent cloud. Villagers outside the gate scrambled away, others took cover behind outcropping rocks.

  "Incoming!" Abelar shouted.

  Although out of range, Damas raised his shield. Arrows thudded on the wooden shields of the climbing army. On the steep path, men screamed and collapsed among the rocks, or fell to the side of the road, but those unscathed kept climbing, ignoring their fallen comrades. The rising sun glinted on helmets, chain mail, and polished blades. The promise of gold truly gave these men wings.

  Damas narrowed his attention to the struggle for control of the barbican atop the gate. Despite more castle guards rushing to the barbican, the mercenaries still held the portcullis open. Soon, his charging army reached the top of the paved path and the open gate, and poured into the bailey.

  Arrows stopped flying as the castle garrison turned inward to engage the invader already inside the walls. This was his cue.

  Damas signaled his dozen mounted knights to follow and galloped up the steep road, in a clatter of hooves. The snort of the struggling destriers and the pounding of hooves matched the drumming of his heart. Victory was near. Today, Damas would be lord of his castle, again.

  He charged into the bailey with his mounted knights. The clang of steel, the smell of blood and the screams overwhelmed his senses. Damas reeled at the sheer number of enemy soldiers. Artaud kept a full garrison here. And they seemed well trained. Although outnumbered, they would put up a good fight. Hell and damnation!

  Damas would have to count on the mercenaries' greed and legendary savagery, unmatched in the western world. In a killing frenzy, they hacked and skewered like bloody demons without a care for their own survival.

  Skirting the chaos, Damas filtered the din of battle and the cries of the dying to focus on the safest path. He deflected a sword, blocked an axe with his shield. The overpowering stench of blood permeated the outer bailey. Alert and ready, he kicked an enemy soldier's face, trampled a falling servant, and led his knights to the large building sheltering the stables.

  Through the wide open door, his party rode inside the dark space, hooves drumming on flagstone. Stable boys scattered at their entrance, fleeing outside, straight into the fray. Horses whinnied and kicked their stall walls.

  Damas and his knights dismounted, then tethered their mounts to a rough hewn timber, horizontally propped, waist high along a wall.

  "Bar the door and stand watch," Damas called to no one in particular.

  A knight nodded, closed the wide door then picked up the heavy metal beam and dropped it in its hooks across the oak door. Then he stood in the shadows, watching the bailey through a peep hole.

  The dusty smell of hay and the rich scent of manure filled the darkened space. The thick stone walls and closed shutters muffled the din of the battle raging outside.

  "This
way." Damas walked at the head of his men to the far end of the stables. In the last stall, he swept the straw with his boot, uncovering a square flagstone with two metal rings... the trap door. Unlike the escape tunnels, he could safely share this secret passage with his knights.

  Damas took the cold torch from the wall sconce and lit it to the oil lamp hanging from the rafters overhead. He handed it to one of his men. "Hold this."

  Damas motioned to his nephew and bent over to grab one of the metal rings. "Help me."

  Abelar reached for the second metal ring and together they lifted the cover stone. Not as thick or heavy as one would expect. As they pulled the stone aside, the dark stairwell underneath came to light.

  "This passage crosses under the second wall, across the inner bailey, and into the dungeon, at the bottom of the keep." Damas had learned that trick from Montarcher's extensive library, as Artaud's military commander.

  The knights stared at him grimly, the flame of the torch gleamed in their resolute eyes.

  "From the dungeon to the great hall, the guards should be few," he went on. "All their forces are fighting in the outer bailey."

  The knight at the door turned to face them.

  Damas motioned to him. "Come hither."

  The knight jogged across the stables in a jingling of mail to join them.

  "You all know my relatives inside. Some of our men are posing as servants, you know who is friend or foe. Be stealthy, and show no mercy to the usurpers. Surprise is our best weapon."

  The knights nodded stiffly. Abelar swallowed, bobbing his Adam's apple.

  Then Damas took the torch and descended first down the stone stairs in the floor. His knights followed into the narrow tunnel that forced them to walk in single file. The smell of mildew, rodent droppings, and decomposing filth filled the damp, stifling space.

  "Keep it quiet," Damas whispered. "Step lightly. Hold your scabbards."