The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book
Page 60
Abelard had spent the afternoon with Sir John Hawkwood to coordinate for the following day’s activities. Several independent captains had been engaged by the legendary condottiere to protect the Avignon Pope and his cardinals, who had been convened to shore up his claim to the throne of St. Peter. This was the period when the Papacy, under pressure from an earlier French king, Philippe IV le Bel, had abandoned Rome, its fickle rabble, its glory fallen to decrepitude, and set up shop in Provence. There were many unhappy Catholics who would not have shed a tear at news of the absentee Pope’s demise, leaving little surprise at the large number of armed men guarding the magnificent Palace of the Popes. Although not quite falling overboard, Abelard’s pride was ever so slightly heightened knowing that it was a countryman, a fellow Gascon, Bertrand de Goth, formally known as Pope Clement V, who had moved the Holy See to Avignon.
The sun was still a good hour from setting and the oppressive heat of the day had all but disappeared as Abelard made his way back to his troop. He was moving at a brisk canter and practically ran into the two immobile horses as he came out of a blind turn. He heard the angry, high pitched voice before he saw the very dead coachman lying across his perch, blood still seeping from a gaping wound to his chest. The coach itself was swaying wildly and the female voice was now joined by a hoarse bellowing. When he lifted the flap at the back to investigate he was greeted by the angry look of someone who did not want to be disturbed. It was a huge face, scarred, pitted and wild. He recognized the crest of a Teutonic knight. They had a very poor but well deserved reputation for being utterly unreasonable and insanely fearless. He did not really care for them.
They were two, the other still busy trying to disrobe a woman whose face was covered by her carelessly raised outer garments. The momentarily unoccupied ruffian had by now drawn a long Welsh knife and in one bound leapt at Abelard, knocking him from his horse. The struggle was intense but short. Abelard succeeded in landing several blows with his mailed fists to repulse his attacker, giving him time to draw his sword which he vigorously embedded in the Teuton’s protruding belly. His back was still to the wagon when he heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. He quickly turned to see a large bearded man staring dumbly at him, sword still tightly held, but not raised. Before he could bring his own sword down in a killing arc, the second Teuton fell forward, quite dead. It took a moment to notice the small wooden shaft protruding from the base of his skull.
When he looked up again, a very beautiful lady, with long black hair and a wicked smile was pointing a very small crossbow at his head. Having witnessed her apparent dexterity with the little weapon, he thought it best to bow, mount and ride on. His horse had barely moved when he heard the sweetest voice beckon him. Yes, Madame, Abelard de Buch at your service. Yes, I would like very much that you show your appreciation at my having saved your lovely mortal coil.
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