In Haute-Provence, it was a bright, clear summer morning bearing the promise of a hot day. Mij the cobbler's apprentice sat by a road outside the city, clutching his begging bowl. He was just fifteen years old, rather short for his age, with fair hair, hazel eyes and no disfiguring marks. His lean, handsome face which usually sported an open, friendly, inquiring look was today marred by a hurt expression; sullen, with something confused about it too. He looked like a dog that has been kicked too often, and for no reason it can discern. His arms and legs were long and thin, and his big hands were calloused from manual work; but the calluses, to his dismay, were fading fast. He appeared weak, listless and undernourished.
He sat cross-legged in the dust and peered into the distance, watching a point where the road disappeared into the green shadows of the Dragon forest. It canted downhill, away from him. The area closest to the city had been cleared of trees so that crops could be planted. Tall stalks of wheat swayed in the slightest of breezes, almost ready for harvesting. Further on the wheat gave way to small trees, and finally to the thick forest itself.
Directly behind Mij, half a mile distant, was the eastern gate of Forcalquier. From his low vantage point the defensive wall filled most of the horizon and blocked out the view of the city itself, but the Citadel - the Count's castle - could be plainly seen. Perched atop its rocky pinnacle it seemed to peep over the wall like a curious child.
Mij watched the horizon and tried to forget how hungry he felt. Always slim, he had been reduced to a state of pitiful emaciation in the last few weeks. His Uncle's meagre savings had run out a fortnight before and now there was hardly ever food on the table; only shoes. Uncle Wade had doggedly persisted in making shoes and boots as long as his supply of leather lasted, hoping against hope that he would sell them again one day, as he had in the past, and firmly refusing to reduce their price. "My shoes are worth six denarii," he would declare in his gruff voice. "I'll not sell them for less."
So he didn't sell them of course. Other cobblers had cut their prices by half and several had been forced to sell their entire stock to Baron Phiord, the only buyer, for one denarius per pair. Cobbler Leon had been driven to this extreme just the previous day and, by chance, Mij had watched. He had been begging in a doorway opposite Leon's workshop, and the street had been so quiet that he could both see and hear all that occurred. The Baron's clerk had counted the stock and paid off the cobbler, at a larcenous rate. Two beefy labourers had carried the goods away while the old man watched, tears streaming down his face. But he had no choice. His wife and four hungry children had to be fed. Even as he recalled the conversation he had overheard between cobbler and clerk Mij's mouth tightened and his mind clouded with anger. He spat at the grass verge. "One day we'll settle accounts," he muttered. "One day."
After several days of unsuccessful begging in the city square, with other cobblers as competition, Mij had decided to try the eastern gate. There he might encounter travellers just arriving in Forcalquier and pester them for coins. Unfortunately, several others had the same bright idea, so the gate was crowded with mendicants. He found that the same situation prevailed even at the less frequented southern and western gates. That morning he had conceived the plan of going outside the city and meeting visitors even before they reached its portals. He had sneaked out in the darkness an hour before dawn, to make sure that no one else would see him and imitate his ingenuity. In the begging trade two is a crowd.
It was Monday morning and Monday had been market day in Forcalquier since time immemorial, so he was expecting a goodly quantity of traffic. Since the most frequented road came in from the east, from the Durance river, that was his chosen spot. After he had been there for just over an hour he heard, very faintly, the sound of horses’ hooves in the distance. By this time the rising sun was just perched above the treetops on the horizon, seeming almost to rest on them before continuing its long journey across the sky. Mij raised a hand to shade his eyes and stared down the road, waiting. Slowly the sounds grew louder and he discerned the vague shapes of mounted men. He shifted nervously in the dust, licking his lips with anticipation and praying the visitors would be generous. There were two of them, moving slowly. As they approached he heard the creak of leather saddles, the clank and rattle of harness and a voice, loud and hectoring. They came closer still and he saw them in more detail.
The man on the right was tall, slim and erect in his bearing. He wore a simple sky blue tunic belted at the waist with a black cord. Some kind of blue crystal dangled from a leather thong about his neck, glinting in the sun. His legs were bare and suntanned; sandals protected his feet. A long, rapier-like blade hung in a scabbard from his waist, attached to the cord belt by a leather loop. He rode well, shifting easily with the swaying motion of his tall, chestnut stallion, his body turned slightly toward his chattering companion. The man talking was short and very stocky. He has half turned also, towards the other, and rode without touching the reins, using his hands to for gesticulating instead. There was a bow perched on his saddlebags and a quiver of arrows on his back; a short sword of the type once used by the legionaries of Rome hung from his wide leather belt. He wore a blue tunic also but a metal breastplate covered much of it, with wide leather straps going over his powerful shoulders. He wore black leggings and black boots which reached almost to his knees; the half globe of an iron helmet rested neatly on his head, an iron spike protruding from its top. His mount was a stocky yellow pony - a Fiord from the northern lands. A city dweller, and no horseman, Mij was nonetheless aware that this breed, though small, was prized for its hardiness and stability.
As they drew closer he was able to pick out the actual words of the little man's harangue.
"You should have armour," he was saying; "chain-mail; a breastplate; something. You're practically naked, armed only with that silly knitting needle. And it will snap the first time it meets a good broadsword."
"It won't,” They were close enough now for Mij to see their faces. The taller one was clean-shaven, with blue eyes and a long, pointy nose; his mouth was small, the lips rather thin. His high forehead was topped off with short, dark hair. It was a long, narrow jawed kind of face and rather lined; mature if not aged. Mij's first impression was of a man reserved, serious, ascetic even - but not unkind. He looked tough, certainly, but there was mirth too, just below the surface.
The shorter man's mirth was all over the surface, evident in every mannerism, every tone of voice. He had a wide, flat, face with a snub nose and piercing black eyes. A curly black beard covered the lower half of it, while two large and very hairy black caterpillars seemed to be squaring off for a fight on his forehead. Armoured as he was, squat and strong in appearance, he seemed potentially dangerous, but his wide, generous mouth was curved in a smile and his eyes twinkled with glee. He spoke loudly, aggressively, but with humour.
"Look at me!" He thumped his chest. "A breastplate to turn away blade or arrow; arrows myself to keep the foe at a distance, and a good strong sword to deal with him if he gets up close. I'm equipped for battle. You look like you're dressed for a picnic, or maybe for bed," -he slapped his thigh - "or more probably knitting class, certainly not for battle."
"I'll survive, Orph." The taller man assured his companion
"No." The short man was insistent. "Not if you come up against a properly equipped soldier."
The other reined in his horse, just in front of Mij. "When you speak of a properly prepared soldier, to whom I would lose in combat, you mean one equipped like yourself?"
"Exactly." Orph had halted also, seizing the reins for an instant to arrest his ambling steed.
"A few coins, please sirs?" Mij interrupted hesitantly. "Some brass or silver perhaps for a poor hungry lad?" He wheedled in a thin voice without much conviction, for he hated begging. The tall man held up his left hand, indicating that he should wait.
"One moment, lad." Then, with a movement so swift that Mij's eyes barely caught it, he whipped out
his sword, swung it in a short arc and stopped it dead. The rapier blade was quivering and the point of it just touched the centre of his companion's throat. Mij gasped and stood watching helplessly, appalled. Would there be bloodshed? For some seconds the three of them were still, perfectly motionless in the bright daylight of Provence, like models posing for an artist. Mij felt his throat go dry with tension; his tongue seemed too big for his mouth. He tried to speak, to protest, but only a faint croak was emitted. The aggressor held his sword steady as a rock, his face set in a grim expression. The bearded man looked startled, mouth agape.
Then he grinned.
"You lose I believe." With another swift movement, the tall man sheathed his blade.
"Armour slows you down. I like to work light, and fast." Mij exhaled, and only then realised he had been holding his breath.
"You've made your point." Orph conceded reluctantly, he turned to face front and looked at the boy. "Who's this?"
Mij coughed nervously. "A poor beggar, sir. Have you any coins of brass or silver, please?"
The two strangers looked at each other as if each man was not sure how to respond and wanted to check with his companion before proceeding. Then the tall one leaned forward onto the pommel of his saddle. "What's your name, boy?" He asked
"Mij, sir."
"A small name for a small lad," said the bearded one. "I am Orph and my companion is Orcas; something of a swordsman, “He paused to scratch his throat where Orcas blade had touched it and grinned at his companion. "As I'm sure you've already noticed, and something of a sorcerer, too."
"What brings you to Forcalquier?" In his curiosity, Mij had forgotten about begging. These strangers were different from the traders, petty nobles, tinkers and brigands who normally travelled the roads. A sorcerer! He stood close to the chestnut stallion and the powerful scent of it assailed his nostrils as it stepped restlessly on the spot. The sun was higher in the sky, clear of the treetops now, and well progressed in its daily task of heating up the world. Mij was sweating and a little thirsty.
"We are...” Orph started to answer his question then stopped and cocked an enquiring eyebrow at his friend.
"Travelers," finished Orcas. "Weary travellers." He looked pointedly at the bowl in Mij's hand, then at the boy himself. "You beg half-heartedly, lad." He observed. "I fancy it shames you and you would rather work for your daily bread. Am I right?"
Mij nodded solemnly. "There is pride in work; there is only shame in begging."
"But you have to eat." Orcas smiled. "We are strangers in Forcalquier and could use a guide, a local man, to show us around; to find us good lodgings and stables for our horses."
"To point out the best taverns," said Orph. "For these services, we will pay, of course, and it will be money earned honestly. What do you say, lad?"
Mij was eager. "I can do it!"
Then jump up here behind me," said Orcas. "Vanoir can carry two easily enough." He looked sideways at the other horse, a tiny smile turning the corners of his mouth. "I think poor Banan would collapse if you tried to ride with Orph." He reached down and helped the boy into the saddle; when Mij was secure he said, "We'll go slowly but if you feel the need you can hold onto my belt." They set off at a walk.
"What was that you said about Banan? That disparaging remark?" Orph asked resuming his banter with Orcas with a tone that was mock indignant.
"He can't carry two," Orcas replied. "Banan is a fine pony, but he is only a pony."
Mij looked at the sturdy yellow beast and thought that it was indeed, in its way, a fine, handsome animal. Shorter and shorter legged, than the stallion it had to trot now and then to keep up with the other's long easy lope; but it managed. In a way, the horses matched their riders: the one squat and strong, the other tall, elegant and fast.
"What did you call this horse?"
"Vanoir." Orcas patted the stallion's neck affectionately. “A spirited animal. Too spirited, some said, and they were going to send him to the butchers. But I tamed him, just enough."
"He's mad," grumbled Orph. "No-one can ride him without being thrown, except you."
"Spirited, not mad. And a good horseman can handle him; all it takes is confidence. But if he senses fear in the rider he'll play havoc, I admit." Orph merely snorted by way of reply and they proceeded in silence for a minute or so. Then Mij asked his question again:
"You say you are travellers but why have you come here, to Forcalquier?"
Orcas smiled at the boy's persistence and weighed his answer carefully. "Curiosity," he replied after a time. "We have heard of strange happenings and new developments in and around the city. We came to see."
Mij hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the trees behind, forgetting that the man in front could not see the gesture: "You came safely through the forest, but had you met a Dragon - that might have satisfied your curiosity. Although as a sorcerer I suppose dragons are familiar to you?"
"Dragons?" said Orph. "Yes. We've heard some reports of dragons. Are they really true?"
"Yes, sir," Mij asserted. "I have not seen them myself but others have; honest and reliable people too. In the last few months, there have been several sightings. Because the forest is so big it's easy to pass through unmolested, but a few people have been injured."
"By Dragons?" demanded Orcas. "Definitely?"
"Definitely. They've escaped to tell the tale."
Orcas turned in his saddle and peered back at the forest. "Very disturbing. As Orph says, there should not be Dragons in this time and place."
This was a curious phrase, indicating that he and his partner were acquainted with other times, other places. Mij didn't notice. As a simple cobbler's apprentice in a mediaeval European community, he could neither read nor write and if offered the chance to learn he would have scorned it as useless. He was a Freeman, albeit a young one, born into the middle layers of his society. Below him were the serfs: they worked the Barons' lands and were under their protection, practically owned by them in fact. Above him were the Clergy monks, priests, bishops - and the Nobility. In general, these two groups were allies but there was a much political manoeuvring by both to establish which would dominate the partnership. At this time, early in the thirteenth century, the Catholic Church completely controlled the continent in spiritual matters, and tried to do so in worldly affairs as well, but not too successfully. The nobles bowed their heads readily in church but outside it, they held tight to the reins of power.
Orcas turned to the front again. Now they were in the very shadow of the city wall, advancing up a slight incline towards that imposing stonework. The eastern gate lay open before them, its double doors swung back tight to the inside wall. Through its great arch, they could see a flat, dusty square, with a few wooden stalls from which merchants hawked their assorted wares. A couple of guards stood on the wall above the gate, sweating in chain-mail, with lances nestled menacingly in their right arms. A couple more stood at ground level, either side of the gate itself. All four scrutinised the group as they entered the city but made no move to impede their progress. Forcalquier was at peace with its neighbours that year, and there were always strangers about on market day.
Orcas flicked the reins and Vanoir ambled gracefully through the gates into a typical mediaeval town. Most of the houses were wooden, only the Church, the citadel and one or two rich merchants' homes being stone built. Most of the streets were narrow and unpaved, consisting of hard dirt and other messes - a horse was the usual method of locomotion - compacted by the pressure of many boots, many hooves, and many cartwheels. Where paving existed, namely in the central square and on the main route to the Citadel, it consisted of rough cobblestones, slippery when wet. In Provence, fortunately, that wasn't often. Plumbing, like paving, was a rarity. While the Count's castle had a rudimentary drainage system of clay pipes and ditches the common people disposed of their waste by simply throwing it out of the window. They accompanied this act
ion with a loud French cry of "Gardez l'eau!" - Look out, water! Nevertheless, the unwary passerby was always in danger of getting wet and smelly too, in the most unpleasant way imaginable. Once inside the gate Mij and his companions were assailed by the cries of merchants, imploring them to buy fruit, vegetables, weapons, pottery or jewels. Each seller loudly proclaimed the superiority of his wares to all the others; each man tried out shout every other. Mij ignored them.
"Follow that street," he said, pointing to a narrow strip of packed earth that curved away uphill to their left. "It leads to the main square, Le Bourget. We have a proper market there. This is a small thing," he added, waving a dismissive hand at the assembled salesmen. Orcas nodded and, still at an unhurried walking pace, directed his horse up the narrow way, Orph following on Banan. The street was flanked by wooden houses, two-storeys high and packed very closely together. It gave onto a large, open square, as Mij had indicated. To their left, as they entered was the Church, a fine, imposing building, ornate but not overly so. Apart from the church most of the other buildings around the square were, rather incongruously, taverns. The large open area in the centre was the market, full of wooden barrows, tables and stalls. They dispensed the same goods as had been on offer at the eastern gate but more of them, and in greater variety. Even at this early hour, the scene was fairly busy, with customers hurrying to and fro and hawkers shouting. Straight ahead of them the road dropped away, down from this hill city to the village of Mane, and, further on, to the great city of Avignon, forty miles distant.
Orph pointed left, to a road, which mounted the hill. Houses seemed stacked on that steep slope, one atop the other, as if each dwelling, eager to be seen by all, had mounted on the shoulders of the one below, like schoolboys posing for a group photograph.
"That must be the rocky pinnacle which stands out so when you view the city from a distance."
Fixing Forcalquier Page 2
