The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  “They are savages,” said Welf. “Ignorant of civilized warfare.”

  “All this aside,” said Hugh, “we will not sink to their heathen level. Europeans know how to wage war.”

  “Do we? I begin to wonder,” Itha said in a cold voice. “I have studied chronicles of the battle of which we speak. One thing our proud Count isn’t saying is that his forces came perilously close to losing that battle.”

  Guilhem bit his lips to hide a grin. It was gratifying to hear her scorn directed at someone other than himself, especially Hugh.

  “I grant it.” Hugh glowered at her beneath tangled brows. “But that was not because of any lack of skill on the part of my mounted knights.”

  “I didn’t say it was.” She leaned forward, resting both hands flat on the map table. “Even Welf here has learned a thing or two. He spoke just now of attacking the enemy’s flanks. And where did he, did we, learn the wisdom of this? Rather than plowing straight into an enemy force with heavy cavalry?” She pointed her chin at Hugh. “During his Battle of Dorylaeum.”

  Guilhem, who had also studied the records, knew to what she referred. Their fleeing foes led the French cavalry into a marsh. Although the knights had the presence of mind to abandon their horses, their heavy armor made it impossible for them to penetrate very far into the swamp because they were sinking into the muck. Muslim archers began picking the Frenchmen off. They were forced to retreat and would have been slaughtered had not reinforcements arrived and attacked the Saracen flanks.

  From that time on, the Europeans used such flanking maneuvers as a crucial piece of their battlefield tactics. Seeking to curry a bit of favor with the lovely commander, Guilhem said, “Aye. Itha has the right of it. We learn slowly and with resistance, but we learn. The ways in which we wage war back at home don’t work well in these climes.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Can it be?” Her tone was sardonic. “Is our impetuous duke learning not to be so impulsive?”

  “I am simply starting to see the value of trying out new ways of fighting,” he said, as graciously as he could. Bless me, but the woman is aggravating!

  Welf sneered. “New ways of losing men, more like. Had Guilhem truly curbed his headstrong ways he wouldn’t have gotten three of his killed.”

  Guilhem’s hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword but he turned the motion into scratching his side. This was no time for discord among the fellowship. At home, I’d have the stinkard’s head on a pike. Instead, he contented himself with another scowl.

  The rest of the meeting went well enough. Guilhem excused himself as soon as he could and returned to the place where he had left Henri. The knight was still there, sparring in a rather desultory manner with one of the other men. Guilhem sent the man away and reengaged Henri. The residual anger simmering in him following the meeting gave him renewed determination. “We will be going out later in force,” he said as he fended off a thrust with his shield.

  “Another flanking maneuver?” Henri asked. “I like them not.”

  “Yet stealth wins battles, betimes.”

  “You’d best hope it wins many battles,” said Henri, grinning despite the perspiration dripping off his forehead. “And brings you much booty as well, to carry back to the fair Countess.”

  At the mention of Philippa, Guilhem’s conscience pricked him again. It could be as troublesome as the stenching fairies. There was stealth, yes; but there was double-dealing as well. What would the pious Philippa say were she to learn that, in order to accede to her insistence that he join the current Crusade, the near-penniless Duke Guilhem IX had had to resort to chicanery to secure the necessary funds to raise and provision an army?

  Henri knew something of this, being the duke’s old friend, closest advisor and privy to the state of his treasury. Though never speaking of it outright, Henri nevertheless knew that Guilhem had promised to turn over Toulouse, Philippa’s holding, to her cousin, Bertrand, in exchange for the necessary money. Should his wife learn of this, her fury would be unbounded.

  Guilhem was confident that after the crusade he’d return to France and settle his own men in Toulouse, thus preventing it from falling completely under Bertrand’s control. In any event, the whole mess was Phillipa’s fault, clearly, because of her insistence that he go to the Holy Land. How else was he to raise the needed funds to equip and maintain an army of three thousand men?

  Women understood nothing of war. He banished Phillipa from his thoughts and concentrated on his swordsmanship.

  * * *

  While not making any specific referrals to the other commanders’ criticism, Guilhem waited until twilight to lead his next patrol—and he took with him only Henri, whom he knew to be one of the most quick-witted of his knights despite his occasional insubordination. In addition, they knew each other so well that on the hunt or in dicey combat situations they usually understood, without speaking, what each other would do.

  Before they left camp, Guilhem pulled his long white tunic over his head to remove it and directed Henri to do the same. This left them both dressed in leather jerkins, cloth hoods and boots—all dark in color and far less noticeable at night than a white robe-like garment emblazoned with a red Crusader’s cross. Then he led Henri to a guttering camp fire, parts of which were choked by ashes. Guilhem knelt and, using stout twig, carefully brushed some of the cooler ashes out to one side. He scooped up a handful and rubbed them on his face. “Our skin is too light,” he said. “Mine is, anyway. I’ll darken it so we’ll stand less chance of being seen.” He also smeared some ashes into his blonde hair. Henri likewise daubed some on his face.

  Thus disguised they crept into the forest. The sounds of their camp faded behind them as their eyes adjusted to the crepuscular gloom beneath the trees. Even so, one problem with a night patrol almost immediately made itself apparent: night vision or no, it was difficult to see where they were going. The Christian troops knew the area with half a league or so of their encampment reasonably well, but beyond that the land was more rugged and overgrown than Guilhem expected. He and Henri found their progress impeded by gullies that they were forced to scramble into and out of, making more noise than Guilhem liked, and by patches of bramble that plucked at their clothing.

  Henri began complaining almost at once. “We’re moving no faster than snails. Snails! At this rate, we’ll be out here all night before we see the least sign of Saracens.”

  “We know that that direction is west,” Guilhem said, pointing to his left. “The Black Sea lies there beyond the forest, no more than a mile or so away. The breeze comes from there. And we know that the moon, in its second quarter, rises at this hour. Patience, Henri. The darkness will soon yield some of its strength to La Lune.”

  According to the latest reports from the scouts, the Turks had a massive encampment of some ten or fifteen thousand men three miles to the east, on the other side of a steep line of rocky cliffs that rose from the forest to provide a natural barrier between the warring forces. Leaving their ships behind at anchor and guarded by skeleton crews, the Christians had moved inland some distance from the coast, where they were in the open and hence more vulnerable, to their present position in the sheltering forest. The escarpment between them and the Saracens had only narrow pathways to the shore, too small to allow the enemy easy access to the coast in large numbers. Even so, the heathens would be able to send troops through the ravines in single or double file; if they did this throughout the night they could assemble a sizeable number of men on the shoreline, prepared for a dawn attack. Guilhem was looking for indications of such nighttime activity.

  The only way for he and Henri to do this was to work their way through the forest to the base of the cliffs, and then investigate each ravine in turn. It was tedious and dangerous work, but the situation demanded it.

  “There are six gullies that we know of,” he said to Henri as they inched through the underbrush.

  Henri groaned. “We’ll be out here all night. All night!”

>   “Less, if we see any Saracens. If we do, we head back for camp at once and return in force. We can pick them off as they come through the passages.”

  Guilhem had at first hoped that his “fairy friends” would be willing to help him out during the campaign, but to his dismay they proved to be utterly unreliable. They cared little about human concerns like warfare, preferring to play foolish jokes such as having a flock of birds fly overhead at the same time each day. They would tell him what the enemy soldiers were wearing but not necessarily their location (“Over there,” while gesturing vaguely) or how many of them there were (“A few. A good many. Some.”). The fairies were not necessarily scatter-brained: they simply didn’t give a hang what humans did to each other.

  Now, with Henri silent at his side, Guilhem clambered into a ravine and up its far side. When his foot slipped on a loose stone, sending it clattering noisily down the slope, they both winced and flattened themselves against the canyon wall, awaiting a questioning challenge in the Turks’ rude tongue.

  The rock was still warm from the day’s brutal, pounding heat. Minutes crept by with no response from the unseen enemy. Perspiration coursed down Guilhem’s face. He wiped at it and his hand came away darker from the ashes. He could smell nothing but the scent of wood smoke from the mess on his face. Henri whispered, “Was it Xenophon said that Heracles entered the underworld through a cave near here?”

  Guilhem grunted. “Not so very near. Far to the west, on the coast of the Aegean Sea. But this pestilential place will do nicely for Hades, as far as I am concerned. Were it not for our mission I’d gladly leave it to the Saracens.”

  Henri didn’t bother to reply but Guilhem smiled as he heard him spit to one side. Henri liked the physical challenges of the Holy Land no more than did he or any of the other Crusaders.

  At last Guilhem straightened up from his crouch. “Very well,” he said. “I think we’ve gone unnoticed.” He looked up the slope and drew a sharp breath. Twenty feet above, a man’s head was silhouetted against the darkling sky. He was obviously peering down at them.

  For an instant Guilhem froze. Head wrapped in cloth. Saracens don’t wear helmets.

  With a cry of warning he let go of the rock and slid down to the floor of the ravine. Henri turned to mark his descent.

  He doesn’t see the Saracen! Before Guilhem could cry out again the Turk had leaped down the slope directly on top of Henri and was plunging a dagger into him. Another Saracen head popped into view where the first one had been. The man yelled—Alerting his comrades! Guilhem thought—and launched himself down the slope.

  Henri, Guilhem knew, was dead, or mortally wounded. Growling, he drew his sword and stationed himself directly below the plummeting Saracen. But rocks dislodged by the man’s controlled fall forced him to back away from the foot of the cliff.

  With his blade at the ready he awaited the Saracen’s arrival. Now the first one had finished with Henri, whose limp body slumped against the cliff side, leaking blood that in the dim light looked as black as ink.

  These Saracens, doubtless on a scouting mission like Guilhem, did not have swords. Instead, he saw with dismay, they bore lances. That meant that they could keep him engaged at more than arm’s length, while for his part he needed to be closer to them, under their guard, to be able to strike with his blade.

  He had plenty of respect for the lance as a weapon of war. He’d seen men receive terrible wounds from them. In one battle Frederic de Loupey took a thrust between his shoulders. Blood poured from him like wine from a barrel’s bung. Another slicing blow almost cost Erard de Siverey his nose, leaving it dangling over his mouth. The camp surgeon sewed it back on later, but it soon spoiled and had to be removed.

  The first Saracen was almost upon him. Guilhem snatched up a rock from the littered ground and threw it at his assailant, crying out in fierce triumph as it hit the man square in the teeth. The Saracen fell in a heap on the ground to one side, warbling in anguish.

  The second man was too close behind the first for Guilhem to grab another rock. Instead he leaped up the slope to one side, knowing that his foe would not be able to check or steer his precipitous descent. As the Saracen slid by, Guilhem aimed a ferocious cut at him, but the Saracen blocked it with his lance. Guilhem’s blow chopped the lance in half, leaving the man gripping the lower part, without the weapon’s sharp point.

  Armed now with essentially nothing more than a stout stick, the Saracen man slid the rest of the way to the floor of the ravine and stood, awaiting the duke’s attack with teeth bared.

  Guilhem respected the man’s bravery, but that didn’t mean he meant him to survive this encounter. That shout would bring other enemies to the scene within moments. The Saracen scrambled for footing as he hit the ground, but Guilhem stepped forward and thrust his sword into the man’s belly. The Saracen fell with a groan.

  But to Guilhem’s astonishment the other man, the one who had taken a rock in his face, now rejoined the fray—and his lance was undamaged. Blood from his injured mouth stained the front of the Turk’s robe as he slid down the slope. It was a grievous injury and had to pain him terribly, but even so he was obviously not about to leave off the attack.

  He’ll have me spitted like a Christmas pig with that lance! Guilhem stood irresolute. Should he engage the man anyway? Certainly, that was what any stalwart knight would do. Just as he was about to step forward to meet the Saracen at the point where he would land, another shout came from atop the ridge. Guilhem glanced up to see a dozen or more enemy soldiers pouring over the top, doubtless summoned by the scouts’ earlier yells.

  Alone, without any of his men to back him up, Guilhem did the only prudent thing: he turned and ran.

  It galled him to do it, especially because he was forced to abandon Henri’s body, but he knew he was badly outnumbered. Behind him he heard shouts. He didn’t have to know the meaning of the words to hear the rage in their tone. There would be no mercy from these men; not that Guilhem would have expected any.

  Taking no heed of his direction he sought only to escape his foes. With his sword still drawn he fled along the line of the cliffs until he saw an opening in the wall of trees where a small stream meandered away from a seepage in the rock face. The stream seemed to lead in the direction of his camp, but whether it did or not he had little choice: he had to risk following it in the hope of hiding among the trees in the gathering darkness.

  He sheathed his blade and, splashing into the rivulet, ducked into the forest, praying that the Saracens wouldn’t be able to track him in the night. The half-moon had not yet risen, and only stars showed in the narrow strip of sky visible overhead. A few steps further along the canopy of leaves closed in above him and then not even the stars were of much help.

  He had no time to fear wild animals or the even more fearsome and weird creatures said to infest these regions: monopods, werewolves, blemmies... He’d deal with them when and if he encountered them. For now, he sought only to elude the Saracens.

  Their voices grew louder behind him as they approached the stream, and stepped into it on his trail. For a blessing, he didn’t turn his ankle or lose his footing on some mossy stone. He moved as quietly as he could, though he couldn’t avoid making noise in the water. The sooner he got out of this waterway, the better.

  The sounds of pursuit slowly died away behind him, until finally he couldn’t even hear their shouts as they called to each other while searching for him. Had they given up the chase, or had they simply decided that he had too many options to escape them in the darkness? With his head turned to catch any noise behind him, he gradually slowed his pace to a walk.

  Why had they not followed him? Was there something lurking hereabouts that they feared to confront? Again, images of monsters came to his mind’s eye: single-foot humanoids leaping through the woods, no-head monstrosities with the faces in their bellies, lion-faced people with a taste for man-flesh...

  The Lord above knew what other devilish horrors might lurk in this for
est. As his heart slowed its panicked beating, he began to feel cold. The night was not chill but his clothing was soaked. He needed rest, but he dared not stop lest the Saracens catch him.

  He was lost.

  * * *

  Dawn found him still lost, somewhat drier but still damp, and weary to his bones. The chill didn’t particularly bother him; he’d be fine so long as he kept moving. The exertion would keep him warm, and the hot weather would dry him off once the sun rose. He had abandoned the stream some time ago. After resting a while near its bank he set off along its course, hoping to come to a settlement of some sort. Hunger had begun gnawing at him but he had a soldier’s ability to ignore such things, or at least bear them with stoicism. He wouldn’t lack for water if he followed the stream, and there was always the chance that he’d be able to slay some beast with his sword and make a meal out of it. He had his flint and steel—no soldier was equipped without them—and would be able to build a fire. He hadn’t done so yet for fear of attracting more Saracens. Come daytime a fire’s radiance would be less noticeable, although there was always smoke to consider. However, he was probably far enough away from the enemy camp by now for it not to matter.

  He decided to stop after he fell asleep on his feet, between two steps, and found himself sprawling on the forest floor. To proceed in his exhausted state was dangerous folly, Guilhem knew, so he used the last of his strength to build a small fire. He stripped off some of his garments and spread them on bushes to dry more thoroughly, then stretched out on the ground. At last he felt able to mourn Henri, and he set to murmuring prayers for his friend’s mortal soul. Sleep overcame him in the middle of one.

  When he woke, the sun was westering and hunger clawed at his vitals. It lessened a little after he took a long drink from the stream. Searching around, he found a small grove of wild pear trees bearing fruit. He wondered if he had passed others during the night simply because he hadn’t been able to see them.