“Bitch,” he muttered.
He nibbled at a fingernail, watching his son rise and move toward the fire. The boy – for he still thought of his sixteen-year-old as a boy, a spoiled, willful boy – was obviously tense, and Berengar rolled his eyes.
Adalbert should be used to war by now. To living rough. To being separated from his mama, from women in general for extended periods, however fawning and pliable they might be.
When the guard signaled and opened the flap, a flash of irritation swept over Berengar as his son moved to stand beside him. The scouts came in, bowing, dripping, clothes sodden.
“Tito,” Berengar said, “you have been out the longest. What have you seen?”
“Sire,” he responded sharply, “Otto of Germany led his men out of the mountains via the Brenner Pass. They seemed much fatigued and made camp in a large vale near the Eisack River, to rest and graze their horses. They are several thousands strong, my lord, well-armed and provisioned.”
Berengar was not thrilled with the news. He had hoped late snow would stop or impede the German oaf. Too bad. He would have to send Otto packing sooner than expected. He turned his gaze on the second scout.
“You were sent with the raiding party. What is your report?”
The man scuffled his feet a bit before answering, which made Berengar stand up straighter and eye him more closely. “Well? Speak!”
“We made contact with Alberto Uzzo’s men three days past. We came at him from opposing sides, but they had scouted us well and were prepared.”
Berengar stood, glaring, fists clenched, anticipating the worst.
“We scattered them, delayed them, but I’m afraid we took a heavy loss.”
“How many dead?” Berengar growled. He could see the man was trembling, pale. “Tell me one of them is Uzzo.”
“I’m sorry, my lord, no, I mean, I think not. In fact, it was our men who withdrew from the skirmish.”
“What? We led a surprise attack, and they drove our men off?” Berengar picked up his mug and flung it across the room, then watched in satisfaction as the men, especially his son, shrank back from his rage. “How many dead?” he roared.
“Ah… twenty-three dead, my lord,” the scout stammered. “Three more expected to perish. Another four wounded but able to ride.”
“By Christ, all ours? I cannot believe the incompetence!” Berengar swung away and paced the room, fuming.
“Who is among the dead and dying?” Adalbert broke in, concern twisting his features.
“Who cares!” Berengar shouted back. “What matter, if they died ignobly? Who would wish to remember a failed soldier?” He turned on the last scout and approached him, standing nose to nose. “How many of Uzzo’s men died?”
The man looked terrified. “I know not. I was bid come by Queen Willa. She sends word Adelaide and the whore-monk, whom we had captured, both escaped the castle-keep one week ago. They have not been found, but Willa’s men are in pursuit and expect to retake them soon.”
Berengar stood, mouth agape, too stunned by the news to immediately react. Then, in one, swift move, he grabbed the hilt of his sword, drew it forth and up, then back down in a slashing arch toward the messenger’s neck.
Stopped with a jolting flash of steel, Berengar turned to see who dared block his stroke.
“Father!” Adalbert strained, trying to hold his sword steady. “This man is but the conveyor of ill news. You may not strike him for it! Come to your senses!”
Livid, Berengar was aware of the scouts scattering, deserting the tent like rats from a sinking ship, but his eyes remained fixed on his son. Breathing heavily, he waited until the tent flap hung limp, and the two of them stood alone.
His heart thundered. “How dare you thwart me,” Berengar seethed, yanking his sword arm free of his son’s constraints. “You made a fool of me in front of––”
“Because you deserved it!”
Berengar twisted the blade and thrust it at his son, the gleaming point pressing the skin under the boy’s chin, barely a finger’s width above Adalbert’s Adam’s apple.
He pushed, just a little, and smiled when Adalbert’s eyes grew wide with fear, when a trickle of blood started to find a pathway down his throat.
“Don’t think your position so secure that you may make a fool of me and live, boy. And don’t ever,” he lifted the tip this time, forcing Adalbert’s chin into the air, utterly exposing his throat and compelling him to back away, “ever,” he flicked the blade and opened the skin an inch just at the jawline, “take another’s side against me again.”
Drenched in sweat, Adalbert’s eyes bulged with fear, his pants-front wet with piss.
“Jesus Christ have mercy but you are a worthless whoreson,” Berengar said, withdrawing his sword. “Get out!”
Adalbert bolted and Berengar kicked the air after him, then turned aside, cursing. He took a flask of wine from the table and gulped straight from the bottle, then wiped his mouth, and looked back at the tent flap.
God damn him! And may God damn that bastard Alberto Uzzo! May God strike down Otto, and Willa, for that matter! How dare the bitch let–– “My lord, another scout seeks word with you,” his guard called from outside the tent.
Berengar choked back his venomous thoughts, striving for control as the new scout entered and bowed. “What now?”
“My lord, I bring good tidings. Alberto Uzzo has turned tail and fled. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“And do you know why he fled, as you so boldly put it?” Berengar asked coldly.
The man’s gaze wavered. “No, my lord. I just assumed he…”
Berengar swung his sword and beheaded the man before he could finish the thought. “The bastard is off to save his queen,” he sneered at the twitching, spurting corpse, “and I am forced to go after him.”
Chapter 6
Gwen yawned. She’d slept all night dead to the world, but still felt more tired than at any other point in her life.
After Memmo left them, they’d walked for six days, heading south, skirting the western shore of Lake Garda. She and Warinus were strong hikers, but Adelaide had been so severely weakened by her captivity their progress was slow. After the first day, the queen reluctantly gave up trying to carry the wine skeins, apologizing profusely for her fatigue. Her troubles didn’t stop there, however. As a result of her confinement in the dark cell, light bothered her eyes, increasing her suffering whenever they left the sheltering woods.
Adding to her pain, there had been days of unrelenting sunshine, followed by one miserable, gusty, lightning-filled night. While they’d sat out the storm, Warinus had taken the time to weave the queen a grass hat, much like the one they’d used during the dig. Hopefully, the shade would give her poor eyes some relief.
“Adelaide is so peaceful, I hate the idea of waking her up,” Gwen whispered to Father Warinus. The queen was still curled in her bedroll. She looked like a little girl, a tired, sick little girl. “We should stay here today. We’ve seen no one since Memmo dropped us off. It’s clear your plan worked. I don’t think anyone at Garda has any idea we’ve come this way.”
The priest rubbed his beard in thought. “The Lord rested on the seventh day. I fear I have pushed us too hard. You are correct. We should take a day of rest as well, before we leave the lakeside.” He eyed his fishing pole. “Our supplies have run low, and we’re in need of fresh food. I can spend this morning catching perch. Memmo said they are abundant in these waters.”
Gwen looked through a break in the trees. The air was still, the vast lake calm, blue, and beckoning. “I’d like to take a swim. I’m sure the queen would, too.” She watched as Warinus walked to his gear, then checked hook and line. “Do you think we could make a fire today? Would it be possible to cook our food?”
He glanced back at her, frowning.
Gwen knew he was not one to throw caution to the wind, but she silently implored him, nonetheless, then decided to press further. “Father, I can’t stand raw fish, unless I have a very dry
martini to choke it down.”
“Martini?”
And what I wouldn’t give for one. She waved her hand. “Never mind.”
“You needn’t choke on anything. I doubt a fire will cause a problem for us.” He pondered the sleeping Adelaide. “Some hot wine and a warm supper will do the queen good. I’ve got some calming herbs, like chamomile, in my bag,” he shook his head, changing his mind in mid-sentence, “but I think the mandrake might be a better choice. Yes, I should add that to the wine. It imparts vigor.”
The priest got up, pole in hand. “Gwendolyn, gather wood, the very driest you can find, and make a fire. Collect small stones as well, and clean them, then set them in the fire to heat. We can cook a stew in one of our water skeins with those, and warm the wine. Mayhap we should all partake of the wine and mandrake, for tomorrow we must redouble our efforts to escape Berengar’s lands.”
*
The steward of Castle Garda, Niccolo, and his bodyguards followed the crone down the winding path to water’s edge. A few young women stood in the lake, their skirts hiked up, showing their legs. They were busily twisting wet clothes, or beating them upon the rocks. Niccolo eyed one of the girls, a comely brunette, but then forced himself to consider the task at hand. The shore was covered with woody debris, the result of the recent storm. He picked his way through it, following the old woman.
“Here, Your Honor,” the crone said. “We found it this morn. We didn’t dare touch it. I told my granddaughters it looked to be important, mayhap just what the Lady Willa seeks––”
“She is now Queen Willa.”
“Yes, yes, so sorry, Your Honor. I, well, I heard there was a reward.”
“Silence, woman!” Niccolo leaned over, inspecting a sodden mound of fabric resting in the mud. He gestured to the captain of the guard. “Pick it up,” he commanded.
The man did as told, shaking out the cloth. Although stained and torn, it was a Benedictine cowl of undyed wool, exactly like the one worn by that devious bitch, the one who dared call herself Brother Godwyn.
Niccolo shaded his eyes, looking across Lake Garda, his gaze catching the bluish swath of distant shoreline.
“Your Honor, will I get the coin?” the crone pressed.
He nodded, his eyes still captured by the far horizon. Then he smiled, confident he knew exactly what had happened to Adelaide and her blaspheming accomplice.
*
Her stomach full, Gwen sipped her wine, reveling in the rare respite. Sitting by the campfire, she watched her companions finish their dinner of fish stew and wild greens.
Wearing her new hat, Adelaide hiccupped, then blushed, the effects of the wine taking hold. She stretched out her legs, her bare feet facing the fire’s warmth. “This is heavenly.”
Gwen exchanged a satisfied look with Warinus. “I never knew your talents included fishing and gathering plants, Father.”
“Ah, yes,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “My grandfather loved to fish and took me for such outings along the shoreline many times. My mother, on the other hand, loved to trek the woods, so I have a fair acquaintance with herbs and mushrooms. However, this eve’s meal would have been far grander had I been blessed with a bit more luck today. Lord, you should have seen the one that eluded me. He was a pike – and huge! After he was hooked, he looked me square in the eye and then flicked himself sideways. The hook flew right out of his fishy lip! I believe he knew exactly how to escape.”
“And how, pray tell, do you know it was a male fish?” the queen asked him. “I think females also have a great capacity to escape captivity, eh, Gwendolyn?”
Smiling, Gwen nodded and Father Warinus laughed out loud.
It had been the start of a good evening. Basking in the glow of the campfire, the women were content to hear Warinus’s stories about his childhood.
In high spirits, Adelaide dominated the conversation after that, telling Gwen more about the priest’s background, to his great embarrassment. Gwen was astounded to learn this modest, unassuming man had an impressive history; he had studied law at the University of Bologna, graduating near the top of his class, and then, after taking his vows, he’d worked for years at the side of the bishop who’d recently become Pope Agapetus II.
The priest waved all this aside. “No more need to boast of me, my lady. May I remind you it is not the arrogant, but the meek who shall inherit the Earth.”
“Yes, Father.” Adelaide’s smile faded as she turned to Gwen and soberly added, “We are fortunate the Pope is a good and saintly man, a true follower of Jesus Christ. I am ashamed to say his immediate predecessors were not.”
“Yes, I know,” Gwen said, recalling how the string of popes before Agapetus were so corrupt and venal their rule was called the Pornocracy, or “government by whores.”
“These past few months, I have witnessed firsthand injustice, mercilessness, and cruelty beyond measure,” Adelaide said earnestly. “They are the rotten fruits of self-righteousness and greed. I swear that for the rest of my days, I will do everything in my power to halt the spread of evil.” She reached out and grasped Warinus’s hand. “With your help, Father, I shall devote myself to the poor and weak. As the Bible tells us, ‘from everyone who has been given much, much will be required.’ I was born into power. They were born wanting and utterly without voice. I will – I must – become their champion.”
The conversation lasted a bit longer before everyone went to their bedrolls. Although relaxed and full for the first time in days, Gwen lay awake for a long time, watching the campfire fade to glowing coals, mulling over what she had just witnessed.
The end of the Dark Ages. A first step toward the Enlightenment. The queen’s heartfelt voicing of inequities that bedeviled her time and still plagued the modern world.
She would be canonized. In years to come, those who knew her, who benefited from her innate goodness and tireless support, would hail this petite woman, this fragile beauty, as one of the towering figures of her age.
Gwen cast a lingering look at the sleeping queen. Saint Adelaide. I am honored to know you – and to call you friend.
*
Bow raised, Ranulf slipped through the trees, listening, smelling the morning air, and scanning the forest floor. His senses were keenly attuned to a myriad of natural sights, sounds, and scents, and to those caused by the hand of man.
As he crept through the woods, he ignored the harsh cries of thrushes flitting through hazel bushes, paid no heed to the flash of a dark-gray squirrel noisily scrambling up a tree, stepped over the pebbly spoor of a mature red deer. His attention was fixed on two things only: the paired scents of cooked fish and a spent campfire.
Lowering his bow, Ranulf squinted past the trees to the lake, when a westerly breeze came up, hitting him from behind. He turned and breathed, the air fresh, clean, with no hint of man-made odors. That meant the camp was lying to the east, nearer to shore.
Moving on, he carefully combed his surroundings and spotted a broken branch on a rhododendron. He walked on, finding an area where the sandy soil held footprints.
He came down on his haunches, inspecting the jumble of tracks. A small woman or child had made several of them, while a man’s boots had ground heel marks with a heavy step. Nothing clear-cut, he decided, yet they could belong to the queen and Father Warinus.
Frowning, Ranulf got to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he caught some partial footprints with the distinctive – and admittedly quite strange – diamond pattern he recognized as coming from the soles of Gwendolyn’s leather sandals.
He immediately dampened his excitement, for his thinking had to be absolutely clear, with no distractions. Parting the shrubs, he coolly surveyed the remains of a camp. He moved in, grabbed a stick, and dug around in the ash and charcoal, which had been doused with water and covered with sand. He dropped the stick and plunged his fingers deep into the coals, detecting the barest hint of warmth.
Ranulf squatted there, thinking. It had been over a week since
he and Barca had left Garda. It was understandable the women might wish for cooked food, for they were weak, but the priest should have known better. The risk was too great.
Shaking his head, he gave a low curse as he imagined the queen and Gwendolyn begging for a campfire. Warinus should have said no.
If I can track them so easily, who else might do the same?
About to remove his hand from the coals, Ranulf sensed vibration rising from the earth. His eyes widened. Springing to his feet, he dove behind a bush, his gaze flicking to and fro, searching the shore.
Moments later, a troop of several dozen horsemen thundered in from the north. Ranulf saw the hated griffins on their tunics. Cursed minions of Garda, they were almost past him when someone shouted, reined in, and pointed down, yelling, “Look here!”
The man in the lead raised his hand and halted the troop. He swung his horse around and backtracked as others slipped from their mounts and inspected the sand.
Slowly, deliberately, Ranulf dropped back, melting into the deep, dark cover of the forest, cursing the fates for his not having enough time to conceal the tracks. When he deemed he was far enough away, he wheeled around, and started to run.
There might still be a chance to find Lord Alberto before it was too late. There was always a chance.
Chapter 7
“Gwendolyn, I have a request,” Adelaide said as she took her by the hand.
Gwen fought the urge to pull away. Walking hand in hand with a woman still bothered her American sensibilities. “Yes, my lady?”
Adelaide glanced at Father Warinus, who strolled on ahead, out of hearing range. “I would confide something to you.”
“Of course. My lips are sealed.”
The queen laughed. “I assure you, there is no need for such drastic measures.” She lowered her voice and smiled. “I am in love.”
Gwen stopped in her tracks. “What? Who is the lucky man?”
“King Otto of Germany!” Adelaide tried to suppress a giggle, but couldn’t. “We met several years ago. I believe in my heart he feels the same.”
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