Gwen smiled. “I am so happy for you, my lady.”
“And that is another matter I would broach with you, my dearest Gwen. When we are alone, I would be most content to hear you call me Adelaide.”
“Are you certain? I don’t mind.”
“I insist. I cherish your friendship, and I owe you my life.”
“Well, if you insist.” Gwen smiled. “Thank you… Adelaide.”
As they walked on, the queen divulged details of her first love-struck meeting with Otto, on the eve of her wedding to King Lothaire. Gwen noted the sadness in Adelaide’s tone as she went on to describe her loveless marriage. Then her mood rebounded as she expressed how much she looked forward to seeing Otto once more.
Gwen nodded, reminding herself Father Warinus had said King Otto was coming to the rescue – militarily and otherwise, so it seemed.
“Is he handsome?” Gwen asked curiously.
“He has neither the beauty our Stefano had, may God rest his soul,” Adelaide’s gaze grew distant, caught by memory, and Gwen squeezed her hand, “nor the dark, devilish good looks of your Alberto – ah, yes, Father Warinus let it slip you are fond of each other – but Otto is striking, very tall, with blue––”
Adelaide’s voice broke off. Her hand went limp, slipping from Gwen’s. She looked straight ahead, stricken, trembling.
Alarmed, Gwen followed the path of her stare. Father Warinus stood waiting for them, just past a break in the trees. Beyond him lay a wheat field.
*
“I cannot go there!” Adelaide sank to the ground, feeling weak and ill, wanting to run away, yet incapable of moving another step.
“What is it? Gwendolyn, what is wrong?” Father Warinus called out.
“I don’t know, Father.”
Adelaide heard the strain in Gwen’s tone, but she could not respond or move, didn’t have the strength to explain.
Stefano, heroic Stefano. Spears piercing wheat. Stefano running away, acting as decoy so she could escape. Torches, horses and men, dozens of men. Rough hands grabbing her, searching, cruelly prodding her most private places. Berengar’s exultant grin as he exhibited a bound Stefano to her, their capture complete and devastating, for each knew, as they locked eyes, death was at hand.
Closing her eyes, Adelaide tried to erase the terrible memories.
Yet how could she? How could she ever forget?
*
The queen started to wheeze, her face twisting in agony. She couldn’t catch her breath. Gwen immediately recognized the symptoms of a panic attack.
“Father Warinus, do you have something, er, a small bag?”
The priest looked puzzled. “A bag?”
“Yes, in your gear. The pouch of chamomile.”
He fumbled inside his pack and came up with a small sack. “Here it is.”
Gwen snatched it from his hand, dumping the chamomile bits on the ground. She turned it inside out and placed it over Adelaide’s nose and mouth. “Breathe into this,” she ordered. “Keep breathing in and out.”
Still gasping, the queen nodded and did as she was told. Gwen watched her closely, noting how pale she looked.
“I feared as much,” the priest said, startling Gwen.
“You feared what?” was all she could say, her spirits sinking. What did he know that she didn’t?
“I feared for her during her captivity. The evil of that place holds her captive still.” He held forth his crucifix. “I will exorcize the demon.”
Gwen pushed his arm down. “No, leave her alone. The bag should work.” She got down on her knees and looked directly into Adelaide’s eyes. Her breathing seemed less labored.
“Hear that?” Gwen asked. “She sounds better already.”
“I suppose,” Warinus mumbled.
Shakily, the queen uncovered her face. Fighting tears, she muttered, “No demons, Father… just memories… of when Berengar recaptured Stefano and me, in a wheat field.”
Within a few minutes, Adelaide had improved enough to walk. She clasped Gwen’s hand and averted her eyes as they skirted the field and entered a meadow bordered by towering, centuries-old trees, their trunks huge and gnarled. In the distance, a woodland trail wound its way up a gentle slope and into the wilderness.
“Memmo told me of this place.” Warinus pointed to the trees. “He said these sweet chestnuts were planted by Romans. That path over yonder is longer and narrower than the common road, and is less traveled for that reason. It should not pose a problem for us,” he glanced at Adelaide, “and I doubt soldiers from Garda would think to look here, if indeed they still seek us at all.”
“I am much improved,” Adelaide interjected, “both in stamina and determination. Reunion with my dear Emma lies at the end of this road, and the recovery of the Crown. I must protect my daughter’s rights as heir to her father’s throne. Now that we are past the wheat, my feet can hardly keep pace with the beat of my heart.”
“Tell me about Emma,” Gwen prompted. “I remember her beauty, and saw how courageous she was in the face of danger.”
“Oh, yes,” Adelaide gushed, her pace quickening. “She––”
“Shhh!” Father Warinus waved his arms at them. “Horses!”
Gwen didn’t wait for direction. She dashed off the path, pulling Adelaide with her, and saw Warinus dive to the other side.
Ducking behind scrub and fern, Gwen held her breath and listened as several horses cantered up the path, their riders wearing Berengar’s griffin crests on their tunics. Her breath escaped in a small burst of terror, Adelaide’s gasp echoing in answer.
Gwen fought her fear, drawing up courage. Slowly, carefully, she pulled out her short sword and knife. She peered through the shrubs again, and saw five horsemen halt at the point where she’d left the path.
The lead soldier smiled and looked in their direction. “My lady Adelaide,” he lazily said as he dismounted, “you do not learn your lessons well. We had some trouble tracking you to the wheat field, but the swath you cut along its edge not only irritated the farmer, who pointed it out to us, it also showed, like a beacon, the exact direction you took. Now,” the soldier scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt and shook his head, “you have left footprints all over the soft edge of this path. Shame, shame, good lady. Men, pull her out of there, and don’t forget her friends.”
Gwen looked at Adelaide and whispered, “Don’t move. Stay hidden, no matter what happens.” Then she made eye contact with Father Warinus across the path, saw his slight nod, and nodded back.
They leapt out at the same moment, screaming, slashing. Warinus flicked his arm, and the leader dropped to his knees, stunned at the knife protruding out of his stomach and the blood oozing from the wound.
The horses shied, stumbling into one another, and Gwen backed away from the tangle. The wounded man’s riderless charger spun, crashed into the others, then galloped away. The remaining soldiers, yelling and cursing, took several seconds to regain control.
One of the soldiers put a horn to his lips.
“Damn you!” Gwen raised her knife and flung it as hard as she could.
The horn barely sounded, the note skipping as the knife hit its mark. The man slid sideways, his limp hands dropping reins and instrument. The horse bolted, but the dead man’s feet were caught in the stirrups, his body borne away at a frenzied gallop.
A third soldier, his horse now well in hand, plunged off the path, directly toward Adelaide’s hiding place. In a swift movement, he pitched to the side and plucked the queen from the ground.
Adelaide screamed, kicking and thrashing. Gwen started to run toward her, but a horse moved in front, blocking the way. She saw Warinus parry a thrust, then spin and leap for Adelaide, grabbing her around the waist.
The horse reared and twisted, and Gwen heard the priest shriek in pain.
“Ya! Ya! Git, you sonofabitch!” Gwen swung the flat of her blade, hitting the horse’s haunches, but instead of running, the horse whipped its head back, cracking his jaw ag
ainst her cheek.
The trees went sideways then, the air misty and uncertain, and the ground came up to meet her.
*
Alberto had worried ever since scouts returned with dire news. For the past day, he’d forced his men into double duty, allowing no rest as they tracked search parties from Castle Garda and those they sought: the queen, the priest, and Gwen, his love. He clenched his jaw. He had to reach them before Berengar did.
Sitting atop his new mount, no warhorse, but sturdy and trustworthy, Alberto scanned the hills rising before him. He’d heard of this route, but never ridden it before. He shifted slightly, looking for any hint of movement or glint of metal. All he could see was a farmstead in a clearing, not too distant. Mayhap the owner could provide insight, or new information.
The horse blew hard and stomped his hoof, restless.
“Easy, boy,” Alberto said.
He had split his force again, after his scouts tracked two separate groups of enemy horsemen on the southwestern banks of Lake Garda, so only half of his men were gathered behind him, quiet and tense. One enemy group was very close, he knew, only slightly ahead, but there was no way to skirt around them, until scouts returned with any news of a second route in this constricted valley.
How he hated to wait.
A horse nickered, and Alberto silently cursed the beast. Just then, he sensed movement and Ranulf burst onto the path, flagging them wildly.
“The queen! The queen! The enemy is almost upon them!” Ranulf cried, then turned his mount and galloped toward the trees.
In the distance, a horn blast started, then was cut off, and the hairs on the back of Alberto’s neck rose. He drew his sword, leaned forward, and yelled for his horse to run, run to their rescue.
In moments, they were crossing what remained of a wheat field, its owner shaking his fist at them as they passed. Racing headlong, Alberto could see the beginning of a trail among the chestnut trees, dust hanging thick in the air at its entrance.
He heard the clang of metal on metal. Jesus God, hurry, his mind cried out. Hurry!
Screams reached his ears, and he bellowed in response as he and his troop crashed into the melee, sending men and horses into confusion. In their pursuit of Adelaide, the enemy had stopped paying attention to their rear. So much the better.
Blades slashed right and left as Alberto pushed his steed forward, like the point of a spear, through the enemy line. His target was not this group. His men would take care of them.
Charging on, the scene registered like flashes of comprehension. Adelaide, screaming, fighting, held fast against a horse by its rider. Father Warinus clinging to her, a second rider bearing down on them. Gwen off to one side, sitting, dazed.
Alberto swung his blade at the second horseman, slicing through his spine, then he saw Warinus release his hold on the queen and crumple to the ground. The rider holding Adelaide hauled her up, then kicked his horse to a gallop, other horsemen following.
“Yah!” Alberto pursued, then watched in wonder as Adelaide’s bladed hand rose and dropped in a quicksilver strike, her captor letting go, crashing down, dead, the queen tumbling beside him, the horse racing on.
Adelaide quickly regained her footing and turned on Alberto, her expression fierce, then softening when she recognized him. “I am fine, Lord Alberto,” she called triumphantly, raising her weapon. “He left his dagger unguarded, and I have learned a certain resourcefulness in the last months. Go to Gwen. See to Father Warinus. I must pray for this man’s misguided soul.”
Relieved, Alberto nodded, cheered by her pluck.
Just then, Ranulf and a few others thundered past in pursuit of the remaining horsemen. Alberto turned and ordered others to guard the queen, his good spirits fleeing when he saw Gwen and Warinus.
By the time he got to them, the priest was sitting up, holding his shoulder, his face ashen – and Gwen lay motionless.
Ignoring his throbbing leg, Alberto slid from his mount and hastened to her.
“She hasn’t moved since she went down,” Father Warinus said. “I am greatly worried.”
Alberto knelt beside her, checking here and there, but could only find a slight bruise on her cheek and a bit of swelling. “Gwendolyn?” He brushed dirt off her face and put trembling fingers against the pulse of her neck. Strong, steady. He leaned closer to listen for breathing. Regular. Deep. Alberto ran his fingers through her hair, searching for lumps. Nothing. “Gwendolyn?” He drew even closer, touching his lips to hers. “My Gwendolyn, wake up, please.”
“You’re a little late.” Gwen opened her eyes slightly, then closed them again, a faint smile playing across her lips. She coughed. “The queen? Warinus?”
“Both safe.” Alberto took a deep breath, then sat, stretched out his bad leg, and gently lifted her onto his lap. “You are a troublesome woman.”
“Oh, you’d be bored with anyone else,” she replied, grimacing.
Gwen nestled against Alberto, and he reveled in her nearness.
“Ah!” Warinus cried out behind them.
Alberto turned. “What is it, Father?”
“My arm. I fear it is broken,” he said, wincing.
“What?” Gwen struggled to sit up and see.
The priest’s arm hung with an odd, unnatural twist, as though he had an extra joint midway between shoulder and elbow.
“Alberto, do you know what to do?” Gwen asked.
“In theory,” he replied. “I’ve seen it done.”
Despite his painful leg, Alberto helped Gwen stand, then faced the moaning priest.
“No, don’t touch me,” Warinus protested. “I can wait for the healers, truly.”
“I have none with me,” Alberto said. “I’m sure we can set the bone and splint it well enough.”
“We?” Gwen recoiled.
“No,” Warinus moaned again.
“Men,” Alberto commanded, “you must help me with the good father.”
“God help me,” Father Warinus groaned, as two soldiers gripped him.
Just then, Adelaide joined them. She knelt beside the priest, took his good hand, and started to pray.
“Hold him fast.” Alberto probed his upper arm. “The bone has gone off to the side.”
Father Warinus grimaced. “Do it.”
Alberto lifted the arm away from Warinus’s body, then put a boot just beneath the priest’s armpit and yanked. The poor man howled as Alberto twisted slightly, then let up.
The priest’s face lost all trace of blood. “No,” he gasped and sagged, his eyes rolling back into his head.
“Not good,” Alberto muttered. He probed the arm, adjusted the angle, then pulled again and let go.
Crack!
Warinus shrieked back to consciousness, then went limp, nodding, eyes closed, tears of pain streaming down his face. “Yes, that is it. Praise be to God. Thank you. Please don’t touch me again.”
*
It was approaching sunset as Gwen and Adelaide sat with Father Warinus, his arm splinted and bound to his side. The other half of Alberto’s troop had rejoined them and Gwen watched as soldiers buried the dead and recaptured loose horses.
Once they were mounted and on their way, her thoughts turned to something she’d noticed earlier. Worried, she brought her horse alongside Alberto’s. She reached out to touch his arm, resentful of the short distance still separating them. “Alberto, you were limping back there. Are you badly injured? Wounded?”
He shook his head, pain written across his features. “There was a skirmish, my leg was trapped, and twisted a bit. It is nothing.”
“Trapped? Did Heracles go down? Where is he?” She turned and scanned the troop for his warhorse.
Alberto mumbled something.
“What? He – what? Was he killed?”
Alberto nodded sadly. “He took a direct blow – I saw it coming – was off balance, then he reared and took the thrust of a long blade. When we went down, my leg was beneath him.”
“Poor Heracles. He save
d your life,” Gwen whispered.
“Yes. He gave his life for mine.” Alberto’s gaze focused on distant hills. “I was there for his birth and tore the sack from his nose to give him air. His mother was injured by the birth and produced no milk, so I fed him myself for the first week.” He smiled at the recollection. “He was a moody, cantankerous little demon, but strong, also, right from the start.”
“What… what about Barca?” Gwen asked hesitantly. “I haven’t seen him. Was he sent back with the wounded?”
Alberto didn’t respond for a moment, but the flinching of the muscles along his jawline gave Gwen the answer. “Oh, no, Alberto! He didn’t… he’s not––?”
“My lord, a word,” a soldier called out, riding toward them.
Gwen pulled her horse back and let the two talk in private, tears misting her view. She looked to Father Warinus, to Adelaide for comfort, but she could tell they didn’t know, and she didn’t want to break the awful news just now.
“There is a defensible site about one league distant, my lord,” the soldier said.
“Good. We shall set camp there. Send some men on ahead to make ready for our arrival. The ladies will need a tent.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The man rode away, and Alberto motioned for Gwen to rejoin him. When she came alongside, he leaned over and grasped her hand. “Barca did what was asked of him, and protected you to the last. He died nobly, Gwen. A worthy man.”
Gwen could only nod through her heartache. This was such a harsh world. Too harsh. Barca had been wonderful, ever stalwart, a hero, and a dear friend. She would not forget him.
*
They rode in silence. Father Warinus was lost in his unrelieved pain, Queen Adelaide in the anguish of missing her daughter, and Gwen somber in her grief, for Barca, Heracles, and all the others who had fallen.
She stayed near the queen, her gaze on the horse in front of her, as Alberto moved among his men, constantly checking, questioning, and dealing with concerns.
As the day waned and dusk crept over the horizon, she barely took note when a horse galloped up beside her.
It was Alberto. Smiling, he whispered, “Your presence here gladdens my heart.”
A surge of desire supplanted her heartache, and she leaned toward him. “Alberto, I’ve missed you.”
Italian Time Travel 02 - Time Enough for Love Page 9
