Fortress of Mist

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Gervaise …”

  “ ‘Delivered on the wings of an angel, he shall free us from oppression!’ I shall never forget the power of that chant, Thomas. The entire population gathered beneath torchlight by the instructions of a single knight. The appearance of a miracle on white angel wings. Yet you yourself doubt angels?”

  “Gervaise!” Thomas tried to inject anger into his voice. And failed.

  “Tomorrow you’ll be gone, Thomas. Have you any other miracles to astound the Scots?”

  “Gervaise! Are you suggesting I arranged the miracle of angel wings?”

  “Of course. Our heavenly Father has no need to stoop to such garish dramatics.”

  Thomas sighed. “You would be kind to keep that belief to yourself. As it is, I am able to hold much sway over the rest of Magnus despite my youth. Leaving this soon would be much less safe for me were it otherwise. I do want to be welcomed back as rightful lord.”

  “Rightful lord? This is indeed news. Has it to do with a certain visitor who entered Magnus earlier in the day?”

  “Little escapes you,” Thomas commented, then explained much of his conversation with the earl. But Thomas did not mention the symbol, or his fear of it. Some secrets could not yet be shared.

  Gervaise listened carefully. When Thomas finished, the elderly man spoke with simple grace. “And what of your prisoner, my friend? Has Geoffrey revealed why he bludgeoned the former lord’s daughter?”

  Thomas shook his head. He could not escape the ache that hit him when he was reminded of what he had once felt for Isabelle, and how searing her betrayal had been. Would he see her again?

  “Time will answer all,” Gervaise said. “It was kind of you to visit during a day that demands many preparations.”

  “I could not have done otherwise,” Thomas replied. The truth in his words surprised him.

  Gervaise walked with Thomas to the cathedral doors. “I shall continue praying for you, Thomas. I will rejoice with all of heaven when you accept His most holy presence in your life.”

  With thick gray hair obscuring most of her face, Katherine leaned upon her cane beside a large wooden frame covered with dried herbs and flowers.

  A young woman, belly swollen with child, had asked her a question. But Katherine’s attention was on the crowd behind the woman. Among those who filled the market, she spotted Thomas, flanked by a two guards.

  Katherine glanced sideways to see if Hawkwood, disguised as an old man beside her, had noticed.

  The pregnant woman tapped Katherine on the shoulder.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” the woman said. “It’s my head that hurts. You’ve got something for me, surely.”

  “Bark of white willow,” Hawkwood answered, handing her a few strands of it. “Boil it, eat the skin, and drink the water.”

  “Hot or cold?” the pregnant woman asked.

  Katherine noticed that Hawkwood had also turned his attention to Thomas. He must have been thinking the same thing. For a day and a half, Thomas had disappeared from the eyes of those who reported to them. And this following the visit from the Earl of York, when all had heard that Thomas was committed to join battle against the Scots. Thomas had been nowhere at all in Magnus, and none had seen him depart. It was almost as if Thomas knew Magnus was riddled with spies.

  And now Thomas was back. From where?

  “Hot or cold?” the pregnant woman repeated.

  “Drink it lukewarm,” Hawkwood answered in his practiced scratchy and feeble voice.

  “Laurel,” the pregnant woman said. “I need laurel. Seven berries.”

  When neither answered, she repeated this too. “Laurel berries.”

  Katherine answered. “Save your coin. It’s not true. Seven berries won’t prevent labor pains.”

  “How many then?” she asked, touching her belly.

  “John’s wort might help,” Katherine said, “but nothing will prevent labor pains unless you take something that addles your own wits. But then the babe will be harmed.”

  “Seven berries,” the woman said firmly. “Everyone knows.”

  Katherine shrugged. Hawkwood had trained her well as an herbalist. She preferred to sell only what was effective, not what was believed to be effective. But peasants clung to superstition, and seven laurel berries, at least, would not hurt the woman or her child.

  “What about something to help with hearing?” the woman asked. “Anything for that?”

  “You’re losing your hearing?” Hawkwood asked.

  “Not at all,” she said. “It’s something both of you need to worry about.”

  The old man chuckled benevolently and took the woman’s coin.

  The pregnant woman waddled away, leaving Katherine to move close to Hawkwood. Like hers, Hawkwood’s age was an illusion, accomplished with wigs artfully constructed from real hair, long and wild and deliberately filthy. Dirt and soot on their faces and hands helped hide smooth skin. But none would look closely anyway. The bulk of the illusion was accomplished with body language, clothing, and voice.

  To the inhabitants of Magnus, the two of them were the ancient couple sent to the market from a monastery in a neighboring valley to dispense medical advice and herbs.

  Magnus had a barber, of course, to pull teeth and do surgeries and bloodletting. But the local barber, like all barbers, was to be avoided when possible, unless it was for a simple haircut. Barbers were not known for their delicate touch when pulling teeth or stitching wounds.

  Instead, people preferred medicinal plants and roots and herbs, as much less pain was involved in the cure or attempted cure.

  Posing as elderly herbalists from outside of Magnus allowed them to come and go as they pleased; since they didn’t live in the village, questions were never asked or rumors started when they were gone.

  Better yet, as Hawkwood had explained to Katherine, since no one really cared about the lives of the elderly man and woman who served Magnus as herbalists, the roles could be filled if necessary by anyone willing to don a disguise.

  For now, Katherine played the role of the old woman herbalist, fully aware that Thomas had put out a reward for anyone who could lead him to her. But Thomas—and all of Magnus—was looking for someone whose face was wrapped in bandages, to hide the scars from a fire.

  “I think he intends to come to us,” Hawkwood said softly. “Don’t look away as if you don’t notice. That would be unnatural. He’s the lord of Magnus. What’s natural is to be watching him closely, like everyone in the market.”

  This was natural. Lives and livelihoods depended solely on the lord. A good lord dispensed justice without favor. He ensured predictability and comfort for all, from the coarsest of peasants and farm workers to the reeve, marshal, and chancellor. On the other hand, an ill-tempered lord meant misery. Constant fighting with neighboring lords took its toll on the resources of food and weapons and caused disruptions in daily life.

  Katherine followed Hawkwood’s advice, leaning on the cane as she surveyed his approach.

  It wasn’t just that he was handsome—for he certainly was—but there was something dignified in his manner, a quiet confidence that spoke far louder than any boisterous swagger. The people of Magnus had begun to fully trust in this new lord, and they treated him with respect as he walked through the crowd, stepping aside and bowing in deference, not fear.

  Katherine, too, trusted in the inherent goodness of Thomas; she often revisited the memory of when he had angrily stepped in to protect her from Geoffrey, the candle maker she had once served as if a slave. To Thomas, a stranger, she could have been seen as nothing more than a chattel with a face bound in bandages. Worthless to the rest of the world. But he had defended her as if she were a lady of the court.

  A friendship had grown from there, and she’d helped him in conquering Magnus. But Hawkwood had given instructions that she must disappear from his life, so she had, hoping someday it might be different between them.

  As Thomas reached the stall with the wood frame of
herbs behind them, his guards stepped away, leaving him privacy to address Katherine and Hawkwood.

  “I would like yarrow,” Thomas said, pointing at the bunches of dried stalks with small clusters of yellow at the top. He spoke with a coldness that seemed at odds with the Thomas she had spent hours with in conversation. Had power changed him already? “All that you have.”

  Yarrow. To heal wounds and cure infections. Thomas must be looking ahead to the needs that would follow battle against the Scots.

  Hawkwood turned to take the bunches of dried yarrow from the wood frame, but Thomas stopped him with another question.

  “And seeds of henbane. Your poppy and mandrake, as well.”

  Hawkwood turned back and spoke to Thomas, hardly above a quiet whisper. “Is there someone you intend to bewitch?”

  Is there someone you intend to bewitch?”

  Thomas didn’t answer, as something scratched at his side.

  He reached beneath his cloak for a tiny cage hanging from a loop of leather belted around his waist.

  With practiced movements of his fingers, he unlatched the cage without looking at it.

  The fact that he had a small cage on his body was not unusual. Fleas were a common nuisance. Women often wore a patch of fur near the neck to attract the fleas and keep them off their skin and out of their hair. Others resorted to a small cage with a piece of suet where roaming fleas would get stuck.

  A few days earlier, a local craftsman had built a slightly larger cage, and for Thomas, it held not suet, but a tame blind white mouse.

  He opened the cage door, and the mouse scooted onto his palm. Thomas lifted the mouse into the open and stroked its head with his index finger. He used his other hand to find grain in a side pocket.

  He gave a seed to the mouse. It perched and nibbled at the seed as Thomas answered the old man’s question.

  “My intentions are no concern of yours,” Thomas said. He kept his voice cold. For all he knew, an enemy stood in front of him. “I am not here to answer your questions, but you will answer mine.”

  “Of course, my lord,” the old man said, bowing and stepping slightly back.

  “First,” Thomas said, “have you seeds of henbane?”

  Henbane. Grind the seeds into powder, apply the powder with an ointment rubbed onto a man’s forearm. Hallucinations and visions would follow.

  Thomas knew this not because he was a witch or an herbalist himself, but because of where he’d been over the last two days—on a trip of solitude. Well hidden from Magnus, and known only to him, was a small cache of a collection of books that had been his legacy, books of priceless knowledge.

  He’d used a portion of his time with the books to study the sections that dealt with medicinal plants and roots and herbs, confirming his suspicions about the night of his visitation by Isabelle.

  Because the guards had rushed in to find him alone, he’d dismissed them, telling them he must have cried out in his sleep. Then in his books he had discovered the reason for the sensation of a giant hand gripping his body. With only one explanation for how someone had done this without wakening him, he’d tested it by setting aside the remains of his evening meal, half finished on a plate in his bedchamber, and feeding a small portion of it to a mouse the next morning.

  When the mouse had fallen asleep on the plate, and didn’t even stir when prodded with the point of a knife, the conclusion was beyond doubt; he’d been drugged. He suspected henbane because of the dreams and his slowed reactions during his conversation with Isabelle.

  Her presence, however, could not have been all hallucination.

  Which had led Thomas to other questions that had no answers. Who had drugged him? How had Isabelle entered the room? How had she then disappeared so quickly while the explosion blinded him?

  “My lord,” the old man answered as he swept his arms to indicate the herbs and roots hanging behind him, “of henbane, we have none.”

  “I am willing to pay a month’s wages for a mere handful,” Thomas said. “How long will it take for you to acquire it?”

  Thomas watched closely, hoping for a greedy reply. He was disappointed when the old man shrugged and shook his head against it.

  “For even a year’s wages, I cannot find you henbane.”

  “Poppy and mandrake?” Thomas asked.

  “I could enquire at the monastery, but I’m sure there will be none.”

  If the old herbalist was lying, Thomas could gain nothing by asking more questions. If he truly had no knowledge, then this old man would not be able to lead Thomas to anyone who might have drugged him.

  “Ah yes,” Thomas said. His time had not been entirely wasted, for he had another purpose for stopping at this stall in the market. “I understand you are sent here weekly from the monastery.”

  “As you well know, Magnus is not open to allowing a monastery,” the old man answered. “Yet there is need among your people for what the gardens provide.”

  By tradition, monks were the ones with the knowledge of how to grow the medicinal plants and herbs.

  “You are a monk?” Thomas asked.

  “No. But the monastery provides for us.”

  Thomas glanced at the old woman. “Does she speak?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the old woman croaked.

  “Good,” Thomas said. “As you may have heard, allegiance to the Earl of York requires that I raise an army to join him in battle against the Scots. Magnus does not have its own herbalist, and I will require one to accompany my army on the march. Since I expect the monks will not be willing to let both of you depart for an uncertain amount of time, I only ask that one of you gives service.”

  “But, my lord—”

  Thomas did not give the old man a chance to finish. “This is not a request, but a demand. Your monks are shrewd enough to realize that they do not want to make an enemy of me. I need barbers to tend to my men, but just as importantly, an herbalist. Willingly, or as prisoner, one of you will remain here to become part of the march. Decide who stays and who returns to the monks.”

  The old man and the old woman exchanged glances. The old man, as Thomas expected, was the one to make the decision.

  “You will take her,” he said.

  The old woman seemed to shake slightly as she leaned on her cane and bowed her head.

  “Fear not,” Thomas told her. “You will be far behind the battle lines, and I will make sure that no harm comes to you.”

  A council of war had been called. Gathered in a small circle beneath the shade of a towering oak stood fourteen of the most powerful earls and barons in the north of England. Among them, Thomas.

  “David, will you permit a snot-nosed boy to remain with us in council?” The questioner, a fat middle-aged man whose chubby fingers were studded with massive gold rings, did not hide his contempt and surprise to see Thomas.

  “Aye, Frederick, the lord of Magnus remains,” replied the Earl of York.

  “But these are matters of war!” exploded the fat man, spraying spittle on those nearest him.

  Some nodded agreement. Others waited for the Earl of York to respond again. All stared at Thomas.

  The fat man yelled to repeat his challenge. “These are matters of war!”

  Part of his mind noted the festive hum beyond the circle of barons, but despite the malice of the fat man in front of Thomas, another part of his thoughts also held sadness. Before the army’s return, many men will die, to leave behind widows or orphans.

  Thinking of the lives that faced destruction and determined to ensure as few died as possible in the upcoming days, Thomas surveyed the other men in the circle. His only friend—if someone carrying the symbol could be a friend—might be the Earl of York.

  Show no fear. Lose respect here and your own men will never follow. Lose your men, and you lose control of Magnus.

  Thomas fought the impulse to lick his suddenly dry lips. If the Earl of York did not vouch for him, he would be forced to prove himself immediately. A fight, perhaps.
These were solid, grown men who had scrabbled for power on the strength of steel nerves and iron willpower. Would Robert of Uleran’s training be enough for him to survive a fight here and now?

  The Earl of York delayed the answer to that question by replying with the quietness of authority. “Frederick, this ‘snot-nose’ you so casually address had the intelligence to conquer the ultimate fortress, Magnus. Could you have done the same, even with an army of a thousand? Could you have done it without the loss of a single life and managed to obtain the loyalty and gratitude of its people?”

  That brought respectful silence from all of them.

  The Earl of York laughed to break the discomfort of his rebuke. “Besides, Frederick, this ‘boy’ is already taller than you. When he fills to match the size of his hands, he’ll be a terrible enemy. Treat him well while you can.”

  The others joined in the laughter.

  Thomas realized that if this meeting were to end now, he would simply be regarded as a special pet favored by the Earl of York. Yet could he risk the earl’s anger?

  The laughter continued.

  “I need no special treatment,” Thomas suddenly declared, then felt the thud of his heart in the immediate silence.

  Was it too early to reveal the weapons his men had practiced in secrecy?

  Thomas hoped the narrowing of the Earl of York’s eyes meant curiosity, not anger at the insult of publicly casting aside his approval.

  You’ve gone too far to turn back.

  “Tomorrow, when we rest at midday from the march,” Thomas said, “I propose a contest.”

  Sleep came upon Thomas quickly that night.

  He dreamed of his mother, who had taught him through his childhood, had given him the quest of conquering Magnus, and had prepared him for an earldom before dying of the pox.

  He dreamed of Katherine, dirty bandages around the horribly scarred flesh of her face, and how she, at the end, had made it possible for him to conquer Magnus.