Fortress of Mist

by Sigmund Brouwer

  The wrinkles in Gervaise’s face—as for all people at a certain age—reflected the expression that had been dominant on his face over all the years. For Gervaise, the usual set of his face was a quizzical friendliness that gave him the look of a parent who was tolerant and pleased with a young child.

  Now, however, his brows were furrowed with concern. He held a white cross made of painted wood, resting the base of it on the stone floor of the church. The top of the cross reached his chest.

  To Thomas, this humble and gentle man far better represented the Christ of the gospels than any priest or monk he had known.

  Thomas was all too aware of how some churches were huge and grandiose, built on the money taken from peasants who were starved and often in desperate need of comfort.

  Thomas was aware that, because the church only allowed a Latin version of the Bible, a priest could twist any passage to suit his own goals and desires, while the sheep of the congregation had no way of knowing if the sermon reflected what was truly in the Bible.

  Thomas was aware that men often joined the priesthood because it paid well, and more importantly, gave them immunity from prosecution for any number of crimes. Yes, a priest could literally get away with murder.

  Thomas was aware of the abuses he’d faced in his own past from men who claimed to be godly. He believed he had good reason to be suspicious of anything related to the church.

  Thomas particularly liked something that Gervaise often said about the New Testament—all it took for a man or woman to be reconciled with God was to ask for forgiveness.

  This was not what the priests taught. They claimed that a man or woman must earn a passage to heaven by donating money to the church. Indeed, the sale of indulgences was brisk business in the church across Europe; people could give money to the church to rescue dead loved ones from the clutches of hell, or purchase their own eternal salvation. Or worse, guarantee eternal damnation by not purchasing an indulgence.

  Gervaise, on the other hand, was fond of quoting a passage from the gospel of John the apostle, telling his own flock that God so loved the world that He’d given His only Son, that whoever believed in this Son would be given eternal life.

  Where then, the need to earn forgiveness or give money to the church for salvation? Such simplicity made Gervaise a threat to the church coffers. Thomas had earlier decided that if ever the priest tried to remove Gervaise, he would do everything in his power to protect the man.

  Of course, it did not look as though Thomas would retain his power as lord of Magnus much longer.

  “I wanted us to talk,” Gervaise said, lifting the cross and extending it to Thomas, “because I hope you will take this when you face the bulls.”

  “In a sense I’m disappointed,” Thomas answered. “We both know it is a powerful symbol, and your motives are easy to guess. If I succeed, you want all of Magnus to believe it is because of the church.”

  “Not the church,” Gervaise said. “Our heavenly Father. A church is only a building and a religious structure created by man to help bring all of us to our heavenly Father.”

  “You know the people won’t see it that way. If I carry the cross, it will be a clear statement that my allegiance is to the church. I’m surprised that you would play politics like this. I would have expected the priest to ask of me such a favor, but not you, not after all you’ve done to lead me to faith in the Christ of the gospels.”

  “Hardly,” Gervaise said without taking insult or showing irritation. “If I were a political man, the last thing I would want is for you to carry the cross. For a political man would be convinced that the bulls will trample you to death, and a political man would not want your foolish, horrible fate blamed on the cross. After all, if you hold the cross and you die, it will look like the cross was incapable of protecting you.”

  Thomas was forced to agree, and he nodded before speaking again. “I am no longer disappointed, then, but curious. Why would you want to take this risk and have me carry the cross?”

  “I don’t see it as a risk,” Gervaise said. “While I completely believe that our heavenly Father has the power to protect through miraculous means, I’m also convinced that you are not expecting to need His protection. After all, in all our discussions, you have expressed a degree of skepticism and a reluctance to share the faith. I suspect you have some earthly power you intend to use. I’m convinced you will survive trial by ordeal.”

  “Is this all you wanted to ask me, whether I would carry the cross? If so, I must take leave.”

  Gervaise laughed. “Your lack of trust is easy to see, Thomas. I understand it completely. After all, if you revealed to me what you have planned, and I in turn share it with others, then even if you survive the running of the bulls, your bold gamble will fail. For none will believe it was a supernatural event.”

  “As I said,” Thomas replied, “if this is all you intended to discuss, I must go and ready myself for what lies ahead.”

  “Please listen,” Gervaise said. “I think it’s important that you take the cross. Not because of what the church might gain from your gamble, but because of what you will gain as lord of Magnus.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It is clear that the people of Magnus ascribe the supernatural sign of the bats falling as dark forces gathered against you, and whispers of Druids are becoming louder and louder. It is obvious to me that you can only hold your kingdom by defeating or appearing to defeat these signs. In other words, if superstition among the people is leading dangerously close to the loss of your kingdom, then you have decided that superstition among the people is also a way to lead them back to you. It is a two-edged sword, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “Lay down that sword, Thomas. Because in the end, you are simply giving more strength to superstition, and eventually, the other edge of the sword may triumph. Instead, you can use this opportunity to damage the power of superstition.”

  “Ah,” Thomas said. “If it looks like the cross can defeat superstition, then the people will remain within the fold of the church and lose their fear of Druids.”

  “In plain words, yes.”

  “Isn’t that a dangerous game for you? After all, if I succeed through earthly powers, then the power of the cross is merely a sham.”

  Gervaise spoke earnestly. “Thomas, there is nothing sham about faith in our heavenly Father. I believe He is protecting you by providing what you need to succeed. I ask you to examine the teachings of the Son of the heavenly Father as shown in the four gospels. Wouldn’t it be much better for Magnus if its people followed His example, instead of fearing Druids? I ask of you, give careful consideration, for much is at stake here.”

  “I need give it no further consideration,” Thomas said. He reached for the cross. “You have indeed given me wise advice.”

  Katherine stood among the great crowd at the base of the castle. For once, she was almost grateful for the bandages around her face. They hid her ironic smile to notice the stale sweat stench of the men and women hemmed against her—several days of castle living had spoiled her.

  She was in the crowd because she wanted to hear and watch Thomas, and there was no way for her to remain beside him as he addressed the people from the top of the castle stairs.

  When he appeared, the rustling undercurrents of speculation immediately stopped. Thomas held complete attention.

  Once again, Katherine was grateful for the bandages. The new smile was one of admiration. She wasn’t sure she would have wanted Thomas to know he impressed her. Not if his feelings for her were different than her feelings for him.

  “People of Magnus,” Thomas began, “today I face death.”

  Whispers and excited chattering.

  Thomas held up his hand for silence. He wore only simple clothes. A brown cloak. No jewelry. In his arms, he carried the white cross Gervaise had built.

  “Because of you I undergo trial by ordeal. Magnus can withstand any siege, but only with your support. Some
of you have chosen to believe I am guilty of the charges laid against me. Today, then, I prove my innocence so that Magnus might stand. I tell you now, God will cause dogs to howl and bats to fall from the sky at the injustice of false accusations.”

  Thomas said nothing more. He spun on his heel and marched back into the castle.

  Surely he feels fear.

  From Katherine’s viewpoint among the hundreds of men and women of Magnus lined along the top of the fortress wall, Thomas appeared small and lost, standing alone halfway across the land bridge. He held the white cross in front of him.

  Thomas stood completely still and faced the opposing army. Between them, and where the land bridge joined the shore of the lake, a hastily constructed pen—made from logs roped together—held huge and restless bulls. From the castle wall, they seemed dark and evil.

  Katherine frowned. Why a heap of dried bushes at the back end of that pen?

  The collective tension of the spectators began to fill her too.

  Soldiers moved to the front of the pen.

  A sigh from the crowd along the fortress wall, like the wind that swept down the valley hills across them.

  Thomas crossed his arms and moved his feet apart slightly, as if bracing himself.

  If he turns and runs, he declares his guilt. Yet how can he remain there as the bulls charge? The land is too narrow. Surely he will be crushed.

  A sudden muttering took Katherine from her thoughts. She looked beyond Thomas, and understood immediately.

  The bushes at the rear of the pen … soldiers with torches … They meant to drive the bulls into a frenzy with fire! Thomas had not agreed to this!

  The vulnerable figure that was Thomas remained planted. Katherine fought tears.

  Within moments, the dried brush crackled, and high flames were plain to see from the castle walls.

  Bellows of rage filled the air as the massive bulls began to push forward against the gate. Monstrous black silhouettes rose from the rear and struggled to climb over those in front as the fire surged higher and higher.

  Then, just as the pen itself bulged outward from the strain of tons upon tons of heavy muscle in panic, the soldiers slashed the rope that held the gate shut.

  Bulls exploded forward toward Thomas in a massed charge.

  Fifty yards away, he waited.

  Does he cry for help? Katherine could not watch. Neither could she close her eyes. Not with the thunder that pounded the earth. Not with the bellowed terror and fury and roar of violence of churning hooves and razor-sharp horns bearing down on him like a black storm of hatred.

  Thirty-five yards away, Thomas waited.

  Men and women around Katherine began to scream.

  Still, he did not move.

  Twenty-five yards. Then twenty.

  One more heartbeat and the gap had closed to fifteen yards.

  Screams grew louder.

  Then the unbelievable.

  The lead bulls swerved, then plunged into the water on either side of Thomas. Within moments, even as the bellows of rage drowned out the screams atop the castle walls, the bulls parted as they threw themselves away from the tiny figure in front of them.

  Katherine slumped.

  It was over.

  No bull remained on land. Each swam strongly for the nearest shore.

  Another sigh from the crowd atop the castle walls. But before excited talk could begin, the first of the bulls reached the shore of the lake. As it landed and took its first steps, it roared with renewed rage and bolted away from the cautiously approaching soldiers.

  Small saplings snapped as it charged and bucked and bellowed through the trees lining the shore, through the tents and campfires, and finally to the open land beyond.

  Each bull did the same as it reached land, and soldiers fled in all directions.

  And behind the people, dogs started to howl in the streets. The men and women of Magnus turned in time to see bats swooping and rising in panic in bright sunshine, until moments later, the first one fell to earth.

  Katherine did not see Thomas anywhere on the streets of Magnus during the celebration that traditionally followed the end of a siege. Merchants and shopkeepers, normally cheap to the point of meanness, poured wine for the lowliest of peasants and shared the best cakes and freshest meats freely.

  Around her was joyful song—much of it off-tune because of the wine—and the vibrant plucked tunes of six-stringed lutes and the jangle of tambourines.

  People, even the most bitter of neighbors, danced and hugged one another as long-lost brothers. Today, the threat of death had vanished, and their lord, Thomas of Magnus, had been proven innocent. How could they have ever doubted after the uncanny howling of dogs and the death of bats that had followed Thomas’s trial by ordeal?

  Katherine moved aimlessly from street to street. Never, of course, in her life as a freak in Magnus, had she felt she belonged. This celebration was no different. Few offered her cakes, few offered her wine, and no one took her hand to dance.

  Did it matter? she wondered. All those years of loneliness, years served as duty for a greater cause. She thought she had become accustomed to the cruelty of people who judged merely by appearance.

  Yet today, the pain drove past the cold walls around her heart. Because of Thomas. Because she could remember not wearing the bandages. Like a bird freed from its cage, then imprisoned once more, she longed to fly again.

  Now, walking along the streets and among the crowds, thinking of Thomas darkened her usual loneliness.

  Yes, Thomas had proven his courage. Yes, Thomas had defeated the Druid attempt at rebellion within Magnus. And yes, Thomas had also turned away the most powerful earl in the north.

  But the Druids had not been completely conquered. Magnus was not free from danger.

  Katherine frowned beneath her bandages. She was disappointed in her own selfishness. So much was at stake. Her duty to Hawkwood proved it day after day. Yet she could barely look beyond her feelings—a frustrating ache—and beyond the insane desire to rip from her face the bandages that hid her from Thomas.

  She sighed, remembering Hawkwood’s instructions. “Until we are certain which side he has chosen, he cannot know of you, or of the rest of us. The stakes are far too great. We risk your presence back in Magnus for the sole reason that—despite all we’ve done—he is or might become one of them. Love cannot cloud your judgment of the situation.”

  Head down and lost in her thoughts, Katherine did not see Gervaise until he clapped a friendly hand upon her shoulder.

  “Dear friend,” he said, “Thomas wishes you to join him.”

  The Roman caltrops worked as predicted,” Thomas said as greeting. He stood beside the large chair in his throne room and did not even wait for the guard to completely close the large doors. A small dog was curled on the ground at his feet.

  Strange. Thomas trusts me enough to reveal how he survived the charge of the bulls?

  Katherine kept her voice calm. With only the two of them in the room, she could bluff. “Predicted? Forgive my ignorance, m’lord.” After all, the person behind the bandages should have no understanding of caltrops or of Hawkwood.

  “Katherine,” Thomas chided. “Caltrops. Small, sharp spikes. Hundreds of years ago, Roman soldiers used to scatter them on the ground to break up cavalry charges. Certainly you should know. After all, you left the letter with those instructions for me: Go the night before and seed the earth with spikes hidden in the grass. Bulls are not shod with iron. The spikes will pierce their feet and drive them into the water.”

  “M’lord?”

  Behind her bandages, beads of sweat began to form on Katherine’s face.

  “Katherine …” He used patient exasperation, a parent humoring a dull child. “We are friends, remember? You need not keep up the pretense. After all, your letter told me how to bring dogs to a frenzy. How to force bats to their deaths in daylight. I doubt it was coincidence that help was offered to me after I told you directly that I needed it
and wanted it.”

  Hawkwood had been right about the risk.

  “M’lord?”

  Thomas stood. The small dog rose too and wagged its tail.

  Thomas reached down and scratched the dog’s head. “Yesterday, this dog was, to all appearances, dead.”

  “I’m trying to understand this conversation,” Katherine said.

  “And I am trying to make sense of this fortress of stone. I walk through it daily, and the walls are solid. Yet it feels too often as though I walk through shrouds of mist, where nothing is as it appears. Including you.”

  “M’lord?” She felt panicked and trapped and could think of no other response.

  “There’s a potion of medicinal herbs and roots. One known to very, very few. Administered in too strong a dose, it kills like a poison. But in the right dosage, it renders a person so close to death that it is almost impossible to tell the difference.”

  He stepped closer, examining her mask closely. She stepped back.

  He spoke quietly. “Twice, if I am not mistaken, I have been fooled by the apparent death of a woman. The first was the daughter of the former lord of Magnus. And the second was the death of an old woman, the herbalist who visited Magnus on occasion.”

  He smiled, but with a coldness that chilled her. “Yet I wonder if perhaps it was the same woman?”

  “I have no answer, m’lord. I am baffled at your musings.”

  “I don’t think so.” He stepped closer, and she edged away again. “You were once about to tell me what you knew about Druids, but Geoffrey prevented it. And while you were unconscious, the potion was administered and you were taken away, dead. Then you spied on me and Magnus as the old woman herbalist.”

  “No!” Katherine’s denial was emphatic.

  “I’ve already sent out guards to find the old man who posed as your husband,” Thomas said. “But he has disappeared. So that leaves you. Isabelle.”

  Thomas lifted a hand to her bandaged face.