The Crystal Crux - Betrayal (YA EDITION Book 1)

by A Werner

  Taking no chances with their safety, Blassilo Velez dispatched twelve heavily armed knights from his private retinue to bring his woman and his son safely to Cielo Diamantes. The party was formidable and encountered no problems until they were about two miles west of Penafiel. The captain of the guards, Don Luis Zorrilla, a life-long friend of Blassilo Velez, suddenly halted the carriage. He set up a perimeter around it and rushed ahead with four men.

  Pero craned his neck out the carriage window hoping to spy the ruckus, desperately wanting to take part in whatever violent combat was occurring. There was no activity however. The violence that had occurred here had been over for hours. Only the dead and dying remained.

  An urgent voice was heard shouting orders from the distance. The carriage lunged forward suddenly and Pero was thrown back in the seat beside him mother. It came to an abrupt halt and two anxious knights swung the door open. They insisted that Maria and Pero sit way back in the coach and make room. Once they did, the soldiers shoved Blassilo’s swelling, filthy body inside. The hirsute knight was badly wounded, choking and gagging, blood all over his armor; a bolt sticking out of his chest plate directly above the emblem of House Velez. The scarlet star was bleeding.

  Blassilo appeared lost. His dark brown eyes were scrolling around his head at a maddening pace and refused to settle on anyone. Was he blind? Did he know where he was? He couldn’t speak. Uncontainable coughs sprayed spittle everywhere. His strong body was spastic and twitching, shuddering at times uncontrollably.

  Maria tried to force Pero’s head down into her shoulder but he would have none of it. He was seventeen now and a man. He gazed upon his father’s broken body, teeth clenching, anger tearing through every fiber of his being.

  No one knew what had happened at that point and no one cared. The carriage and retinue made haste to Penafiel Castle where Blassilo was unloaded and ushered into the infirmary. Doctors labored over him for hours.

  Pero’s heart raced. He found it impossible to relax. His blue eyes were red with fury as he paced the stables and bailey of the keep. Familiar old friends he had not seen in months approached him and tried to comfort him with no success. Pero wanted answers. He wanted vengeance. He wanted his father.

  Finally, they called for him.

  Blassilo had been moved to the chapel. He was resting comfortably beneath the glow of three hundred votive candles. The air smelled of lavender. Pero entered the sanctuary expecting everyone to be as incensed as he was. No one was. It was quiet and peaceful. ‘Why is everyone so calm? Where is the outrage?’

  Maria Alava had changed her attire. She was now wearing a widow’s gown and veil. She sat on a chair beside the bed holding Blassilo’s hand. She kissed the hand and the tired old warrior rewarded her with a warm smile that even his thick wooly beard could not hide.

  It was then that Pero started to notice how white and pristine everything in the room was. He couldn’t remember Blassilo ever wearing anything white or brilliantly clean. He was just a dirty old man accustomed to his ranches, his horses. He was barbaric, bathing only occasionally in streams and rivers, most often with his clothes still on. Even from across the room there was no sign of dirt or blood on him, his beard washed and flattened, his lion’s mane tamed. He wore a white shirt and lay beneath even whiter sheets. Everything was so white it was numbing.

  Maria placed Blassilo’s hand gently on the bed and stood up. “Come sit by your father, Pero. There isn’t much time and he has important news for you.”

  Pero felt a lump form in his throat. His knees got wobbly. All the fire he had generated outside the room was gone. He felt like a little boy again, completely useless and on the verge of crying.

  Don Luis Zorrilla, or Zor as he was called, was Blassilo’s nearest and dearest companion. He had experienced much in life and had seen plenty of young men face their own mortality while standing in the presence of their failing fathers. They all had wobbly legs and throbbing chests. The good knight placed a reassuring hand on Pero’s shoulder. Pero could feel the caballero’s positive energy surge into him. It was like magic.

  “Bravest blood flows first” Zor whispered confidently.

  Pero looked at Zor’s trim noble face and bristled with admiration for his father’s friend. He nodded at him, not saying a word in return, not sure what could be said.

  “Ven, hijo,” Blassilo commanded quietly, his large hairy hand tapping the bed.

  Pero steeled himself and marched forward with renewed strength, sitting on his mother’s chair, chamomile still haunting the seat.

  Blassilo stared at his son for a long minute, examining his bright blue eyes and long black hair, eating up every detail, taking him all in. Pero was young and handsome, everything Blassilo ever wanted in a son. And then the old man blinked and shifted to face an official Pero had not really noticed standing on the other side of the bed. The regal looking man was dressed in gaudy Imperial armor. He had a gold helmet and matching gold chest plate. There was a flowing red cape secured to his shoulders, draping loosely down his back. The Imperial held out a long piece of paper.

  “Take this writ, hijo,” Blassilo said.

  Pero took hold of the paper but did not try to read it. His eyes never left his father.

  “These are my words,” the old lion stated with conviction and pride. “I am sending you to the Emperor.”

  Pero’s eyes got wide. “Barbarossa?”

  “Yes, Barbarossa. You will leave tomorrow. I am sending you to the Imperial palace with Zor and a considerable donation. By my charge, Emperor Barbarossa will knight you and name you my heir. The Church demands you be legitimized. So be it, a king will command it. You will be my successor. Everything I have is yours from this day forth. But I warn you, son, you are not my only child. I’ve sired a legion of mongrels. The moment news of my death starts circulating; they will come for it. Give them nothing. Everything I have is meant for you. The Emperor will enforce your rights to it.”

  Pero always knew he had siblings in the world due to his father’s extensive womanizing but he never concerned himself with that. He was raised as the only child.

  Several minutes of silence passed as Blassilo rested. It almost felt as though everything would be alright. Pero nearly dropped his guard to read the document. Blassilo started to choke and cough again. Pero immediately dropped the Imperial paper on the floor and leaned closer to his father, his hand pressed against his shoulder, his expression seeking a solution, a cure.

  “It’s okay, hijo, nothing more can be done for me now. The darkness has snared me. I’m not scared of it. It was inevitable.” Blassilo shut his eyes but only for a second. “I thought I could scare off these villainous little boys who’ve been creating such a stir. Word was they were few in number, armed with slings and arrows. I always loved a good tussle, you know. Well, this fight was not a good one. I underestimated their numbers. They were men alright, men with sharp skills and better weapons than I had imagined. They rode down off an embankment and got the jump on us. From what Zor tells me, we did well, killing a great many of them before they ran off; but I lost all five of my men in the process, good men; not a trade worth the cost. Now I will die, tortured by the memory of what I have done to them.” Blassilo started to squirm in his bed. “Iya basta! What an awful way to depart the devil’s world, undone by cutthroats in a ditch. Temerario. I’ve always been too reckless.”

  Maria stepped forward on the other side of the bed and made the Imperial official move out of her way. When her warm hands touched Blassilo’s skin, he calmed all the way down.

  Blassilo squeezed Pero’s hand. “I’ve only a few words left for you, hijo, and I want to make sure you take them to heart.” His glare was serious and forceful. “I am not leaving you my possesiones because you are like me. I am leaving you my possesiones because you are different than me, you are better than me. You have Maria’s virtue.” Blassilo pulled Pero even closer to him. “Don’t be like me, hijo. Don’t be alone. I’ve lived a thousand adventures o
n the back of a horse but none were so good as the hours I spent in your Madre’s arms. I wish I had learned to sit still and enjoy my blessings. In my heart, it all withers. The trees I have planted are hewn down, wizened boughs contorting and turning white, dark leaves snapping off at the stems, missed opportunities drifting away, swirling in the breeze towards the coldness of the grave, winding upside down and tumbling, blackening the whole sky, the green earth; everything they touch. So many regrets. I have injured the love of my life but fail to grasp how deeply.”

  Blassilo didn’t want to cry, so he refused to look at Maria who was squeezing his left hand in earnest. “I have seen a kindness in you, Pero, a sincere consideration for others that is not weakness. It is this benevolence that makes you a better man than most, and a better solider. I hereby command you to use these resources of mine and these virtues of your Madre to make this devil’s world a brighter place for those souls willing to stand beside you. Never let your friends down. You must be strong, for them. You must be the rock. You must be Penafiel. Everywhere you go, you must be Penafiel.”

  A tear appeared in Blassilo’s left eye. “Stand. When they push you, stand. Don’t fear anything. Pray. And don’t stop praying. Dios can accomplish great things with men who have the valor and patience to wait on Him.” Blassilo started to cough and shake as another tear appeared, this time in his right eye. He didn’t want to cry but it was happening anyway. “Pero, you have all the makings of a great man. Don’t let me down. Don’t forsake your Madre. Be Penafiel, my hijo; a rock the world cannot shake from its foundation. Do not let them break you.”

  No one wanted this moment to come but it came. Blassilo’s words started tailing off almost to a whisper as his eyes rolled up and away inside his head. “Aim for the heart.” Blassilo went silent.

  A surgeon stepped in and laid a gentle hand on the old knight’s forehead. “Our Lord has gone to sleep.” Everyone bowed their heads with respect and began filing out of the room without being ordered to do so, Zor being the last to leave.

  When the door closed and the room was silent, Pero and Maria came together at the end of the bed and mourned in each other’s arms. The man they both loved the most in the world was travelling on a quest from which he would never return.

  Chapter 14 – Jaw Breaking

  The trade deal Pero de Alava conspired to create with Spain proved to be extremely successful. The agreement was so successful, in fact, that Gherardus Fabbro called for a holiday and threw a royal banquet in Parthenope to honor the Spaniard’s deed.

  Nobles and knights from every corner of Campania were encouraged to attend the festivities. Few refused the invitation. Anthea Manikos was one of the few dissenters. She had vowed a year previous never to set foot in the capital city ever again. Truth be told, Gherardus’ eldest son disgusted her to no end. If anyone brought up his name in her company, she would say, ‘Rugerius Fabbro is a swine’ and leave it at that. Pero shared her revulsion. He despised Rugerius as well and secretly dreamed of the day they might cross swords. But for now, Pero had to resign himself to accept the invitation, having been named the illustrious guest of honor.

  On March 20, 1198, the feast to honor Pero de Alava was commenced in the great hall of the Castel dell Ovo. Gherardus Fabbro claimed the chief seat at the head table. Huge, imposing banners of Sarcinus, the gold-tongued, purple dragon emblem of House Fabbro were draped shamelessly across the front of the stage.

  To the Lord Commanders right sat all the key state officials. The man immediately at his elbow was Provost Guidus Salvatore. He wore a red cloak with silver embroidery, bands of gold on each wrist and a ring on most of his fingers. Wiping sweat from his bald head, he maintained a somber expression throughout the event. He was not pleased to be here. To his chagrin, Pero’s celebrated treaty with Spain embarrassed his office. For eight years, every major monetary transaction went through him. This one did not. It was an affront and he was annoyed.

  On Lord Gherardus’ left sat his sons.

  Talento was all a glitter in bright purple silks, a collection of sparkling ruby rings weighing down his spidery fingers.

  Drinking heavily, Rugerius was growing more rowdy and obnoxious by the minute. He was ingesting alcohol at a furious rate.

  Sir Bergus of Brindisi and a host of other militant parasites donning silver armor, edged out the rest of the way to the end of the table.

  Rows of elevated tables, benches and chairs, were stacked along the side walls, filled beyond capacity with all the other well-wishers.

  The small contingent that had come to Parthenope from Capua was seated on a slightly less elevated dais at the far end of the room, directly opposite Gherardus’ grand party. Pero brought with him his trusted inner circle, Francis Whitehall, Aldo the Loud, Rafaelle with the golden locks, and Dino the armiger.

  Throughout the evening, performers entertained in the center of the hall. Numerous servants served succulent meats, baked heron, boiled chicken, capons and quails, beef and pork. Per Pero’s request, fine cheeses graced each table. There was plenty of confectionary, sweetened cakes, tangy tarts and fruit-laden pies. An ocean of dark seedy mead flowed liberally from goblet to goblet as well as a dozen classes of vintage wine. Jesters and jugglers strolled aimlessly around the hall. Wild animals and misshapen beasts from nearby Sin Circus were dragged into the room, some stalking in cages, others rattling in iron chains. Disfigured, homely trainers goaded these creatures to snarl, dance or fly, perform whatever talent they possessed.

  Pero was not his usual self today. He was drinking slowly and shunning the women. He seemed distant, content. He was a man ready to wed and everyone knew it.

  And then the inevitable began to occur. The ordinary debates men held concerning women, horses and hunting deteriorated into bold political chatter. Things grew way too serious for such inebriated minds.

  Alert and completely attached to his senses, Pero de Alava, being the guest of honor, was invited to rise and speak his mind. Like Icarus soaring towards the sun, he flew. He brazenly applauded the recent election of Philip of Swabia to the throne. The great hall rose in protest. The majority of those in attendance were devoutly Catholic and opposed the election of another Hohenstaufen.

  Rugerius Fabbro and Pero de Alava had never been on friendly terms, not ever. They had taken great care to avoid one another, throwing punches with their eyes and words. They had managed to avoid close contact.

  Intoxicated and hardly capable of keeping his bumbling feet beneath him, a dashing, clean-shaven, Rugerius Fabbro tumbled down off the dais and advanced on Pero.

  The crowd was silent and staring. The unspoken arrangement between these warrior knights was about to be breached and everyone knew it. This was the event all had waited to see. There would be blood. Rugerius unsheathed his long sword, screamed as mad men tend to do and made a rash lunge.

  Pero expected it. He unsheathed Miriam, a fine single-handed, ice-brook tempered sword. With one talented move, Miriam sung through the air and easily disarmed the inebriated brute. Rugerius lost hold of his sword. It flew out of hand, clanging on the marbled tile, sliding to a halt far across the room. The Castellan stood humiliated, clutching his injured thumb, a trickle of blood running down his hand and wrist, spotting the floor near his feet. The scuffle between them was frustratingly unsatisfying to everyone.

  Pero coolly placed Miriam’s sharp tip on Rugerius’ neck just beneath the throbbing Adam’s apple.

  It wasn’t long, however, before Rugerius’ embarrassment turned to foolish pride. He felt the judging eyes and refused to take down. His curses against Pero were hostile, growing bolder and bolder, continuing to escalate in volume and severity until … he spat. The thick spittle that flew from his chiseled jaw, clung to Pero’s nose and cheek. It was utterly disgusting.

  Having tolerated more abuse than he believed he was expected to endure but still exercising unrivaled restraint, Pero de Alava calmly smiled at his nemesis before rearing back and busting the hard pommel of hi
s sword across the braggart’s face.

  Thumped unconscious, his jaw shattered, Rugerius Fabbro tipped over. Dark red blood pooled around his head as his loyal supporters rose to their feet in hysterics, their swords and knives jumping out of their sheaths.

  Pero was truly outnumbered.

  Francis Whitehall led the knights from Capua out into the heart of the room. With their swords drawn, they created a makeshift cordon around Pero.

  Everyone on the sideboards decried the victor. “Hang him!” Some were heard to say. “Heretic!” “Treason!” “Monster!”

  Slow to his feet, Gherardus Fabbro finally rose and commanded there be silence. And there was silence.

  “I must remind all in attendance that this celebration was intended to honor Lord Pero.” Gherardus paused and chose his next few words carefully. “We must therefore excuse his poor judgment and hasty actions. Obviously the wine has gotten the better of him.” There was another pause and another selection of careful words. “Therefore I will overlook this discretion and permit him safe passage home. This celebration is ended. Lord Pero, you are dismissed. Gather your people and return to Capua at once.”

  Pere de Alava was hot. His blue eyes roamed the great hall in confusion and anger. “My Lord, I am not drunk and I did nothing wrong! Rugerius is the fool! He advanced on me!”

  Sir Bergus of Brindisi, tearing a page out of Rugerius’ book of stupid, stumbled out oafishly from his seat, his long sword drawn, the blade shaking wildly, violently in his hand.

  Francis Whitehall, loyal as ever to Pero and not intimidated by anyone, confidently stepped forward to face Sir Bergus.

  Sir Bergus knew Francis Whitehall, he knew the Griffin’s reputation and was apparently not as rash or as intoxicated as his fallen comrade. He stopped far short of the dangerous Englishman and awkwardly waved the sword in the air, his cross-eyed expression trying desperately to appear menacing. “Spaniard!” He babbled from afar. “Count your days. You’ve been disloyal to God and church. You deserve to die.”