The Crystal Crux - Betrayal (YA EDITION Book 1)

by A Werner

  The Spaniard tried to cool the hot Italians condemning him from the sideboards. “Come now men, look at the facts. Justice was served. We had a disagreement. This was fit combat, was it not? Am I not among friends?”

  Sir Bergus squinted and spat on the floor near Francis’ feet, purposefully missing the Englishman’s shoes, not wanting to end up like Rugerius. “You have no friends here Spaniard. Your life is over. Consider it done.”

  Gherardus Fabbro spoke above all the voices again. “That will be enough, Sir Bergus. Remit your blade and return to your seat at table.”

  The handsome, blond-haired knight gripped his sword tight, restrained his anger tighter, and grudgingly retreated, swaying all the way.

  The Lord of Parthenope stared long and hard at Sir Pero before speaking again. He wanted to make sure the Spaniard understood the gravity of the situation. “Lord of Capua, there are no more words to be said. We all need time to think. Obey me. Take your people and leave this city at once. I will soon send word on how this matter can best be resolved.” He examined the angry men around the room with their shiny weapons still held at the ready. “Now is not the time.”

  Disgusted, Pero de Alava shook his head realizing that peace was not possible, not with Rugerius Fabbro bleeding on the marbled floor. Sheathing their swords, all the loyal knights of Capua bowed most fittingly before Lord Gherardus.

  Always the politician, Gherardus Fabbro was compelled by the tone of the room to ignore the honor these men of Capua bestowed in bowing to him. He turned his head decidedly away as though he were ashamed of them, his profile rivaling the snarling attitude of the gold-tongued, purple dragon gracing every banner in the hall.

  Pero gritted his teeth tight before leading his small party of men from the hall. As they exited the great doors, a number of men standing on the sideboards began collecting their wares to leave, their hasty intentions well understood.

  Gherardus Fabbro commanded the vengeful lot to stay put. “I have bid Sir Pero and his band safe passage. You will remain in this hall and respect this command.” The Lord of Parthenope lowered his head for a brief moment before grabbing a silver chalice by the twisted stem. He called for a toast.

  Everyone raised their cups, their fluted glasses, their deep wooden steins.

  “Gentlemen, let us empty our goblets and drink our hatreds away. When the morrow comes, there will be time to nurture this anger towards Lord Pero. I am sure of that.” His eyes alighted. “To Parthenope!”

  “To Parthenope!”

  Chapter 15 – The Kitchen

  Pero de Alava and Francis Whitehall rode swiftly into the keep at Capua. Several pages promptly appeared and gathered up the panting palfreys and corralled them in the barn.

  Pero and Francis entered the castle through the kitchen. Things were smoky and hectic inside, sweltering hot. An army of servants were preparing the evening meal and suspended their work to bow upon Pero’s entry.

  Benectus, a large, rotund, balding man with day old grime on his hands and an unwashed bloodstained apron tied about his waist, started whooping and hollering at the sudden idleness. He had failed to see Pero’s entrance into his kitchen. His intimidating voice came booming out of nowhere and scared the workers back on task.

  A rare smile washed over Pero’s face as the spirited kitchen steward finally noticed him and approached. Pero placed his hands over the steward’s shoulders, careful to keep the heft Italian at arm’s length. “Benectus, I am starving. I need something quick. Anthea dragged me off to La Torre before I could eat.”

  Benectus had been Capua’s kitchen steward for the previous three administrations. He cared not for any of those men. He was more than pleased when the Spaniard arrived under Imperial orders and proved to be righteous. The steward’s joy and praise were sometimes uncontainable.

  “Ah,” Benectus beamed as he leaned back to catch a glimpse of the sun through an iron-barred window. “It is nearly noon. I can have some pasta e fagioli whipped up immediately. Perhaps a side plate of Damascus plums?”

  “Perfect!” Pero chirped. “And lest we forget; a small chunk of smoked provolone to nibble on.”

  Benectus nodded and agreed. “Ah, yes, signore loves his cheeses.” The eager steward whirled around and made his demands known. “Quickly now! Bandus and Compagno! Stop what you are doing and prepare a plate of pasta e fagioli for Lord Pero!” Two men in dirty white smocks that looked like they could be twins, immediately jumped into action. “My sweet, sweet Savia, get down to the cellars and fetch smoked provolone cheese for Lord Pero!” Savia, standing nearby, smiled shyly at Lord Pero, most of her teeth still white. She patted down her short auburn hair, and scampered towards the door leading to the cellar. Benectus cheered as he popped her playfully on the backside. She grabbed her derriere and giggled.

  Pero suddenly realized that Francis had not placed an order and asked if he would.

  Francis rubbed his calloused hands over his still fit belly and politely shook his head. “No, I already ate today, twice in fact.”

  Pero laughed and popped Francis on that tight fit belly. “Midonia will have your head if you gain too much weight.”

  “Oh,” Francis sighed. “Benectus is such a fine cook and all those months on the road, worried for the next meal. It is a blessing and a curse to have such easy access to such delights.”

  “So that is how it is. My champion knight grows old and fat, ready to retire.”

  “Well, I am not alone in this. You are younger than me and how long has it been since you tested your mettle against another man and enjoyed the games? You are nothing more than a respectable administrator now.” Francis mocked his lord with a clumsy bow, “Sir Pero, Lord of Capua.”

  If Pero had been a hard man, he might have been offended. But Pero smiled, ignoring the slight.

  “And you are engaged to Anthea,” Francis continued. “You think it is difficult to fish and hunt now, wait until the banns are tightly wound around your arms, feet tripping over toddlers. Your ambition is waning.”

  Pero’s smile wanted to run and hide. It was one thing to be a figurehead like he had been at Cielo Diamantes, but now he had Imperial responsibilities. He wielded administrative power, exercising complete control over the courts in Capua. To add to that the seriousness of wife and child, perhaps wife and children, that was something that had been bothering him for a while now. And sadly, things had become more ominous the day he broke Rugerius Fabbro’s jaw and fled Parthenope like a criminal. This meeting with a messenger from Parthenope was the first ray of hope Pero had seen in weeks. At long last, there would be new information to work with. How bad could the condemnation really be? What penance would be required to get back into the court’s good graces?

  Pero threw a friendly arm around Francis Whitehall’s neck and spoke to the ceiling as if commanding the heavens. “Then let it be done, my friend! Let us grow old together. We shall become reclusive graybeards, men of distinction, idling away our days in books, forsaking our armor and swords! Off we sail for the isle of fatness and forgetfulness. Destroy the bridge tending back to youth!”

  They both began to laugh aloud, Pero because he thought he was amusing and Francis because Pero wanted him too. They were friends, best friends. It was the least he could do.

  Although they didn’t understand most of it, the eavesdropping servants found pleasure in Pero’s banter. They laughed when Pero laughed, and Pero took no offense. He never did. He loved the people. Capua had truly become his home. The people here continued to amaze him to no end.

  “Benectus,” Pero hollered, his hand still around Francis’ shoulders. “I am going to the great hall. I shall enjoy my bounty there. And bring me some limoncello! I’ll need something wet and tart to wash it all down!”

  Benectus chuckled as he waved a dirty towel. The old steward touched his hand to his forehead, a finger to each shoulder and then raised his head in praise. “Gracias Lord,” Benectus prayed. “Blessed is your kingdom. Blessed is your kingdom. An
d blessed is the man whom you have chosen to rule it.”

  Chapter 16 – Sir Chivalry

  Chivalry began with a solemn promise, an oath of fealty to the Christian imperative by sword and by blood. In time this moral gage proved to be an elusive integrity few devotees of the true cross could effectively maintain and discharge. The autonomy of the great knights gave rise to even greater lechery and it was not long before their greed and their arrogance overturned the high standards of justice they were sworn to uphold. Darkness precluded light as the living exploited the dying. Men sworn to honor righteousness on spiritual grounds failed most lamentably.

  Francis Whitehall had not evolved. The allure of power did not entice him. Those who had prospered by compromising their principles found his presence at knightly functions an unwelcomed reminder. Francis was ostracized. His gallantry and integrity left him nearly friendless and rather penniless.

  Before he met Pero de Alava, Francis Whitehall was scrapping together a meager living from the fickle spoils of officiated melees and jousts. He travelled Europe and played at war. The games were his last great enthusiasm. Out there in the grassy fields, far beyond his scarcity and his despair, Francis Whitehall was immortal, a satisfied man, a lone champion dispensing justice with a lance, reinventing light with a sword, restoring law and order. Of course this attitude was nothing more than an idealistic fantasy, a fantasy which served to both motivate him and ensnare him. Bound by scruples and faith, Francis was sure of only one thing in life. One day he would die on the field of battle. The rest of his life was simply filled with waiting for that day.

  “Wife, where are you?”

  Francis Whitehall, wearing a steel-rung hauberk, visible sweat beads dripping down his nose, his long blond hair flailing all about, ransacked the family’s large canvas tent like a barbarian. It was Germany and it was hot. Francis dove headlong into a stack of nondescript clothing and goat-haired blankets without any success. He shouted for his wife again. “Midonia, I cannot find my surcoat! Midonia, I must find it!” The knight kept rummaging as frustration began to overwhelm his patience. His voice grew louder and sterner. “Midonia, answer me!”

  Midonia finally came. She tossed open a loose flap that served as a door to the next room. She barked back at her husband like a quarrelsome little dog. “I do not know what you did with that stupid piece of cloth.” She made no effort to aid his search. With a disdainful stare and a gabled beak, her unpainted face turning gradually redder, Midonia hovered at the doorway, her wings folded up inside the wide creases of her boat-sleeves.

  Francis lowered his head again and returned to work, hands rummaging and upending a dozen scattered things.

  “If you leave me now do not come back. I will take her with me and I will not return.”

  Midonia had been making this idle threat since the day she birthed their daughter nine months ago. Francis knew without question that Midonia and Anne were not going anywhere. They couldn’t afford to. They were all trapped.

  Midonia hated it.

  Francis endured it.

  Ditching his fruitless hunt for the embroidered surcoat, Francis decided to chase something less elusive.

  Midonia anticipated his coming for the child. She enlarged her stance at the doorway. It had become a frequent practice of hers to make every issue between them a test of wills.

  To his goodly credit, Francis tolerated her trials. He never once harmed her or threatened her, allowing her many victories she did not deserve.

  Francis feigned a move to his wife’s left. She predictably leaned in that direction to block him. With ease Francis slid around to her right and forded over the threshold. As they brushed against one another, Francis managed to pinch her right butt cheek. “Lighten up my love. We have a child together. A little kindness towards your husband would be appreciated.”

  Midonia despised men. She never intended to wed anyone but Francis had somehow managed to weave his magic spell around her heart. She was forever at a loss to explain even to herself, her husband.

  Francis Whitehall had a unique philosophy regarding women. He believed that the best women were those who covered themselves beneath the darkest shrouds. These ogresses actually safeguarding immense stores of virtue and any man willing to brave their wrath, would eventually uncover the most wonderful treasure. The sweetest prizes are defended by the staunchest resolve and Midonia was as staunch as they came. She was a dragon shielding a trove of gems and crystals. Francis knew he must aim for her heart to win the day.

  During an epic battle that lasted eighteen days, Francis pursued Midonia in complete and utter silence. He arrived unannounced on her parent’s doorstep in Brighton wearing nothing knightly, only common dress, a light grey tunic, comfortable black pants and thin sandals. Rain or shine, for eighteen straight days, he called on her, never once changing his approach, never once changing his appearance. He accompanied Midonia on her daily repose through various flower gardens around the city. He sat with her in her parlor. He stood with her on her porch. He ate with her at her table. He did all these things without ever speaking a word.

  For eighteen days straight, Francis Whitehall did not utter a single word to Midonia for Midonia never asked him to speak to her. He did nothing to impress her and he did nothing to anger her. He simply strolled and smiled. He opened doors and he bowed. He waited and bided his time. His passivity was a cruel curiosity. He was completely agreeable to everything she desired of him, even when she desired nothing at all. Midonia was baffled on how to insult and discourage him. The mute fool left her nothing with which to wage a war. She could not fight that which did not offend.

  At the end of the eighteenth day, Midonia was won. She finally permitted Francis to speak to her and his first words were a proposal of marriage. She accepted. For a few days after, her cold heart had a pulse. The Whitehall’s consummated their marriage and Anne was born nine months later.

  Francis found the swaddled infant sleeping soundly in a makeshift manger made of cheap knotty pine. With calloused hands, he lifted Anne without waking her.

  “Ah, there she is,” he said. “It is another hot summer day. It is best you sleep through until the night. I do not look forward to the joust today. How the Outremer’s hellish winds found their way to German lands is beyond me.”

  Nine years before proposing to Midonia, Francis Whitehall had served as chief banneret for Lord Geoffrey Clayton Wolfe in Palestine. The Saracen wasteland was nothing but a hellish den of heat and sunlight. And yet, as dangerous as that strange world was, Francis considered his time in the Outremer to be amongst his finest moments in life. He was young and ambitious. Life was exciting. Life was good.

  “Tonight,” Francis whispered in Anne’s ear, “when the air has cooled and the campfire roars, and I have secured untold wealth,” he paused and grinned. “We will count the stars. I will share with you my fascination.” His eyes beamed with wonder. He stared at the infant as though she were just such a luminary, an ounce of flickering light he could hold in his hands and claim as his own. “Stars are predictable, following a dedicated course through the sky as if dancing. They know no distractions. They only hear the voice of God drawing them forward.” Francis paused as his expression turned serious. “Someday Anne, you will know distraction. My light will go out. I will die and you will suffer a sense of loss, may even think yourself forsaken. Nothing could be further from true. Remember the stars. Always remember the stars. Look to them and embrace their timeless ways. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh, blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Midonia had not moved. She was firmly planted in the doorway, her hands curled up and hidden in the sleeves of her green dress, her eyes rolling furiously around her head, one impatient foot tapping the clean rushes on the floor. “Are you through with her yet?” She sniped.

  Francis ignored her. “Death is a reunion, Anne. When I leave this earthly body, I will soar into the heavens and become one with my Lord. Through His eyes, I will watch you grow. I will h
ear you laugh and sing. I will not miss a thing you do. Not ever.” Francis squeezed her little hand in his. “I am right here daughter. I am always right here. I will be your sun, moon and stars. I will be the wind that kisses your cheek. I will be all these things for He is all these things.” Francis closed his eyes and pressed his lips against her forehead. “Rise child and amaze me.”

  Midonia had heard enough. She stepped forward and tried to take the child from him. Francis pivoted.

  “Well,” Midonia scoffed. “Winds and stars are nonsense. Gods and devils are butchers. Anne mustn’t grow fat on your misguided faith. Praying doesn’t put food in the belly. You are none the better for it. I say let the spirit die so long as the body remains healthy and fit. Damn the gods for want of proper things. We should have a castle. Not a tent. You should be teaching her about gold and silver. Stop polluting her mind with your wayward dreams.”

  “Dreams are hopes.”

  “Dreams are lies!”

  Francis gently lowered Anne back in the box. He kept his voice calm and discreet. “Everyone needs hope, Midonia. Even you. Who wants to go on living without hope?”

  “There you go again. You would have Anne be like you and dream her life away.”

  “Anne is my dream. She is the result of my devotion to God.”

  Midonia sighed and began to plead with him. “Why must you always be so irrational Francis? Why can’t you change? I hate you this way.” She tried to veil her anger behind a jagged grin. “Listen to me. Listen to your wife. I am not completely blind. I know you’re a good man Francis, and you know how much it pains me to say that. Wise up. Recant that oath you made to Lord Geoff. Leave him. Find a worthy lord with great possessions and land to distribute. We must have a castle appointment. We can’t keep living like this. There are lords in Briton seeking honest men, such as you are. They would bless us favorably.”