by A Werner
“Peasant, are you sure this is the way?” This was Pero’s voice calling out to him and the sound of it reminded him that the Spaniard was not near to him, not close at all. His betters were lined up single file behind him and the two escorts were nearest with Pero bringing up the rear. There was simply no way he could get back there fast enough to surprise Pero and inflict a fatal blow. He’d have to chop his way through the other two first.
Cambio suddenly felt weak and the ease at which he had been destroying the vegetation, faltered. The overconfident worm was dead. The darkling likeness of Gisele dissolved in his mind’s eye. The spiritual world had stopped speaking to him.
The narrow deer paths diminished to the point where it was nearly impossible to recognize the trail or track the route. Cambio was pressing forward on instinct alone. He knew this was the way. He just knew it. He couldn’t explain to anyone how he knew, but he knew. His employers, however, were not convinced. Cambio could sense their frustration boiling over when they had to dismount and tug their horses through the thicket, stepping over roots, wading occasionally though patches of mud.
Pero growled his displeasure. They seemed to be surrounded by impassable marshland.
Cambio had talent. He kept finding a path through the maze.
Niccolus slapped a rather large bug off his face and swore.
Arrigo murdered two swollen mosquitoes that had been feeding on his arm.
Obnoxious insects began to lay siege, nestling in hair, burrowing beneath armor. The horses were on edge as well, whinnying and nickering, their long tails swatting and fanning their backsides.
Pero de Alava finally had enough. He had no more faith in the peasant whose face he could not recall. It was time to turn this party around, return to the clearing by the oaks and oranges and test the open road. Pero squashed an enormous, green insect with lacey-black wings off his neck, tossed it aside and yelled at Cambio, “Where are you leading us? Take us back to the main via now!”
Cambio pretended not to hear. He placed his faith in his instincts and in the good Lord above. He prayed and he chopped, he chopped and he prayed, and he was soon glad he did for his resiliency paid off. Before Pero could raise another complaint, the weeds thinned and became reeds that did not require any hacking. Using his swollen hands to part them, Cambio pressed forward and opened a door to a cool eastern breeze which swept in so swiftly it lifted most of the flying insects away. Seconds later, they were all standing on the western shore of a still lake. Their eyes were drawn gradually skyward by the snowcapped mountains far behind the trees on the eastern shore.
“Lake Elena,” Cambio sighed with relief. He turned and gazed in the eyes of his betters feeling quite proud. “That is the Apennine range. Aquila Saltus[4] is beneath that mountain, on the other side of the lake.” He examined the waning sky. “We can still reach it before nightfall. You can set up camp and enter in the morning.”
Pero nodded in agreement, his frustrations vanishing. He was so relieved, in fact, to have come this far, he forgot he had been yearning to see the young man’s face. His quest was all that stood before him now.
Cambio was parched. Like a dog, he dropped down on all fours and stuck his face in the lake. He didn’t even care when the scowling sergeants pulled their snotty-nosed horses forward and began watering them right beside him. Cambio fought the horses for every drop.
Pero shook his head with disappointment. “Peasant, lift your head up out of that pool. Arrigo, toss this man an orange from the basket to quench his throat.”
Arrigo cast Cambio a fat, ripe orange.
Cambio smiled before viciously tearing into the hide of the fruit. Juice splattered his face and dripped down his sackcloth and he was happy.
With their palfreys in tow, the party made haste and followed the mucky shoreline around the lake until they reached their destination, the entrance to Eagles Pass.
Pero estimated that following Cambio through the countryside had saved them, at the very least, a whole day’s journey on the main via. And had they gone that way, it was more than likely, Pero suspected, they would have been ambushed. If they died now, it would be at the hands of ale-belly trolls and blood-thirsty sprites, not armed mercenaries from Parthenope.
No one muttered a word as they stood before the entrance, their eyes thinning, gazing into the black nothingness of the forest. Their senses were heightened. Their eager fingers began to dance on the pommels of their swords. They turned at every noise and movement.
Still on foot, with Zaon’s reins in hand, Pero walked over to the remains of an old guard post, the stone foundation of the building standing in shambles, covered by vines and moss. The post had been thoroughly gutted by fire long ago. The planks that remained were black and ruined by weather. Hanging above the arch of what had been the doorway was a rotted sign with one corner still loosely connected to the building. The words on the sign were etched in Latin; ‘Aquilarum Transibit.[5]’
As Arrigo sparked a torch to life, Pero instructed him to reward the peasant scout with three more gold coins for his troubles.
Cambio was somewhat surprised he wasn’t being paid off in steel. “Would it not be wiser, Sir, to enter the Pass in the morning?”
Pero remounted Zaon and ordered his sergeants to do likewise. His blue eyes wandered up into the clear night sky which was full of stars now. ‘Beautiful.’
“You’ve nothing more to fear of me,” Pero bragged. “I, Pero de Alava, Lord of Capua and knight of Penafiel, release you from your service to me. You may return to your people and to your sister, who I have mercifully spared.” Pero stared at Cambio as if he had been reading the young man’s mind all along, and at that instant, he realized he was finally seeing the face he had longed to explore in the wilderness. Cambio was as handsome as his sister was lovely. Pero liked Cambio’s face, his countenance, everything about him.
Cambio was overwhelmed with joy, grinning from ear to ear. He understood fully what Pero meant concerning Gisele, and immediately prostrated himself on one knee. “My Lord, forgive me if I have offended thee. Thou art truly an honorable man, a good man. God be praised.”
Pero huffed. ‘More praise. I’m supposed to be ruining my name. I should be wreaking havoc on the countryside, looting villages. People should be suffering by my hands. Iya basta.’
“Forget my name,” Pero instructed Cambio. “Forget my name, because God has.”
Pero sunk his muddy spurs into Zaon’s hide and his beloved horse bolted fearlessly into the dark wood. This time, Niccolus and Arrigo were not caught off-guard by their lord’s dramatics. They gave immediate chase.
Chapter 33 – Penthesileia and Achilles
News spread quickly that Pero de Alava had left Capua and despite Francis Whitehall’s best efforts to maintain discipline, idleness swelled among the ranks. They were not at war. The troops at Capua performed routine duties, regulating the byways, observing the traffic, keeping brigands at bay, arresting drunks and vagrants. For more than a generation, no militarized force dared make a move against Capua itself. ‘Why should anyone expect such aggression tonight?’ Many believed.
Castellan Rugerius Fabbro led his handpicked mercenary force of cavalry and men-at-arms, three thousand strong, beneath Capua’s old deserted amphitheater, a structure in century-old disrepair, rivaled in size only by the great coliseum in Rome. The marauders did not haul any siege equipment nor did they have any designs to construct them on site. There would be no toppled stones, no fallen walls, no sappers sent to mine beneath. This assault was going to be fast and furious, sweeping like a storm across the drawbridge, through the front gates and end before the dawn.
As the sky grew darker and the stars emerged, Strenna and Fabio, the rude squires who had accompanied the Provost on his errand to Capua, took happy leave of the old official to pursue entertainment and leisure. Instead, they secreted their way to the castle gates where they ruthlessly murdered a few unsuspecting guards. Minutes later, they raised the portcullis and lo
wered the drawbridge. Rugerius Fabbro and his bloodthirsty band of raiders were inside the open bailey killing people before the first alarms were sounded.
Provost Guidus Salvatore had an absolutely miserable day. He had been temporarily demoted to messenger boy. And worse, the letter he bore sent another man to his death. This was more than the fifty-year-old could stomach. He felt honored when the Whitehall family invited him to sup with them in their chamber in the west tower. As they sipped the vin brulé which accompanied the roast duck and asparagus, Guidus Salvatore dominated the conversation, regurgitating his complaints. He wasn’t generally a talkative man but he was outside his element.
Francis was a gracious host and bore the complaints for three whole hours. Guidus then bid them goodnight and retired to his quarters further down the hall.
For fifteen years, since the day the Griffin rescued Pero de Alava from assassination at Whitsuntide, the fortunes of the Whitehall family had been steadily increasing for the better. The blue pavilion had been burned in effigy as the castle appointment Midonia so dearly wished her husband to take had finally been granted. Here in the fortress at Capua, the Whitehall family found stability and purpose. Their marriage was still a work in progress but there were signs that it was maturing.
In quiet moments, Francis would often pretend to read at his desk, but his attention was actually on his wife. She donned, weaved and knitted, humming joyful tunes. He had never seen Midonia as serene as she was now. Despite her unruly temperament, she remained lovely to him, a peculiar treasure. Her words were still unkind but not as frosty or venomous. Midonia finally had everything she ever wanted, a stone floor, solid walls, a wardrobe of fine clothes, dances she could attend and groups of women to gossip with. And she also had flowers, lots and lots of flowers. There were pots and planters in every room, brimming with jasmine and bluebells, white and pink roses, periwinkles, violets and crocus. Midonia surrounded herself with them. With gloved hands, she meticulously trimmed the wild stems, pruning away wilted leaves and browning petals, talking to them as if they were her best friends. The décor on the walls, the paintings and the tapestries were of colorful bouquets, vases and table settings, nothing rustic. She decorated the whole apartment with endless flowers. Francis was amused by it all and could not remember a time when his personal life was more at peace. God be praised.
After spending a year at Cielo Diamantes recuperating from his grievous wounds at Whitsuntide, Pero de Alava kept his promise to save Francis Whitehall. He met with Lord Geoffrey Clayton Wolfe in Warwick. A contract was drafted and signed. For Sir Francis’ indefinite servitude, Pero de Alava agreed to finance the reconstruction of Warwick Castle. He had to draw heavily on his inheritance but the investment paid dividends. Pero then rebuilt marketplaces in small townships all over England, Spain and Portugal, creating a network of roads to transport goods. Before long, he had promoted trade with a hundred provinces. It was a lot of work but all the small communities and boroughs this train of goods touched, prospered.
Francis Whitehall thought this ‘ransom for his soul’, as he liked to call it, was far too excessive and absurd to retain one man’s services, no matter how honest and noble that one man might be. He was humbled that Pero de Alava considered him just such a man.
Not since the loyal knights who had once served his father, had Pero witnessed such devotion and chivalry as he found in Francis Whitehall. Francis quickly became his Zor, his strong right hand, accepting every charge and performing every deed with zeal and precision.
During this quick turn of events, Francis Whitehall had to deal with the loss of his fantast squire. Merle Gilmore was called home, home to Warwick. Lord Geoffrey Clayton Wolfe had need of his ambitious nephew. He needed someone he could trust to oversee the rebuild. During an elaborate ceremony attended by nearly everyone in Warwick, including his parents, Merle Gilmore was knighted. Francis Whitehall didn’t doubt the boy’s abilities, his fortitude and willingness to serve. He was a clever young man and a scholar at heart. He would be an asset to the whole community. The Rose, as Merle came to be known, never tripped, dropped or forgot a responsibility again. It was an amazing and glorious transformation. ‘Sir Merle.’
“Your guard is down old man.”
The Griffin had been relaxing, eyes closed, nearly asleep in a comfortable chair. The voice was familiar.
“Prepare to defend yourself!” Anne shrieked. “Penthesileia has returned to lay claim to her throne!”
Night after starry night, Francis Whitehall had recited all the classic tales to his daughter while cuddling beside roaring campfires. She loved to act them out with him.
Midonia Whitehall was flabbergasted by the sight of her unruly child. ‘This is no way for a proper young lady to behave.’
Anne had just returned earlier in the day from Britain, her ancestral homeland. She had been waiting patiently for sour old Guidus Salvatore to leave so she could engage her father in some rowdy horseplay.
Anne flashed to the center of the room swinging a short sword, enticing the patriarch to battle. She had her mother’s features but her father’s build. She was wearing a short, rather revealing, white linen nightgown. Resting snugly on her head was a thin headband of braided flowers, the colors accenting the ruby highlights hidden in her blondish hair.
Francis ignored the blade, his eyes counting red freckles on her cheeks. ‘Twelve,’ he thought. ‘There have always been twelve.’
“Alright, heathen wench,” Francis growled playfully, “I, brave Achilles, will not faint from battle. Approach, and ye shall die!” Francis dashed to the cold hearth and fetched his long sword from the mantel. He made silly faces to antagonize her and she loved it.
Midonia scoffed at them. “Oh, stop it you two. It is dark outside. It is time for bed.”
“No,” Anne refuted. “Look around you Mummy for this is not the night, but rather the day. Can’t you see the sun dawning over the crest of that fair hill? And this is nay a room but rich alluvial soil peppered by towering elms and ash.” She aimed the tip of her short sword at Francis and wiggled it back and forth. “And there be cowards over yonder, a band of Greeks languishing in my fields. How dare they nest here! They must be made to pay for their arrogance!”
Francis didn’t wait for her to say more. He leapt over a wooden stool and swung his long sword at her, a sword much bigger than hers. She deflected the blow, the clanging of metal ringing throughout the room.
“You may terrorize little boys with your saucy words,” Francis announced in an absurd tone, “but I have yet to meet a woman who can match the purple blood coursing through my immortal veins.”
Father and daughter exchanged several more blows which seemed almost choreographed. It was a dance filled with grunts, groans, smiles and laughter.
Anne smiled. “You forget brave Achilles. I share your immortal blood and I have been practicing.”
Wisely, before this exercise could grow out of hand, Francis disarmed his daughter with a talented swipe. He tossed her body gently to the floor and placed his full weight upon her. She was pinned. As well as any fourteen-year-old girl could hope to do, Anne resisted her father but the fight ended the way it had always ended, Francis got the better of her.
“One day, Da, one day, I will beat you.”
Francis held his child’s arms above her head against the floor so she could not move. “True,” he grinned, nose nearly touching nose. “A day of besting is yet to come but it is not this day.”
“Francis!” Midonia barked. “Enough of your foolishness. Let the child up. Send her directly to bed.”
Francis ignored Midonia. “So, did you enjoy your stay in Britain? Is grandmother well?” Anne had stayed with Midonia’s mother in England. Midonia had hoped some of her mother’s refinement might have rubbed off on the child. She was seeing firsthand, nothing had changed.
“Let me up first,” Anne demanded as she strained against her father’s will.
Francis shook his head. “Nope, I’m e
njoying the view where I am. It has been nearly three weeks since I saw you last. I will remain where I am until you tell me all about your journey.”
Anne sighed and surrendered. “Fine. Britain is a cold place, remote, hilly and white.” She paused, smiled and continued. “Grandma is a cold woman, remote, hilly and white.”
“Anne!” Midonia yelled.
Francis and Anne laughed together.
Anne turned her head and flashed her exasperated mother a starry grin. A few wayward strands of hair had fallen over her cheek and chin. “I am sorry, Mum. Grandma is wonderful. We had so much fun. We knit things and we sewed things. We complained about the weather and slothful servants. We drank tea and ate lamb. I sat a window and mediated for hours on the beauty of the rolling English countryside as the great dragon snored and roared in her favorite chair. Whew, Grandma Dragon was so exciting, a tempest of energy, a whirling sea of enthusiasm. I am still out of breath. Oh father, catch me as I falter.” Anne closed her eyes and feinted, fainting. More of her hair fell over her face.
Midonia jeered them both as she wrapped her arms in her sleeves and vacated the room, “You two are just awful to me. And stop referring to your grandmother as a dragon!”
Francis stopped laughing and freed Anne. He rolled up off her onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
Anne took advantage of his kindness. She rolled up on top of him and pinned his arms to the floor, their noses almost touching.
Content to endure this position, Francis allowed her the privilege to continue. He did not resist.
“I love you, Da.”
“Tomorrow you turn fifteen,” Francis reminded her. “I have a gift. I had Tranio fashion you a new bow. It should be perfect for your size and strength.”
Anne glowed so brightly she could have put the moon to shame if there had been one this night. “Really, a new bow? Where is it?”
“Relax; Tranio has it in the stables. You will get it tomorrow, I promise. We will go to the archery field at first light and break it in.”
