by A Werner
“You have not yet spoken of this quest my brother sent you on,” Turstin stated. “What were you to accomplish?”
The Spaniard waved his hand, his blue eyes roiling at the memory of the command. “It was nothing. I had nearly forgotten all about it. The missing princess in Melfi will have to go on missing. I have to figure out what to do if Gherardus comes. My arrival here was simply luck.”
Turstin started warming his chin with his hand again, the seriousness from earlier returning. “I assure you, Pero, nothing that happens in this world happens by luck.”
Pero heard him clearly enough but dismissed it.
Turstin held up the index finger of his right hand. “A gold ring? Does my dear brother still wear a gold ring on the index finger of his right hand?”
Pero reflected, remembered and nodded.
“Same game, dear brother,” Turstin whispered to himself, “same game.”
“What game do you speak of?”
Now it was Turstin’s turn to be heated, outraged. “My brother is a devil who apparently enjoys the same sport year after year.”
Pero wore his puzzlement.
“I must admit; I know a great deal more about your quest than you might think possible. You were on your way to Melfi to ransom a princess who has been kidnapped but you were ordered to avoid Benevento. Why? Because there is some sort of tension between states, a political upheaval occurring and you couldn’t be seen traveling the main roads. So what do you do? You travel the backroads and take Eagles Pass instead, the most dangerous, treacherous trail in all of Italy.” Turstin was fuming hot. “I am right so far, am I not? I know I am right. And what will you think of me, Sir Pero, if I tell you the name of the princess you are off to rescue? Will you think me clairvoyant then?”
Pero was uncertain whether or not he wanted to know more. The quest was only a day old but felt eternal. He was ready to call it quits, turn for home and make amends with Anthea, if she would still have him.
Turstin rubbed his eyes as an invisible smoke rising up from his past singed them and made them sting. “Her name is Meliore.”
Pero felt the grimace creep over his face and could do nothing to prevent it from happening. “If you receive no news of current events here, how could you know such a thing? That was a private letter, signed and sealed by the Court. Are you involved? Do you know the kidnappers? Where is Meliore? Is the princess here? Is she out in the barn with the teenager?” Pero’s hand found the pommel of his sword again.
“Son,” Turstin said with a difficult smile. “Trust me, no one has been kidnapped.”
Confused and anxious, hearing footsteps in his head again, Pero pushed away from the table and drew out Miriam. “I don’t know what game you play, old man, but I’m tired of the intrigue. You must be mixed up in this kidnapping! You have to be! No one knows the things you know! Tell me the truth! Is this a trap? Was the food you served me poisoned? Was it the wine? Have I been drugged?” Pero tore the bandage from his severest injury, the gouge in his arm. “The poultice and the yarrow. Will I sleep tonight and never wake? Will you slit my throat when I close my eyes?”
Druda leaned over the edge of the railing above, her eyes full of concern and near tears.
Enraged as he had ever been, Turstin Fabbro thumped the table with his fist and rose to his feet, straight and proud. “Enough Sir! You shame my house for the last time! I have taken you to my bosom. I have given quarter. I’ve revealed dark secrets that sat dead in my soul for years. I tire of your vacillation, you young fool. I command you to sheath that damnable weapon of yours for once and for all and never again unsheathe it in my presence unless you intend to use it.” He paused, his red cheeks, red nose and inflated chest puffing. “Do you intend to use that sword against me or not? You best be ready to spill my blood for I am resolved to be threatened no more.”
The caballero could hear young Dato whimpering in the rafters above, his mouth noticeably muffled by his mother’s hand, the word ‘papa’ still getting through. Pero was tired of drawing Miriam and never wetting her shine, never once sticking her cold steel into warm flesh and releasing his rage. If ever the time was right, if ever he was going to cross that ghoulish line between man and monster and enter into a perpetual darkness of hate and vengeance, this was the time. ‘Stab the proud old fool,’ an icy voice inside him said. ‘Stab him in the heart. Kill the old woman and behead the royal kids. This is how kingdoms start. Seeds of wrath must be planted. He is a Fabbro. You said you were going to kill the Fabbro family. He deserves it.’
Pero gripped the hilt tight, tighter. He waved Miriam up and down, tempting himself to abandon reason and transform this quiet little homestead into a bloody house of horror.
Losing that battle quicker than he thought possible, still refusing to become the devil he had never been, Pero sheathed his sword, unbuckled the belt and tossed it in the corner where he would later be sleeping. “No more deceptions, Turstin. I want to know it all – everything - right now. Who is this whore Meliore and why was she kidnapped?”
Turstin Fabbro was trying to steel his nerves from the outburst. He was shaking. He had not been this outraged in years. There had never been a cause to raise his voice in this manner. Now, gritting his teeth and biting down on his guilt, he made his confession known to Pero. Spit flew from his mouth. “That whore was my mother! And I know about Meliore’s kidnapping because I am the one who proposed it!”
Chapter 43 – Confession
Turstin Fabbro was nothing like the men in his family, the men of his line. The Fabbros were warriors and leaders. Grandfather Reginald Fabbro was said to have been a seven-foot giant, losing an arm battling Turks at Dorylaeum. Turstin’s father, Tancred, was grand champion of three major tourneys. His eldest brother, Avenel Fabbro, stood in the victor’s circle for one tournament. And lastly there was his other brother, Gherardus Fabbro. He had crusaded around the world. In Parthenope, Gherardus committed an act of patricide that shook the very foundations of Campania.
Turstin Fabbro all too often replayed in his mind that dark evening in 1170. He remembered it well. The old wooden bench he sat upon had an uneven footing. Every time he shifted his weight, it creaked, causing his brothers to glare at him. Turstin could have sworn their eyes were aflame, possessed.
Avenel was anxious and pacing, urging his brother to take the shot. Gherardus just rolled his shoulders at him, telling him over and over to wait. “The light is not right,” he would say. “We need the moon.”
Gherardus employed a crossbow. Not a normal crossbow but one with a rickety crank, something Turstin had never seen before. The brothers stood in a circle early on. They all had to hold the bolt once before it was fired. That was agreed upon.
The quarrel had red leather-feathers twisting through the tail, and a sharp, four-pronged bodkin secured at the point. In Turstin’s estimation, it weighed a ton.
The full moon emerged from behind the clouds and the inconspicuous room in the tower was shamelessly transformed into day. “It’s the sun or God,” Turstin remembered thinking.
Thrummm! The shot was fired. The deed was done.
For several seasons after the assassination, Turstin Fabbro managed to play the part of lackey well enough to survive and prosper. He picked the names that were executed for his parent’s deaths. But one night, his discouragements came to a head. He drank too much and said too much. He was clapped in irons beneath Castel dell Ovo. It turned out that his warrior brother didn’t trust him after all. Spies had been hovering around him all along, waiting and listening for hints of treason. ‘There was no treason,’ Turstin often had to remind himself. ‘I was just a foolish old man saying foolish things with a drink in his hand.’
Turstin Fabbro stared at the wild-eyed Spaniard standing before him. He wondered if this wayward fool had any regrets of his own. It was all Turstin could do sometimes not to scream like a madman and run for the forest, let the animals take him. Of course, he knew he would never do that, he could never be t
hat brave. He had not been blessed with the prowess of his family line.
Turstin Fabbro urged his heated guest to sit.
Pero de Alava rapped his knuckles on the table and sat.
Turstin sat as well and began to speak. “Meliore has not been kidnapped,” Turstin confessed. “Not this time, not any time. The quest is a ruse, a fictitious tale used by the Court to rid themselves of brave young knights maturing too quickly into political adversaries. We needed an effective way to eliminate them without transforming them into martyrs. Their deaths had to appear accidental, plausible and beyond our reach.” Turstin paused and swallowed hard. “You knights are rash, impulsive. For lack of a better word, fools. You cannot refuse a quest, and the more reckless the better.” Turstin was parched and found his stein empty again, much like his soul. "I concocted the whole kidnapping scheme. I knew these men wanted to rise in rank. If we made them promises and threw them a parade, they would embrace the trial without hesitation. They rode out of Parthenope with fanfare and blessings, believing they were doing the Court and Church a great favor. Eagles Pass is far from the capital city and there are many ambush points. Long before the quester suspected trouble, a cohort of mercenaries would pounce. Gherardus has employed this method time and time again without fail. Many brave men have bled in the same soil as your men.”
‘Bravest blood flows first.’ Pero’s frustrations were waning. He was softening to the truth and hating it. His wounds were irritating him. His mind was exhausted and wanted to sleep. “What about the bear? The magician with the crystal? Was that part of the plan?”
“I had no input into that design feature. In fact, I was confined when Gherardus first decided to use the magician. I am, in fact, one its first victims. I thought the Meliore-kidnapping ploy had worn out its usefulness. I’m surprised to hear he has used it again.”
“What is Gherardus’ motivation?”
“Motivation?” Turstin smiled again as he lifted his right hand and made the index finger gyrate. “The gold ring. Pope Celestine III gifted Gherardus that ring. It is a symbol of the forgiveness he received from the Church for his part in the assassination of our mother. Now mind you, my brother is no Catholic, not conscientiously anyway. He will attend Mass, kneel and bow, sing the psalms and partake of the sacraments, but it is grandstanding, his heart is not in it. He follows the old gods, the gods of war, wrath and willpower. After our parents passed and Avenel left, Gherardus was desperate for allies. We had so many enemies.” Turstin massaged his temples. “The Archbishop of Parthenope was suspicious. We tried bribing him, threatening him. Nothing worked. The fool was too righteous, too pious.” Turstin shook his head. “He still wanted our heads. Gherardus turned to Giacinto for help. We knew Celestine before he became Pope, knew him as a child and an acolyte. In the privacy of a confessional, Gherardus poured out his soul. He told him all about the assassination. Whether that admission did him any spiritual good or not, I will never know. But the Archbishop of Parthenope was soon demoted, sent to some distant land where he met with an unfortunate accident.” Turstin stopped there but his eyes said there was more to that story.
“His replacement,” Turstin continued, “was a simpleton. He did what he was directed to do. There were no more investigations. All the criticism leveled at us, ceased. It was then that Gherardus started wearing the ring. And the ring will forever remain on his finger, reminding him of that confession and his allegiance to the Roman Catholic Church. They hold the truth of the matter over his salvation. He does what they command.”
Turstin paused a moment to see if Pero de Alava was absorbing all that was being said. The Spaniard looked completely exhausted. His wounds were swelling and darkening. ‘He looks sick,’ Turstin thought to himself.
Turstin Fabbro spun the handle of his empty stein away from himself, squeezed his chin and continued. “Oddly enough, there is are misgivings still gnawing at my brother’s black heart. He doubts. A man can become awfully paranoid when he doubts the things he has done in his past and believes his sins are chasing him. Fear and hope war inside all men, some more than others. Gherardus still thinks there may have been mysterious forces working against us that night. Why did our mother come home early from Melfi? How did she end up sitting on Tancred’s throne wearing his night shirt just as the moonlight broke through the clouds? The idea that Meliore’s tormented ghost still hangs in limbo, floating through the air he breathes, cursing him from beyond the grave, truly alarms him. Although he cares very little for Christ or the Church, he believes it is possible for violent men to find heaven by warring on earth for God’s kingdom. He is good at shedding blood. And he is willing. He is not unlike the wayward fools we sent on their quests believing there is some special reward for blind obedience.” Turstin yawned. “Gherardus not only needs the support of the Church to maintain moral control of the people, he needs to believe he can be forgiven. His conscience is burning and that fiery guilt seems to be the only thing keeping my family alive.”
Chapter 44 – Need To Sleep
Pero de Alava touched the bloody gauze covering the nasty gash in his right arm and winced. It was infected. He had no doubt about it. He also didn’t have the dexterity to rewrap it properly. ‘I shouldn’t have ripped it off in the first place. Another foolish decision.’
Turstin had climbed up the ladder to bed. Pero stood in the main room alone. He emptied the last drops of wine from the dragon stein and examined its snarling face one last time. ‘Poison or no, who cares? Nothing makes sense anymore.’ His heart curled up. A fever was coming on. He had chills but was sweating and nauseous. All his bruises were tender, every cut itching.
Pero carefully removed his breastplate and placed the armor gently on the floor beside his scabbard-sword and belt. He touched the sigil of House Velez and frowned. ‘Be Penafiel.’ Wearing a black quilted jerkin and dusty riding pants, he fell back on his bed, a pile of fresh rushes strewn on the floor in the northwest corner. He required sleep. It felt as though this day, the first day of his quest, had been the longest day of his thirty-four years on earth.
‘Did Gherardus really seize the throne after slaying his mother? Does the Court send troublesome officials on quests just to get rid of them? And what about this shadowy magician and his magic crystal. Can he control bears and wolves, turning them into sentinels and slayers?’ There was so much Pero wished to do with all this information. ‘If only I had a spirited horse, a quick palfrey like Zaon. I could ride to Parthenope. I could bring the war to the throne room. Make Gherardus confess his crimes.’
But this line of reasoning was as irrational as it was impossible. Pero was ill and he had no horse. He was trapped in this sanctuary of light until they saw fit to claim him.
Before today, Pero de Alava was practical. The world was a solid. He could touch everything. It was real. But now that was all gone. The world was fluid, his thoughts unstable. Magic had made its presence known. Spirits were mocking him from beyond, interfering in his life. These phantasms could actually touch him, grab him, hold him and push him. Some had even infiltrated his mind.
Pero de Alava stared hard at the wooden boards high above his head. An hour of silence passed with only an occasional creak caused by someone stirring in the loft, flecks of dust and pieces of straw spinning down through the air.
The windows were shuttered tight and only through the slightest cracks could thin rays of torchlight enter.
Pero disliked extended periods of quiet. At night, lying alone on his bed, he often tossed and turned, his blue eyes envisioning grey ghost and black dragons. A shortness of breath would wake him. He trembled. Dreary visions and dark musings stole his slumber.
“A man can get awfully paranoid when he doubts the things he has done in life,” Turstin remarked at the table earlier. Pero was doubting nearly everything now. And Turstin’s words confirmed his suspicions. The Court at Parthenope was indeed as cruel and as unscrupulous as he had feared. They were planning to retaliate against him, assassinate him. He
had cause to be suspicious.
Arms sore, legs cramping, Pero wanted to rest but feared it would be impossible in this strange setting. He couldn’t close his eyes. That, however, did not stop the apparitions from appearing. Strange hazy images emerged in the darkness, crawling across the ceiling, scaling the table and chairs. A flame flickered and then erupted. The homestead was consumed. Pero was in some foreign field where demons lifted up from the ashes. Black wings unfurled from their backs. They took to the sky, soaring effortlessly through hellish infernos. In the distance, a dragon soared weightless around a snow-peaked mountain. The trees beneath him were all on fire, much like the torches outside. The trees could speak and cry. The rocks lying at his feet spoke also. Everything on earth had breath. Everything expressed its pain, its fears. Everything wanted something from him. They begged Pero for assistance. They wanted him to make them feel safe. Pero was overwhelmed by the gravity of their need, crushed by the weight of their hardship. He knew he was powerless to aid them all, and worse than anything, he hated feeling powerless.
Pero shuddered and lifted a blanket all the way up to his chin before turning on his right side. Words and images needled him. He started seeing their faces and hearing their names. These were people he hardly knew before today. ‘Turstin, Druda, Meliore, Gisele, Cambio, Sinibaldus - Who the heck are all these people? Where did they come from?’ He didn’t want to know them. He didn’t want to care about them. ‘People are insufferable. They all want something.’
Brushing them aside, he flipped all the way over hoping a change in position would change his perspective. It did but not in a good way. On his left side he faced death and terror again. He was back on Eagles Pass being chased by wolves and bears. He pictured Arrigo and Niccolus, sitting atop their horses in the stable. The sergeants were so full of life, bristling with optimism and pride, so eager to leave a lasting impression on their lord. ‘That they did,’ Pero mused. ‘That they did.’
