Four women accompanied them, and there were sixty-two men, hardened by constant travel and intermittent warfare. All were shareholders in the venture, and in von Gilderstern they had a very superior commander who maintained sharp discipline. If any failed to live up to standard, he was dropped at once. His goods were purchased, and he was left wherever they happened to be.
That morning Gilderstern had stood with his feet planted upon the earth and stared at me, hands on hips. The stance was typical, I was to learn. “You are a Celt?”
“From Armorica, in Brittany, near the sands of Brignogan.”
“I know the place. And the woman? She is not your wife?”
“She is a lady to whom I am indebted. And she is a lady.”
“I assumed as much. Tell me, and no offense intended. Is she well-behaved?”
“As man to man, yes. We are friends. Good friends, but no more than friends. Also,” I added, “she may be of much value. She is a lady who deals in information. She was at the center of things in Córdoba until enemies caught up with her. I helped her escape as she had once helped me.”
The Hansgraf nodded. “We go north to Montauban, then to the fairs of Flanders, back to those of the Champagne. It could be a year before we reach the sea.” He glanced at me sharply. “You were ready to fight. Are you a quarrelsome man?”
“I am not.”
“For your information, we are like a family here, in loyalty, in cooperation. All quarrels or disagreements are settled by me. At any time you are not satisfied or prove less than you need to be, we will buy you out, and you go your way.
“The company protects all its members, and all trading companies stand ready to aid each other.”
Under gray skies we moved forward. The great fairs of Flanders and the Champagne attracted merchants from all the countries of Europe. The honor of being the oldest fair was believed to belong to St. Denis, but there were fairs at Ypres, Lille, and Bruges almost as old as St. Denis. The greatest of the Flanders fairs was at Ghent.
By the earliest years of the twelfth century the fairs at Bar and Troyes as well as those at Lagny and Provins were long established, and those in Champagne had become the money marts of Europe, clearinghouses for debts contracted in all Christian and many Moslem lands.
Fairs lasted from three to six weeks, and it was customary for merchant caravans to travel from one fair to the next. Large fairs operated at Cambrai, Château-â Thierry, and Châlons-sur-Marne.
The laws of the lands had given many unique privileges to the fairs and the merchants who attended them, all with a view toward attracting trade. Merchants doing business at the fairs operated under a special conduit, under protection of the ruler of the land through which they traveled. A special group of armed men, the “guards of the fairs,” maintained order, and a letter bearing their seal assured safety to all who bore them.
No merchant traveling to or from a fair could be held for any debt contracted outside the fair, and all were free from fear of arrest for any crime dating from an earlier period.
The right to play cards or roll dice on saints’ days was also permitted to the people of the caravans.
The greatest route was that which we were about to follow, from Provence to the coast of Flanders, to Champagne, to Cologne, Frankfurt, Leipzig, and Lübeck in Germany, and then perhaps on to Kiev or Novgorod, ending our trade in Constantinople.
The company, the word taken from com-panis, meaning bread-sharer, had come into being to share perils of travel at a time when the roads were beset with brigands, robber barons, and armies of warlike monks who left their monasteries to attack and pillage caravans.
The first merchants had apparently been landless men, the drifters and adventurers that arise from any population in ferment. Often they were younger sons, outcasts who acquired money through local trade or were financed by officials of the church with secret loans. Some began as peddlers or hawkers in the towns, and acquiring a stock of goods, they took to the highways with others of their kind.
One of the merchants who rode ahead of me dropped back to talk. He was a thin, hawk-faced man from Lombardy named Lucca. “You have done well,” he said. “Von Gilderstern is the best Hansgraf on the road. In Swabia last year he began his own fair at a river crossing, for he can smell a market as other men smell a flagon of mead. Our wealth is rarely idle, or our hands, either.”
Lucca glanced at me. “The word is that you are a scholar? What manner of scholar?”
A fair question. What kind of scholar was I? Or was I a scholar at all? My ignorance was enormous. Beside it my knowledge was nothing. My hunger for learning, not so much to improve my lot as to understand my world, had led me to study and to thought. Reading without thinking is as nothing, for a book is less important for what it says than for what it makes you think.
“A good question,” I replied, “but I am merely a seeker after knowledge, taking the world for my province, for it seems all knowledge is interrelated, and each science is dependent to some extent on the others. We study the stars that we may know more about our earth, and herbs that we may know medicine better.”
“You are a physician?”
“A little of one. So far I have had more experience in the giving of wounds than the healing of them.”
“If it is experience you wish, you will have your fill of both. We often deal with robbers who barter with a sword.”
“Then we will give them fair trade.” A thought came to me. “Is there not a fair in Brittany, then?”
“A small one, perhaps. Sometimes we go to St. Malo, but there is a robber baron there who ranges far afield.”
“Tournemine? Would that be the name, by chance?”
“By chance it is. You know the man?”
“Does he carry a scar upon his face? So?”
“He does, and I wish it were his throat.”
Placing my hand upon my dagger, I said, “This point put it there. He killed my mother, all our people. If we go that way, I may pay him a visit.”
“Alone?”
“How else? These past years I have remembered him.”
“We must talk to the Hansgraf of this.”
A spatter of rain began to fall as I rode back along the column. We topped the rise and looked upon a fair valley, masked now with rain, at the far end the gray tower of a castle. It was a lonely and forbidding sight, with the Pyrenees beyond, their crests lost in clouds.
A slashing rain began to fall, but we pushed on as there was an inn ahead with a large stable where many of us could sleep.
Safia was hunched in her saddle but looked up when I came alongside. “I like the rain,” she said. “It is good to feel it on my face.”
“Enjoy it then, for we shall soon be inside.”
We were tired and looked forward to the inn with pleasure. A pot of mulled wine, a loaf, and a bit of cheese—I was learning how easily one could be content. Yet I sorely missed my books, for there had been no time to turn a page since leaving Zaragoza. Ahead was the mountain pass of Roncevalles famous for the Song of Roland.
“The castle yonder?” Safia said. “Do you know whose it is?”
“It is an ugly place. I like it not.”
“It belongs to Prince Ahmed. You are in his lands now.”
What was it he had said at the party of Valaba? These are your domains, but I understand that Kerbouchard likes to travel.
My eyes strayed to the castle. I was a fool to put myself in my enemy’s hands. “He must not learn that I am here,” I said, “I must tell the Hansgraf.”
Leaving Safia, I galloped swiftly to the head of the train and explained the situation.
Von Gilderstern sat his horse like a monument, looking down the valley toward the inn. “You have done well to tell me of this at once. What have you in mind?”
“To ride for the mountai
ns. I see no reason to implicate you in my affairs.”
“A noble thought, but a foolish one. In those mountains lurk brigands who await travelers. Remain with us. You are one of us now, and your troubles have become our troubles.”
He changed the subject. “Lucca informs me you know the Baron de Tournemine. Do you know his castle?”
“I know it. I rode there with my father when he told the baron the limits of his power. The baron did not like it.”
“An evil man, but a strong one. Under the pretense of keeping order he rides far afield to demand tribute, and he makes war upon merchants.”
“I shall seek him out.”
“We will talk of this again, in the meantime be assured that our company stands with you.”
The gray towers loomed ominously through the rain. I had no doubt that we were watched, for such a body of men would be immediately reported.
Beyond the village, which was a cluster of houses, was a huge old inn. There was a court with a strong wall and wooden gates that could be closed against attack. Our burdens would be taken inside the court while the animals would, for a time, graze upon the meadows. On such a night as this all would stand guard in groups of twenty men each.
Prince Ahmed, Lucca told us, was rarely here, and he had protected the caravans that passed through his domains, occasionally trading with them.
The Hansgraf drew up by the gate and sat on his powerful horse. He rarely made gestures, but each was a command. I have never known a man who better understood his role. He accepted rights due him without comment or apology, and he made the responsibilities of command seem a privilege.
The pack animals were stripped of their packs and led at once to the meadow, but the horses of the guards were kept inside and grain fed, ready for instant use.
The Hansgraf, erect upon his horse, directed all arrangements with movements as skilled as those of an artist at his canvas. “You,” he said as I passed, “the four hours after midnight.”
They were the only words he spoke during the whole process of arrival.
This was a nightly affair for these men, and few directions were necessary. Many had visited this inn before, and the business of arrival, unloading, storing, and disposition of the animals was simple indeed.
By now I knew most of the company, but aside from the easygoing Lucca the one I knew best was a lantern-jawed man named Johannes, from Bruges. His history as a merchant was typical. A landless man, born in Bruges and left an orphan by the plague, he had begged, struggled, and fought his way to manhood. On a voyage at sea he helped in the capture of a prize and came ashore with a little money in hand.
Inland there was famine; at the port there was grain, so he bought both mules and grain and carried them inland and sold his grain for a good price. Everything was raised on a local scale, and there was no transportation away from the rivers, so famine might exist only a few days’ travel from an area of plenty.
A new class of citizen had come into being in what had been an exclusively agricultural society. The old ways when a few strong chieftains held all the land about them, and serfs worked for them, were changing. A new kind of wealth and a new means of creating wealth were being evolved. Merchants thrived on discontent. They brought to people things they needed but also created new desires by displaying cosmetics, fabrics, silks, jewels, and many simpler items.
Guido was a peasant from the Piedmont. His family had been wiped out by war. A young boy at the time, he had drifted with the refugees before an invading army and had come at last to Florence. For the first time he saw a ship, saw men coming ashore with modest wealth, so he shipped out.
His voyage ended in the Greek isles, his ship sunk, a few castaways reaching shore. They had stolen a boat, raided a village, and gone off to sea again. His second voyage ended in failure, but the third was a success. He gambled, lost all but a few pennies, but with that small sum he bought candles to sell to pilgrims and went from that to furnishing others with goods to sell. A few years later he joined a merchant caravan.
The first companies of merchants I had been told had been little better than brigands. Made up of ne’er-do-wells, vagabonds, and thieves, they robbed and pillaged as they traded. Order entered the enterprise; the fairs were organized, and companies of merchants became a recognized institution.
The inn was large, but when we crowded into it, forty strong plus our five women, the room was no longer spacious. One third of our men were with the animals in the meadow or on guard about the walls. Other travelers were present. A friar on a pilgrimage, the prioress of a convent with a small escort and two nuns, a pair of soldiers returning from the wars, and a cattle drover who had just sold his stock.
It was hot and stuffy inside. The wet clothing of our men steamed. The room itself was none too clean, but the food was, and there was plenty of it.
I approached Safia as she sat resting. “To bring you to this? I am sorry.”
“I have known this before, Kerbouchard. Not here, but in Persia, in my own land. Do not worry, all will be well.”
The door opened suddenly and we all looked up. Quickly, I looked down again. Several soldiers had come into the room, and the officer commanding the soldiers was Duban. I glanced about for a way to escape. There was none.
In a moment he would see me.
He turned his eyes and stared directly into mine.
And in his look there was recognition.
26
HE CROSSED THE room, and I arose to face him. As I stood, Johannes placed his sword upon the table before him, as did Guido. Duban did not fail to see them.
“You have friends,” he commented. His eyes were not unfriendly.
“Good friends,” I replied. “And you, Duban?”
“I am a captain. I serve and am served. It were a better thing if you did not stop here this night. There is a small inn at the entrance to the pass. I would advise it.”
“Duban, I am now a merchant, and a merchant travels with his hanse. Your prince threatened me. He imprisoned me, but I am a patient man.”
“You do not search for Aziza?”
“No.”
His eyes searched my face for the truth, and it was there if he was the man to see it.
“Your prince has chosen to be my enemy. So far I am not his. But tell him this, if you will: that if I become his enemy, I shall not rest until he is dead, but he must await his turn. I have an older enemy.”
“You are a bold man, Kerbouchard, a fit son for the father.”
I bowed. “I have far to go to equal Jean Kerbouchard, and far to go to find him. Meanwhile I am your friend.”
Duban held out his hand. “Farewell, then. May fortune favor your sword.”
As he walked away from me there was a sound of sheathed blades; then for a moment I thought them sheathed too soon, for the door of the inn opened and Aziza entered.
She was not alone. With her were several women and a half-dozen eunuchs. She was beautiful, a little rounder, and possibly even lovelier than I remembered, but her face had a stillness I did not remember.
Duban had no opportunity to warn her, and her eyes met mine across the room. Met mine, hesitated briefly, then passed on. Aziza had made her peace with her new life and had forgotten the Castle of Othman.
And I? Well, not exactly. I remembered the Castle of Othman. This tribute have I always paid to women. I have not forgotten.
What greater tribute than to remember a woman at her loveliest? And in her moments of enthusiasm?
When I seated myself beside Safia, her eyes twinkled slyly. “She was, well, restrained.”
“Why not? I am a vagabond in dusty armor, and she the wife of a prince.” Pausing a bit, I added, “I hope all the women I know do as well.
“Safia, I think no man should ask more than the moments. He should accept what the gods offer and make no d
emands upon the future.”
“I think a day will come when you will make demands, Kerbouchard.”
On that I had no comment, for the future is the future, and I place no trust in the reading of the stars. And do we not all look for the time when there is one girl, or for women, one man, who does not pass on?
Safia? She alone was unreadable, beautiful again, and a mystery forever. She was soft and lovely as a houri out of paradise, yet quiet, with much of the queen in her presence. There was steel in her, a command of herself and those about her such as I had seen in no other woman. For the first time since the death of her Bengali prince, she was now cared for, protected, and I believe she liked it.
On the next morning as we rode away, I turned in my saddle and glanced back at the sullen gray walls of the castle. On the west side of the tower I could see some blue domes and near them a flat-roofed dwelling.
Farewell, Aziza, farewell…what was it my acquaintance in the Cádiz tavern had said so long ago? Yol bolsun! May there be a road!
* * *
—
HOW PASSED THE days? How the weeks? Northward we moved, ever northward, occasionally pausing at fairs, occasionally trading at castle or town. Twice were we attacked by brigands, and once there was a swift raid when a Raubritter swept down upon us.
We lost a man that day, but we had seen them coming and had twenty bowmen waiting in a ditch and behind a hedge. Seven attackers left their saddles at the first flight of arrows, and then we closed with them.
The Raubritter, a huge man in black armor, charged my part of the line, and I rode to meet him. He dealt me a mighty blow on the helm that swept me from the saddle, the first time I had been unhorsed. Shocked and raging, my head ringing from the blow, I sprang at him. He missed a hasty stroke, which left him off-balance, and I jerked him from the saddle. On the ground, blade to blade, we fought on the wet sward, rain falling upon us.
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 20
