Their task here was complete. Jacques was gone. They might catch him, they probably wouldn’t. Either way it made little difference to the lunatic. Alone and unarmed against the predators and dark races of this savage land he wouldn’t last long.
He gave his own horse its head, allowing it to race along behind the knight’s charger. Holding on to his mount with aching knees, branches slashing over his head and the wind stinging his eyes, Claude listened to the rolling thunder of their horses’ hooves and felt a rush of excitement course through him.
By the Lady this was the life! Ahead of him, pulling away as swiftly and as surely as a stag from a drunken orc, Sir Gilles crested a low hill. By the time Claude had reached the spot the knight was already disappearing into the arms of the wood that lay beyond. Just before he was lost to sight the armoured figure turned in the saddle and called back.
“The pass. Meet me at the pass.”
“Aye, sire, the pass it is.” Claude bellowed his reply as Sir Gilles vanished. As if sensing that the race was lost Claude’s horse slackened its pace from gallop to canter to brisk walk.
“Lazy beast,” he muttered affectionately as they plodded along. The blood was still racing briskly through his veins after the impromptu charge and, despite the continuing grey dampness of the day, his spirits were high. And why not? Celliers’ problems had been resolved, the beast had been vanquished. Even if he did return to the village, the madman, now that he had been unmasked, would find little chance of repeating his atrocities. For the people of this valley, at least, the winter would hold no more than the usual dangers. For himself and his master, though…
Claude sighed, his high spirits draining away at the thought of the coming months. “I’m too old for this,” he told nobody in particular and spurred his mount into a canter.
By the time he reached the high saddle of the pass, Sir Gilles’ horse was already grazing contentedly. The knight himself sat perched atop a boulder, dark eyes scanning the valley below. His aquiline nose and deep, predatory stare made him look a little like a beast himself, Claude thought as he toiled up the final approaches to the pass.
“It seems the king has more than one hippogriff,” he muttered to himself, the words lost beneath the clatter of scree underfoot.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sir Gilles called out as his man approached. Claude bit back on the expression of mortification he knew had crept treacherously across his weathered features and shrugged.
“And how else would I have meant it, sire?” he asked ingenuously.
Sir Gilles barked with laughter and jumped lightly from the boulder. The tension of the preceding days seemed to have melted away leaving the young man full of fresh energy. It was almost as if the conclusion of Celliers’ problems, bloody and seedy as it had been, had lifted a weight from his shoulders—almost as if his task had been accomplished.
Claude hardly dared to ask, but the sudden rush of hope within his chest was too much to be denied.
“Sire…” he began, then hesitated, not quite knowing how to put the question. A moment’s confusion passed before he shrugged and ploughed on: “Is our quest complete?”
The knight’s brows shot up in amazement as he studied his old retainer.
“No, of course not. Why should it be?”
“You seem… rejuvenated,” Claude explained, trying to keep the weight of disappointment out of his voice, out of his posture. It was hard work.
“I thought maybe you had seen the Lady after, you know, saving the village,” he continued with another shrug.
Sir Gilles’ brow cleared with sudden realisation.
“I understand,” he nodded. “But no, I have done nothing yet. And yet I do feel as if a burden has been lifted. I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to exchange greaves and bucklers and lances for furs and push on into the heart of these mountains. It is only there that I can be sure of proving the strength of my belief in the Lady and continue slaying the evil that would devour her people.”
Claude felt a moment’s unease as he watched the features of the knight harden, straightening into a mask of fanaticism stronger than any steel. Even after all these years this transformation of his masters from men into something… something more… still sent a cold shiver racing down his spine.
But then his master was once more just Sir Gilles. His expression softened as he turned his attention from the jagged spikes of distant mountains to his faithful old retainer. “The other decision I’ve made is that you’ll stay in Celliers until I return. Or until the summer, whichever comes first. I’ll leave you gold and a letter of safe conduct in case I am found, um, wanting.”
Now it was Claude’s turn to look amazed. “Sire, I will not leave you. I am sworn to follow you on this quest. My honour is at stake as much as yours.”
“You are sworn to obey!” the knight snapped, his tones suddenly harsh. “And by the Lady you will! I’ll not take any ill man into the ice and snow of mountains in the winter. And I’ll certainly not throw your life away.”
In a gesture that looked strangely guilty Claude thrust his reddening knuckles behind his back. “Sire, I—”
“You’ll obey my orders,” Sir Gilles cut him off. “Apart from anything else I don’t want to waste one of my father’s best men. You will stay here.”
The old man, who suddenly looked much, much older, dropped his eyes and slumped his shoulders. Without another word he turned back to his horse.
With a last resentful look towards his master Claude led his mount down the shifting carpet of scree and tried not to let his anger get the better of him. To be cast aside now, left in safety like a woman whilst his knight rode off into bitter danger! Was he an idiot or a cripple to be left on the roadside like a piece of useless baggage? It was an outrage.
What made it even more difficult to bear was the treacherous sense of relief that even now buoyed up his steps. But that, at least, proved to be short-lived.
“What do you mean you’re leaving? Are you mad?” Sir Gilles barely controlled his exasperation, but at a cost. His wind-rouged cheeks reddened further and a small vein began to pulse a warning above his brow. If the village elder noticed these small chinks in his guest’s composure he gave no sign of it.
Without taking his eyes off the two men who continued to overburden his haywain, Francois sighed and shook his head. “No, we’re not mad. Madness would be to stay.”
“We found something after you went, ah, hunting this morning.” The elder flicked a glance almost contemptuously over the mud flecked flanks of the knight’s horse. Her mighty chest heaving in great lungfuls of air and the heavy organic smell of horse sweat radiated off her in waves. After Claude had returned, his foul temper buried under consternation at the sight of Celliers packing up to go, Sir Gilles had ridden back here as hard as he could, sparing neither his horse nor himself.
“What did you find?” the knight finally asked, successfully keeping the irritation to himself.
“Jacques.” Francois said the word softly, almost reverently, and Sir Gilles wondered at his tones. What terrible vengeance must these villagers, his erstwhile comrades and erstwhile prey, have meted out to make them now sound so compassionate about the lunatic?
“Oh. Well, that’s good. I take it he’s dead?”
The pained expression on Francois face deepened and Gilles could almost imagine that tears glinted beneath the craggy overhang of the elder’s brow.
“How did the village execute him?” the knight asked gently, choosing his words now with the care of a surgeon choosing his instruments. A village execution. How clean that sounded. How impersonal.
Francois, however, had obviously being pushed beyond the niceties of not just diplomacy but even common sense. With a sudden start he wheeled on the knight, the fury in his eyes no longer hidden.
“Nobody executed him,” the elder hissed, lips drawn back in a snarl as he pronounced the word. “He was murdered, horribly murdered, just like all the rest.”
“Oh yes, the protection of your knightly virtues,” he sneered mockingly, pulling himself to his feet and lurching towards the armoured man who towered above him. One of the lads who had been loading the cart appeared at his elbow to offer a supporting hand. The elder shook him off angrily as he stalked towards Sir Gilles.
“The only difference you’ve made is to double the number of this cursed thing’s kills,” he said, the anger in his voice twisting into an accusation. Once more the youth, with a terrified glance at the knight, grabbed the elder’s arm and tried to pull him away. Once more the old man shook the anxious hand off, this time turning his ire on the youngster who hovered nervously at his grandfather’s side.
“Get away. What’s the great knight going to do? Kill me? Ha!” He spat a gob of contemptuous phlegm onto the ground an inch away from Sir Gilles’ boots, then turned away with a grunt of disgust.
Claude had watched his master flush beneath the old peasant’s tirade, the vitriolic fusion of shame and rage burning on his cheeks. Now, as the villagers went on with their wary preparations, Claude saw the colour drain away from Sir Gilles’ face, leaving him pale and shaking with emotion. The retainer opened his mouth to say something, anything, that might be of comfort to the stricken young knight. But before he could think of a single thing to say it was too late.
The muscles in Sir Gilles’ jaw bulged with sudden determination and he strode forward after Francois. The old man’s hunched back was still turned towards his guest. He must have seen something reflected in his grandson’s widening eyes, though, for he turned when the knight had approached to within a dozen paces. Claude saw the rigid mask of defiance still etched across the elder’s features. There would be no apology, of that he was sure, no more bowing. And behind the stubborn old fool a dozen of his sons and grandsons had noticed events unfolding.
As the steel giant closed in on their ancestor they fumbled for knives, hoes and pitchforks. In their shaking hands and round eyes Claude saw the same desperate courage that will drive a ewe to attack the wolf pack that has cornered her lambs. He felt his heart plummet at the tragedy he knew was about to unfold.
Sir Gilles, reaching out one gauntleted hand towards the old man, seemed oblivious to all this. His whole attention was focused on the elder. As the mailed fist fell towards him the old man’s only response was the small straightening of posture that was all an aged skeleton would allow. The first of the villagers lowered his pitchfork and started forward. Claude, mind frozen by the speed of events, wished futilely that what was going to happen wouldn’t.
Then the metalled talon of Sir Gilles’ hand swept past his host’s neck and landed gently upon his shoulder.
Bowing down to peer into the astonished elder’s eyes the knight said: “I am truly sorry to have so failed you. I am sorry that you are frightened enough to leave your village. I have failed in my duty to the Lady and to you, her people. My father would not have failed. Nor would my brother, Leon. But I have and I have no excuse.”
Suspicion chased astonishment off Francois’ wizened features. By the time the knight had finished his apology the sincerity of the words had melted away even that.
“No, no, lord. I should apologise to you,” he replied warily, voice softened now with grudging compassion. “I had no call to blame you. Since the black hail fell on these hills in my grandfather’s day much has happened here, much that has proved beyond man’s power to change.”
“Yet I would be more than a man,” Sir Gilles smiled bitterly. “And perhaps I still can be. All I ask is that you give me one more night. Give me one more chance to find the monster that would prey upon the Lady’s people.”
Francois hesitated for barely a moment before giving the shallowest of nods and turning to address his flock.
“We’ll leave tomorrow,” he told them. Then, with a stiff bow towards Sir Gilles, he turned and hobbled back into his hut. The knight returned the bow and walked stiffly back to his horse.
“What will we do now, sire?” Claude asked, hurrying to catch up.
“I go to beg for the Lady’s aid. There was a pool a little way into the woods we rode through this morning. It seemed like a goodly place.”
“And will I come with you?”
“No, you’ll stay here. I want you to organise these people into three regiments and make sure they stay in them. I leave you in charge of the details.”
“Yes, sire, of course.” Claude bowed subserviently whilst his master climbed back into the saddle and cantered back out of the village. He waited until Sir Gilles was out of sight before crossing to Francois’ hut. He ducked below the heavy oaken lintel of the door and instructed the elder.
“I want you to organise your people into three groups,” he told the old man urgently. “All of them are to carry their weapons at all times. None of them are to leave their groups for any reason. Any that break these rules are to be fined half of their wealth. Do you understand?”
As soon as Francois had grumbled his assent Claude took his leave and went to fetch his horse. He had carried out his orders. Now he would go to watch his knight’s back, as was proper for an equerry. There was nothing underhanded about that, he thought, as he carefully scanned the horizon. Nothing underhanded at all.
Sir Gilles was not difficult to follow, especially to one as skilled at reading the land as Claude. He had followed the path of crushed moss and snapped twigs through the forest just as easily as he had followed the great crescents of the charger’s hoofs through the mud of the road.
He had tethered his own mount some way back and continued stealthily on foot beneath the great damp overhangs of beech and birch and twisted ancient oak. The undergrowth was thick here, heavy with moisture and dying brown leaves. As Claude pushed through it his nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of decay. In most parts of Bretonnia, he reflected, such a bulk of vegetation would have been cropped back by deer or boar, but here it seemed untouched.
And come to think of it the forest did seem strangely quiet, almost as if it had been cleared of life by something, perhaps even something that left human bite marks in the raw flesh of its prey. The thought sent a sliver of ice down the old man’s spine and he found himself walking faster.
“Don’t be such an old woman,” he scolded himself, consciously slowing his pace. “A small wood in a small valley is easily over-hunted. There’s nought more mysterious here than greedy peasants.”
Even so he was more than a little relieved when he finally reached Sir Gilles. Only the fact that the knight was so obviously immersed in prayer stilled the cry of greeting that rose to his retainer’s lips.
Sir Gilles knelt silently before a wide pool, his attention lost in its cool depths.
Overarching trees shone and glimmered in the calm surface, one world reflected by another, and around the banks rushes swayed gently to some ancient and inaudible rhythm.
Claude sank to his haunches at the edge of the clearing, lulled by the peace of the scene. The only real movement was the light fall of autumn browned leaves. He watched one as it spiralled down onto the placid mirror of the water and began to float away, pulled by some invisible current.
Leaning back against the bole of a willow, the old man half-closed his eyes. In his imagination the leaf became a ship, bound for distant Cathay or even mythical Lustria. The stem became a mast, the withered edges the gunwales. And when the first splash of water sent thick ripples rolling towards the little craft he saw only waves riding before a storm.
A moment later he began to wonder what had caused such a disturbance in the water. Surely this pool was too isolated to contain trout to rise and leap. He looked up with a frown. For a moment he saw nothing but t
he enveloping mass of trees and shadows that encircled them, and the stooped form of his master’s back.
Then he saw her and his heart leapt.
It was her, there could be no doubt of that. How many times had he seen her form, revered in stone or glass or on parchment? How many times had men whispered of her in the depths of the night or called upon her in the midst of battle? He’d even met her before in dreams and amongst the labyrinths of his imagination and felt her sacred presence, a comforting hand in the depths of hardship or a playful ripple of light on the water.
Yes, it was her. As she glided through the pool Claude’s eyes caressed the skin that glowed paler and more precious than Araby pearl. Her hair cascaded down onto her shoulders, framing a face both girlish and ancient, wise and forgiving. And her eyes! How they sparkled and shone with a healing warmth of green fire.
Claude felt a moment’s dizziness and realised that he had been holding his breath. He managed to tear his eyes away from the Lady for long enough to glance at Sir Gilles.
The knight still sat slumped in prayer, lips moving silently even as his goddess approached. The light gossamer of her dresses flowed around her, shining with a ghostly luminescence against the dark backdrop of rotten forest. For a moment Claude considered calling out to his master, of heralding her approach, but somehow he lacked the courage. In the presence of such divine beauty he felt too unworthy to speak. Instead he gazed upon her and let every detail of her magnificence burn itself into his memory.
She had almost reached Sir Gilles before he looked up. He rose to his feet, then started as though stung. The Lady smiled at his astonishment, a beatific expression of love and compassion speeding slowly across her face, and he sank back down to his knees.
“My Lady…” he whispered as she approached, arms opening and hands outstretched in benediction. Sir Gilles, head bowed, watched her glide through the last few feet of water and step onto the bank. He saw the water dripping from the hem of her dress, the white of it now speckled with the green of pond weed.
Tales of the Old World Page 50
