Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Chanting the familiar prayer to the Virgin as a mantra, she tucked the beloved token into the bodice of her gown and followed Vidar.

  Lute urged his horse to the top of the rampart and watched the only woman he had ever loved disappear into the enemy camp.

  Gone forever.

  She was better off, he reasoned, safe with her own people—except neither of the men who had escorted her was Ruggero. But then a king was hardly likely to ride out into hostile territory.

  He was relieved to see Vidar cantering back towards him, but worried by the scowl on the man’s face when he regained the earthwork. When he expressed his thanks, the adjutant glared. “For what? Delivering her into the hands of Fatimids?”

  It was probably the longest string of words he’d ever heard the franken speak, and the rare display of anger took him aback. “Fatimids?”

  Vidar looked back at the camp. “She said naught, but it wasn’t what she expected. They didn’t seem sure who she was, even when I explained it in their language.”

  “Every army has mercenaries,” he replied without conviction, filled with an insane urge to ride for the tents at full gallop.

  “Best you return to the castle,” Vidar said. “I’ll remain here until my watch is done. I’m sorry, my lord.”

  Lute nodded, at a loss for words. Even the dour adjutant sensed his pain. His mind and his heart were numb as he turned Mitte, contemplating the castle that would likely become his tomb.

  Enemy Encampment

  Many Mohammedans dwelt in Palermo. Sicilia had been an islamic emirate not that long ago. Those who remained were either servants, or soldiers. Since servants were expected to learn the language of their masters and she had no contact with mercenaries, Francesca had never bothered to learn Arabic.

  She thanked the saints that Vidar knew enough of the islamic tongue to explain who she was. However, the furrowed brows of the two Arabs betrayed their confusion. They debated back and forth with each other before finally signalling she should accompany them. Vidar would have been forgiven for retreating immediately to the relative safety of the rampart, but he stayed and kept watch as they led her away.

  She was dismayed to discover that the camp was extensive, but puzzled that it was strangely quiet. Soldiers lounged around in small groups, their heads turbaned, faces covered. Conversation ceased as she rode by, and the dark eyes that followed her progress sent a shiver of apprehension across her nape.

  She caught sight of a string of magnificent ponies, but it occurred to her there must be more tethered elsewhere.

  Her escorts led the way to a large tent at the far side of the camp and dismounted. They made no effort to assist her from the horse, prompting her to doubt as she slid from the saddle that Vidar had properly explained who she was. “My uncle?” she asked.

  They stared.

  “Em?” she tried, frustrated when they frowned at her attempt to speak their language.

  She persisted. “Malik? King Ruggero?”

  Eyes brightened, but they shook their heads and she had a feeling they were grinning behind their face wraps. One of them jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Ruggero, Sicilia.”

  Her spirits sank further when she was ushered into the tent, astounded to find it was completely empty.

  Francesca paced the confines of the canvas shelter for what she guessed was well over an hour, her temper rising with every step. It was apparent her uncle wasn’t in the camp. He would never have treated her so shabbily. There was no chair, not even a rug to sit on. It was well known the Fatimids never went anywhere without their rugs. Bile rose in her throat at the prospect of sleeping on the dirt floor. Why in the name of all the saints would they pitch an empty tent?

  She’d eaten nothing all day. Parting with Lute had drained her spirits. She retrieved the garter from her bodice and held the token to her nose, inhaling the faint traces of honeysuckle and the unmistakable maleness of Lute.

  Somewhere the woman who had owned the garter waited and prayed for the safe return of her husband and brothers. Francesca envied Lute his loving family. It seemed no one was concerned with her well-being.

  But the token brought solace. She nestled it between her breasts, remembering Lute’s loving caresses.

  She startled when foreign voices intruded. A soldier entered the tent and beckoned without bowing. Head held high, she followed him, hoping she was at least going to be provided with food.

  They took what seemed like an interminable, circuitous route through the camp. Turbaned men hunkered near campfires, feasting on some kind of roasted meat. A mouth watering aroma hung in the smoky air. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten meat in Termoli.

  When she feared her aching legs would carry her no further, the escort lifted the entrance flap to a large tent. She stepped hesitantly over the threshold and entered another world.

  Exhaustion had evidently stolen Francesca’s wits. She had crossed into a dream world where thick carpets covered every inch of the ground. Some kind of gauzy material hung in billowing folds from the apex of the tent, then spread out to caress the walls. The flickering flames of oil lamps danced on the surfaces of the metal dishes in which they sat.

  A low table in the center sagged beneath the weight of innumerable wooden bowls full of foodstuffs she couldn’t immediately identify, but the sight made her belly growl.

  However, annoyance replaced thoughts of hunger when she recognized the swarthy youth sitting cross-legged beside the table amid a pile of red cushions.

  The crooked smile on the face of Simon of Moline compounded her irritation. “Simon,” she hissed, “I have been treated like a common peasant in your camp.”

  Her uncle’s bastard son was garbed in Arabic robes, except he wore no turban. Curiously, he held an islamic misbaha in one hand. The prayer beads rattled softly when he gestured to a second pile of cushions. “Sit, cousin. Be calm. How was I to know you were in Termoli? My guards informed me some woman who is supposed to be in Moline arrives here, claiming to be my father’s niece.”

  Tired as she was, it occurred to her that Simon had probably learned from his mother that she had fled Moline, just as he must have been aware of the ineligibility of Ugo as her betrothed. However, this wasn’t the time to accuse him. To her chagrin she was dependent on the unpredictable youth she’d never trusted.

  She sat down on the cushions, knowing it was pointless to wait for his gentlemanly help. She kept her eyes off the food spread before her.

  Simon chuckled. “Help yourself. You’re obviously hungry.”

  She reached forward and chose a plump green olive, savoring its tangy flavor, but tempted to spit the stone at his smug face. Instead, she took it out of her mouth and rolled it between her fingers, mimicking his fidgeting with the beads. Simon might look and act like an Arab, but she had to remind him he wasn’t. It was an unfortunate truth that royal Sicilian blood flowed in the veins of the cousin who’d taunted her since they were small children.

  “As you see, I am not in Moline. I was forced to flee to Termoli just before it was captured by the emperor.”

  He stopped fingering the beads and narrowed his eyes. “And Lothair allowed you to leave the besieged town because…”

  “The emperor is no longer in Termoli,” she retorted, immediately regretting the outburst when his eyes widened. She had provided information that might lead to Lute’s death.

  He resumed his fidgeting with the beads. “Gone south, has he?” he probed. “To Bari, perhaps? With the main army?”

  She poked a finger into a bowl of figs, choosing a ripe one. “I was not made privy to imperial war plans,” she replied, biting into the sweet flesh of the fruit. She resolved to be more careful. If Simon became aware only a small force defended the town…

  He leaned forward. “Why did they not hold you as a hostage?”

  She rolled the olive pit between her finger and thumb and looked him in the eye. “They are honorable men who do not use women as pawns in their d
eadly games.”

  Her heart careened around her ribcage when he laughed. “Sounds to me you think too highly of the imperialist usurpers who came to steal what rightfully belongs to my father.”

  She was tempted to snort. It was an inescapable reality that King Ruggero had many legitimate as well as illegitimate children, rendering it unlikely this bastard son would inherit anything of importance. She deemed it a measure of Simon’s standing in her uncle’s eyes that he’d been sent off to besiege a minor seaport with an army of mercenaries whose numbers she was beginning to question.

  Yet here he sat, behaving like a favored prince of the realm. The Fatimids were likely contemptuous of his attempts to appear like one of them. “Is the king still in Sicilia?” she asked, confident that he was aware she enjoyed her uncle’s protection.

  But he didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s of no matter. He has given orders Termoli be razed, the invaders slaughtered.”

  Her throat constricted. “The town is well fortified,” she lied. “How will you breach the walls?”

  His sinister chuckle sent a chill racing up her spine. “No need. I already have men inside,” he boasted. “I know of the preparations.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. The port was almost impossible to police. A viper sat across from her and another lay coiled in the town, ready to strike Lute and his men, and the people of Termoli. She had to do something. “Surely there is room for negotiation. I could—”

  Suddenly he was on his feet. “You are a woman, cousin, and, as you pointed out, women have no place in the affairs of men. You may stay here and eat your fill. I will seek my own tent. The offensive will begin just before dawn, preceded by a conflagration within the walls. Once the town is regained I will attend to your safe passage to Palermo.”

  Flight

  From the battlements Lute gazed up at the night sky. “How many stars do you think there are?” he asked Brandt.

  “More than we can count.”

  Lute looked back over the rampart to the enemy camp, barely visible in the distance. “How many men do you think they have?”

  “If we judge by the number of tents, too many for us to successfully defend against if they attack.”

  “But if we use the lack of cooking fires as our guide, they are not as many as they want us to believe,” Lute remarked.

  “Exactly. Which means the likelihood of insurgents within the walls is stronger, as we feared. Unless they simply intend to wait until we starve.”

  “Or die of tedium,” Lute quipped. “I’ve strengthened the patrols and given instructions to be ever-vigilant.”

  “If there is a threat within the walls, they’ll probably resort to fire to cause the most confusion and disruption.”

  “We’ve placed barrels of seawater at strategic locations,” Lute reported.

  “Buckets?” Brandt asked.

  “Every household has at least one, and every soldier knows where he can put his hand on another.”

  “I’m off to see to the protection of the horses,” Brandt informed him.

  Lute might have known his brother-by-marriage would personally ensure the security of the stables. He’d a feeling the man would go mad if Löwe burned to death or was fatally injured. The prospect of having to eat horse-meat made his belly roil. He’d heard of sieges where men had resorted to drinking piss.

  Alone on the battlements, except for the patrol, he pushed aside the sickening thoughts and narrowed his eyes at the camp, worried for Francesca. His gut told him something was amiss.

  Francesca picked at the foodstuffs but her appetite had fled. She and Simon were of the same blood, yet he repulsed her. She’d seen the gleam of anticipation in his eyes when he’d talked of slaughter, and she recognised with a sinking heart where she’d seen it before. Simon might be a bastard, but he was without a doubt the warrior king’s son.

  If her cousin’s plan came to fruition, by this time on the morrow she might be riding for Palermo, leaving behind a town in ruins and the man she loved dead, butchered by Fatimids.

  The prospect robbed her of breath and made her belly roil. She tried to stand but her knees failed. She feared she might be sick. Simon’s scheme had to be thwarted, but how to get back to the town to warn Lute?

  When a servant entered the tent she gripped the cushions on which she sat, praying for courage. The boy was young, fresh faced and too young to be turbaned, but he had a small dagger at his waist and it was unlikely she could overpower him.

  He bowed and placed a pile of folded clothing on the cushions where Simon had sat. He spoke in his own language making the motions of someone riding a horse. She surmised the garments were for the morrow.

  He gathered up the bowls, extinguished the oil lamps and left.

  Relying mostly on feel, she crawled to inspect the clothing. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the darkness inside the tent, and light from torches outside made it possible to see she’d been provided with harem pants and a traditional kurta. Her spirits lifted. Reluctant to leave her belongings behind she’d stupidly donned as much clothing as she could. The mile-long trek back to Termoli would be impossible in the cumbersome gowns, but the Arabic attire provided a solution.

  However, there was still the problem of stealing a horse.

  A rhyme her practical father had taught her when she was a child came to mind.

  If you want to cross a river

  You’ve simply got to try.

  No use sitting waiting

  Till the water all rolls by.

  Shivering in the cooler night air, she stripped off the layers with difficulty, cursing at the ridiculous inability to undress herself. She pulled on the pants, hoping the sash she tied tightly around her waist would keep them up. She pulled the kurta over her chemise, wound the turban scarf around her head and face, pulled her boots back on and sank into the cushions, sweating and breathing heavily.

  She waited impatiently until her heart calmed and silence fell over the camp. Trying to recollect in which direction she’d seen the ponies, she cracked open the entry flap and peeked out.

  Glancing around furtively, she was surprised to see three ponies tethered not ten feet away, the servant boy slumped against a pile of camp baggage, snoring softly. There seemed to be no one else in sight. The animals weren’t saddled but she’d ridden bareback before, and the pantaloons would make it easier.

  Uttering a silent prayer to her patron saint she crept stealthily from the tent.

  “We should get some sleep,” Brandt advised.

  They’d remained on the battlements well into the night, but Lute was uneasy. “You go. I cannot rid myself of the premonition something is going to happen tonight.”

  Brandt shrugged. “You may be right. There’s expectancy in the air, but we have men on watch up here and on the rampart.”

  As his friend turned away, a distant movement caught Lute’s eye. “Wait!”

  Brandt looked out into the night just as the clouds rolled away and moonlight revealed a rider, heading for the rampart at a gallop. “It’s begun,” he declared. “I’ll raise the alarm.”

  Lute narrowed his eyes, a spark of hope stirring in his gut. “One rider doesn’t constitute an attack.”

  Brandt shook his head. “There’s another following.”

  The certainty that it was Francesca fleeing toward the rampart was confirmed when the wind tore the turban from the rider’s head and hair flowed like a silver banner in the moonlight.

  His heart rejoiced and broke at once. She was returning, to him, but there was a rider in hot pursuit. “It’s Francesca,” he shouted as he dashed for the stairway.

  Brandt followed a few paces behind. “What’s your plan?”

  If he stopped to explain, Francesca might never make it to the rampart, or his troops might use their crossbows against her, believing she was an enemy soldier. He ran to the first horse he saw, grabbed the reins from a startled soldier and mounted. “Open the gate,” he yelled to the guards. �
�Now,” he shouted when they hesitated.

  Once outside the wall, he gave the horse its head and galloped towards the woman who had become more important to him than life.

  Too Easy

  Francesca heard the hoofbeats behind her, but when she risked a glance over her shoulder the wind tore off her turban. She couldn’t be sure but she thought her pursuer was the servant who’d been left to guard the horses. She supposed his life might be forfeit if he didn’t retrieve the horse, and her.

  The lad must have raised the alarm; others would follow.

  Uncertain of the terrain, she nevertheless urged the pony to a full gallop, achingly aware it was her uncle who’d given her the skill and confidence to ride with reckless abandon.

  Yet she seemed to be making no headway. She glanced once more over her shoulder, confused to see that her pursuer had slowed.

  Elated, she looked to the castle, barely visible in the dark. But the moon revealed soldiers atop the rampart. There was a lot of movement and shouting, but one thing was clear—their crossbows were aimed at her.

  Her heart lurched. They thought she was the enemy. She reined the pony, realizing too late she had reached the outer edges of the wide ditch. The animal lost its footing and stumbled. She tried in vain to cling to the mane, but had to let go when the beast rolled.

  It lay snorting on the ground beside her, seemingly as stunned as she, but then a loud whistle pierced the night. The animal was on its feet and galloping back towards her pursuer before she could summon the strength to stand.

  She expected whoever it was to bear down on her with a vengeance, but he grasped the reins of her pony and turned tail back to the enemy camp.

  Lute leaped from his horse and scrambled to the top of the rampart. “Hold,” he shouted, fearing his heart would break if Francesca was shot down by one of his men. “Hold.”