Thorn

by Fred Saberhagen

  The hill at least wasn’t high. Soon they were going down its other side, now completely out of sight of cars and road. Then partway up another hill, and along its twisting flank.

  Judy wondered aloud: “Does anyone think we’ll be able to find our way back? Where are we going, anyway?”

  “You don’t know?” asked Bill.

  Helen paused calmly and turned back. “There’s a sort of settlement where we’re going. They have a phone there. I know you can’t see it from here. But it’s just over this next hill.” Her voice sounded completely reasonable.

  “Oh,” said Judy. They went on. Pat had lost track of how far or in which direction they had come. He kept on, following Helen’s soundless feet. He hadn’t thought, on first seeing her this evening, that she was high on anything—Pat could almost invariably tell—or that her head was screwed on wrong. But now he was dead sure that something wasn’t anywhere near right.

  Once he paused, turned back, almost determined to call a halt.

  The girl, Judy, walking close behind him, shook her head minimally and pushed him gently on. Her eyes were focused past Pat, on the darkness ahead where a low mass of shadow now seemed to indicate trees. She knew, on some level, what she was doing.

  He turned again, and walked, one foot loose in its shoe with the broken lace.

  “Here,” said Helen quietly, turning long enough to utter the one word, then pushing on. And the way began to slope down, the ground underfoot smooth enough to indicate a path. The sound of running water drifted upward, very faint at first. There was at least a respectable trickle.

  They came in among the first trees, and darkness deepened. Judy asked: “What is this place, anyway?” Pat could now see buildings of some kind, faintly visible in tree-shaded starlight.

  “There used to be a mission here,” said Helen. She came slowly to a halt, looking ahead into blackness. “But you said there was a phone. Didn’t you?”

  “There is. It’s a radiophone of some kind. I guess some special, secret kind.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll ask Gliddon if we can use it.” Helen’s voice was still dream-calm.

  “What? Who?”

  A new voice, harshly male, said: “Don’t move. All four of you freeze, right where you are.” And light sprang at them, a blinding beam of it from each side. Pat, as soon as he could begin to see again, made out the ski-masks and the shotguns; and he devoutly wished that he could immediately go mad.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I rode with Helen, across a countryside infected with war as with a plague. Before we had ridden two hours toward Florence, a small band of brigands appraised us, then let us pass by, though we two were quite alone. Colleoni’s soldiers were behind us in the village, where before leaving I had ordered all of the remaining hostages released; I hoped that some of those peasants at least would have wit enough to abandon their homes and flee with their families before whoever was appointed my successor took control and rounded them all up again.

  To have thus breached my signed contract with Colleoni did weigh somewhat on my conscience. I was not one to break any solemn agreement lightly, though it was common for mercenaries of the time to do so and change sides. But my conscience found relief in an excellent argument, namely that my loyalty to King Matthias must take precedence over any such temporary pact made for money; and so, by extension, must my duty regarding the king’s sister and my wife, now that I had located her again. As to exactly where my duty with regard to Helen lay, I had not yet made up my mind. Certainly, I told myself, it was not the kind of problem I wanted to deal with offhandedly, whilst I was distracted with carrying out some lunatic persecution of the poor.

  Helen, mounted on a spare horse that I had commandeered, rode beside me and just a little to the rear. The storage chests of the scholar’s house had yielded up enough women’s clothing to afford her an air of respectability, though the garments showed as ridiculously too large when she dismounted. She said little as we rode, but watched me almost continuously. I knew she could not believe that I was not plotting some utterly fiendish revenge. Tonight, or tomorrow, she was thinking, I would contrive somehow to serve her Perugino’s faithless heart baked in a pie. And as soon as she had partaken thereof I would, with a maniac’s cackling, tell her so; and then I would spring upon her, and get on with whatever torments I meant to use to end her life…

  Oh yes, I admit, I did play in the back of my mind with some shadowy plans along such lines. But somehow my heart was not in them and they never took on substance. Where Helen was concerned I had no will for tricks like that. On the other hand my honor would certainly seem to demand that I inflict some serious punishment upon her for running off with another man. But what was the punishment to be? I could not decide.

  Meanwhile I counseled myself that while I was making up my mind I ought to lead her into trusting me, by pretending that all had been forgiven. I would play the model husband, that when the hour for vengeance struck at last, it would be all the sweeter and more exquisite. And the delay would give me time to plan and prepare revenge carefully … eventually, I told myself, I was bound to hit upon a plan for which I could feel some enthusiasm.

  Our road wound among silvery-green olive groves, past cypress that looked dead with winter and war. Snow lay scattered on the Tuscan earth that summer would once again make lush with greenery. Still, after only a day’s ride, the land was starting to look less like one of Goya’s later portraits of war. Peasants and some other natural creatures of the earth were once more to be seen, behaving normally.

  “This is the road to Florence, my lord.” At last, it seemed, I was to have some conversation.

  “And is there any reason why we should not take the road to Florence?”

  “None. Oh, none. I am willing to go wherever my lord wills.”

  Though I offered no explanation then, I had decided to go to Florence because in all that turbulent land there was no other place where I could be so sure of a welcome; I brought with me detailed news about a powerful enemy’s plans against that city, as well as a strong sword-arm to help oppose those plans.

  The journey took us several days. There were no haystacks to sleep in, but plenty of abandoned buildings. My lady appeared to welcome my husbandly attentions inside these, as once she had inside a palace. On our last day of travel, when we were almost at our goal, we passed that very place, Careggi. I rode to the gate and gained admittance. But the great country house of the Medici proved to be unoccupied in winter except for a caretaker staff. Some of these goggled at my companion, making me suspect that news of our coming would precede us to the city, even though we headed directly on to Florence after only a brief pause for refreshment.

  The palace on the Via Larga was even busier than I had seen it before. Yet again the leading men of the Medici family welcomed me, and greeted Helen, almost without twitching an eyebrow. They were used to wonders, in that house. And yet again their welcome had a different tone. The first one, more than a year ago, had been strongly tinged with curiosity; the second, last summer, polite. This third reception had in it the wholehearted enthusiasm of men who are being given needed reinforcement on the brink of war. I quickly discovered that Colleoni’s plans of conquest were already known here in broad outline, though the details I could provide might well prove invaluable.

  Lorenzo listened appreciatively to the version I gave him of events since I had seen him last—according to which Helen and I had merely gone through a lovers’ quarrel, and she had been living with me almost continuously since our separate departures. Doubtless he did not believe it, but understood that it was to be taken as official. By then Piero had rounded up his military advisers, and closeted himself and me with them, to study greedily the lists of material and drawings that I was able to set down pertaining to the Venetian war machine. Interest in Colleoni’s new model firearms was intense. While we were relaxing a little later, both men amused me with the account of how Lorenzo had saved his father
from assassination in 1466, outwitting ambushers hired by the rival Pitti family. I found out later that the Medici vengeance for that attempt had been prompt, precise, bloody, and discreet.

  Helen and I were domiciled in one of the visitors’ rooms. There the painting was again brought in to stay with us, as if it were some antique Roman household god. On the first full day of our stay, the Duke of Urbino arrived at the palace. The Florentine Council, who governed the city generally under instructions from Piero, had found the Duke available and currently an enemy of Venice, and had placed him in charge of preparations against Colleoni’s expected onslaught.

  I respected the Duke’s military reputation, and found him an impressive figure. He was already dressed in light armor, though by most calculations combat was still some months in the future. Listening as he chatted with our hosts, I was surprised to realize that he too was a serious book collector, or at least aspired to be one, in the same league as the Medici and King Matthias. I thought to myself that the world seemed to be changing drastically. No longer, it appeared, would fighting, praying, and the maintenance of honor be all that were required of a successful man. Very well, I thought, I am going to have to learn to think as well. I have always been able to manage great changes in my lifestyle when necessary.

  One day in the palace, with a group of officers pondering Colleoni’s field artillery, I was sketching the weapons from memory as best I could, when some man entered the room where we were gathered but then immediately withdrew. This made me glance up, just in time to recognize the retreating back of one of the Boccalini.

  “There will be trouble, Lorenzo,” I said to my young friend a little later.

  Lorenzo had been in the room also, and had noticed the near-encounter. “Perhaps not,” he soothed me now. “We will try to prevent it. There are others, too, who, shall we say, do not work well together. Yet Florence must be defended. If the Boccalini and the Pitti can work with us, they can tolerate you as well.”

  “Even when we meet face to face?”

  Lorenzo furrowed his swarthy brow, considering. Already he looked forty. “I suppose that you, my friend, are going to take an active part in the fighting, and will be going out into the field shortly?”

  “Yes. The Duke has already asked my help in training and organizing new troops.”

  “That is good, because the Boccalini will be staying in town. Meanwhile I advise you, not that you need any such advice, to guard yourself.”

  Shortly thereafter, whether because of the Boccalini or for some other reason, it was delicately suggested that Helen and I might want to move out to Careggi, which was now beginning to be occupied by other military guests of rank; and yes, the painting came with us once again. From Careggi I presently departed for an advanced camp in the field. Helen appeared to be concerned as she bade me farewell. My own feelings about leaving my wife behind were fatalistic; I did not ask the Medici to put her into a convent, or to set a watch upon her whilst I was gone. What would be, would be. Somehow I had never got around to deciding upon a suitable vengeance for her earlier transgressions, and now … now other decision were more demanding.

  In the spring, under the direct leadership of the Duke, we mercenaries and the more valiant citizens of Florence met the more numerous forces of Colleoni at the town called Molinella, roughly halfway between Florence and Venice. The land there was marshy, and horses slipped and fell in mud, and some of the wounded drowned. What we fought was certainly not a great battle, by the standards of those combats that have changed the world. But for some hours we fought in earnest, which was not always the case when one mercenary opposed another. The fight began near midday, and went on, with pauses, until after dark, and the dead totaled six or seven hundred on both sides. Colleoni’s new cannon served his cause well, until I managed to lead a squadron of cavalry into his rear, where we overtook a pack train carrying his reserve of gunpowder. After the ensuing fireworks he was unable to make headway. By nightfall the Florentine forces had been worn down, but so had the Venetian; still, it would have been senseless for Colleoni to advance against our fortified city walls, whilst our army still remained in the field against him.

  Successful condottieri were nothing if not practical, and did not care to squander today lives that could still be useful to them tomorrow. With much practiced torch-waving, and shouting back and forth, a preliminary truce was worked out, though night had already fallen, making communication difficult. Then by torchlight the Duke and Colleoni embraced each other, exchanging congratulations on their personal survival.

  I was suspicious of treachery, but those with more experience in these parochial wars laughed at the idea; and in the morning both armies indeed retreated, as had been agreed.

  A few days later, I returned to Careggi. As I approached the villa, I found it difficult to maintain my fatalistic attitude on the subject of my wife. If she should be gone again—I had difficulty in trying to think beyond that point. But I recognized in myself the signs of inward rage.

  To my surprise Helen came running to meet me, in the yard near the stables, having evidently observed my approach from the window of our upstairs room—this time we had not been granted the bridal chamber.

  Before I had dismounted, she was at my stirrup. “You are alive,” she said. Her eyes had a look I could not remember seeing in them before.

  “It pleases you to see me so, madam?”

  “Pleases me? Pleases me?” Helen sounded the words. Evidently she would not have thought of putting her feelings just that way. “But you are all I have.”

  Chapter Twnety-Two

  The half-ruined building into which Judy and her three companions were urged at gunpoint was evidently very old. The door was shielded on the inside with a blackout curtain, in the form of a sheet of dark plastic; once that barrier had been passed, Judy, Bill, Pat and Helen emerged blinking in the white glare of a Coleman lantern set on a rough table. They were standing in a large room, walled with old brick in bad repair. Judy could recognize the soft-looking light brown that she had recently learned to identify as real adobe. Three temporary cots had been set up along one wall. More sheeted plastic was suspended overhead, to protect the beds and other contents of the room from the effects of what must be a leaky roof.

  “Sit down. Here,” ordered one armed man, pointing to the open space in the middle of the hard-packed earthen floor. “Hands behind you when you sit. Then nobody move.”

  The four of them sat down. And nobody moved, or spoke. One man passed behind them, tying wrists. He was quick about it. It was as if he had had cords ready for some job like this, and had been practicing.

  Hasty glances to right and left assured Judy that her companions were looking pretty sick. She herself was not quite as scared as they appeared to be; she had an inner certainty that help of a most effective kind was on its way. Judy was sure that he now was aware, at least dimly, of her presence here, near the very thing that had already drawn him so powerfully, and he was coming, at great speed.

  The trouble was that Judy could not be at all sure of how far he had yet to travel, or long it would be until he got here.

  As soon as four pairs of hands had been tied, the tallest of the masked men, the one who gave the orders, got the prisoners to stand up again and then went along the line going briskly and impersonally through all their pockets, and dumping out Pat’s knapsack as well. Judy could see from the corner of her eye that the searcher took no money from Bill’s wallet. He appeared to be chiefly interested in ID’s, which he looked at and then put back. But Bill’s car keys did disappear into the tall man’s pocket.

  This quick search completed, their chief captor stood in front of them, looking at them for a moment. “Ralph,” he said abruptly then, “better get the Jeep out.” And he tossed one of his henchmen the two sets of car keys he had confiscated. “It’ll take some towing to get both their vehicles around the hill and under cover, but we’ll have to do it, now we’ve come this far. Ike, you go along and give
him a hand. Cover up the tire tracks. I can manage here.”

  The other two men went out of the room by a side door that led into some sort of hallway. A minute later Judy could hear an engine starting, as if the Jeep the men had been told to use were parked in some attached garage or shed, with no closed doors between. Gradually the sound of the engine moved away.

  “Sit down,” said the ski-masked man who still remained. The four sat, a movement made awkward by bound hands. The Coleman on the table emitted a faint hissing noise, and sent out its glare. The masked man set down his shotgun, where he could reach it easily and at a careful distance from the others, leaning against a stack of crates that appeared to hold foodstuffs. Then he said: “Well, people. We’ve got some things to talk about, before I can let you go.”

  He certainly has no intentionofdoing that, thought Judy to herself. Whatever was going on here … had something to do with that painting. The painting, the old painting showing some woman … it was still wrapped in rough cloth. And now Judy could tell there was clear plastic around it too. And it still leaned against a rough adobe wall in darkness—within a few feet of where she was sitting at this very moment.

  Judy opened her eyes with a start. But the sound she had heard was only the wind, scraping a pine branch lightly along the building’s ancient roof.

  The standing man had turned his head toward her at her motion. Now slowly he turned back to the girl who had introduced herself as Helen. She was the one getting most of his attention.

  The man said: “A little bird tells me your name is Helen Seabright. How come you’re carrying car keys but no license, no money, nothing else?”

  Helen shook her head. She didn’t look especially frightened now, Judy realized. Dazed, but almost eager, as if she would like to hear the answer to that question herself.

  “I know you too,” Helen answered. “You’re Gliddon. I don’t think anyone ever told me your first name.”