Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I see.” Sandjer’min waited for Micheu to continue.

  “I agree this is probably the best opportunity we will have for some days,” Micheu said. “I told Sieur Horembaud that since he does not want me to go alone on this task, I wanted you to come with me.”

  “And why is that,” Sandjer’min inquired, no sign of discomfiture about him; it did not surprise him that Sieur Horembaud had brought along a protector for the company, nor that that protector was Micheu de Saunte-Foi.

  “Because you’re calm in tight situations, as we’ve seen, and you speak more languages than I do; depending upon what we find, I may have more need of your translation skills than another sword,” Micheu said with unusual candor. “And, unless I have you wrong, you must carry at least one fighting weapon with you somewhere, as Sieur Horembaud does, and I would wager a few of the other men do. Torquil did, and I suspect Bonnefiles does. I need a comrade who is not afraid of a fight.”

  “I believe I may be able to arm myself,” Sandjer’min said, suppressing his amusement at Micheu’s bellicose attitude.

  “With a sword, I would hope.”

  “When would you want to go after these men?” Sandjer’min asked, saying nothing about the kind of weapon he had with him.

  “Soon after it’s full dark. It would be sensible to go on foot. We’ll attract less notice that way, and we’ll be able to approach their camp with less disturbance than horses or asses would afford us.”

  “That is a judicious notion. Do you plan to bring a lanthorn?”

  “Possibly a dark one, with the light directed down, or a hooded torch,” Micheu said, thinking that Sandjer’min had more fighting sense than Micheu had credited to him. “I have one, and so does Sieur Horembaud, as you must know from riding opposite his point.”

  “You prefer dark lanthorns to light ones?” Sandjer’min asked.

  “For a chore like this, yes. Open lanthorns are all very well for lighting the road ahead at night; they cast their beams a long way. In this instance, that is not wanted, though the company has many of them, and few dark lanthorns.”

  “Vidame Bonnefiles has one, as well,” Sandjer’min reminded Micheu. “You might ask him to join us, since you think he has weapons with him.”

  Micheu stiffened. “The man’s a heretic. There’s no saying what he would do if he had a sword in his hand.”

  “Then why is he on this pilgrimage?” Sandjer’min asked. “Strange behavior for a heretic, is it not?”

  “He said he repents his error, but not everyone is fooled. Those of us who have escorted companies of pilgrims have learned to question the sincerity of penitents. For Bonnefiles, I believe this pilgrimage is a way to disguise his true intentions. No, Sidi, I would rather let those followers remain free than attempt to arrest them with Bonnefiles for a companion. Who knows what he is capable of.”

  Sandjer’min was spared the need to answer; Ruthier appeared with a large wooden cup on a simple brass tray, which he presented to Micheu. “It is sweet,” he said, bowing.

  Micheu hesitated before picking up the cup. “What about you?” he said, looking squarely at Sandjer’min.

  “Oh, you must forgive me not joining you; I do not drink wine—none of my blood do.”

  “A weakness?” Micheu asked with a sly smile.

  “Some would say so,” Sandjer’min conceded.

  “Mohammedans are forbidden to drink,” Micheu said speculatively.

  “So they are, but many do in spite of the prohibition,” Sandjer’min pointed out. “And there are many Christians who abstain from drinking except at Communion.”

  “You have the right of it. Most unfortunate, you not being able to enjoy your own hospitality,” said Micheu; he lifted the cup and made the Sign of the Cross over it before taking a long draught of the dark-pink liquid. “I hope the women will appreciate the quality of what you’re providing them.”

  “I hope it is useful to them,” said Sandjer’min, and motioned to Ruthier. “They will have cups of their own.”

  Ruthier lowered his head as he put the cork plug back in the neck of the small amphora. “I will return shortly.”

  “Many thanks.” Sandjer’min pulled the flap back into place as Ruthier left his tent.

  “A good servant,” Micheu remarked. “You’re fortunate to have him.”

  “Yes,” said Sandjer’min. “I know.” He looked away from Micheu.

  Micheu took another swallow of the plum wine. “Where did you come upon this?”

  “It was sent to me by a trading company in Alexandria,” he said, not mentioning that the company was his, as well as the winery that produced the wine. “I had ten bottles of Tuscan wine from them, four years ago, but nothing so fine recently. The wine you’re drinking is from Anatolia.”

  Micheu gazed into the middle distance. “I used to think I’d like to be a vintner, but bastards, without recognition, are not often accorded that privilege in France. God has deemed otherwise for me, and I am bound, as a faithful Christian, to serve His Will.” He finished the wine. “Mother Church has places I’m needed.”

  “But not in one of the vineyards, I take it,” said Sandjer’min.

  “No,” Micheu chuckled. “At least, not yet.” He got up and handed the large cup to Sandjer’min. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Where do you want to meet?”

  “At the north edge of our camp, near the four squat palms,” he said decisively. “As soon as the cooking-fire is put out.”

  “Assuming it is lit,” said Sandjer’min. “In this rain, it may not be possible.”

  “No, it might not. Let us say we will meet after Frater Anteus completes his evening prayers.” Micheu took a deep breath. “You do have a sword with you, don’t you.”

  “I do,” Sandjer’min said. “I’ll bring it with me.” He would also have a pair of franciscas tucked into the back of his belt, but this he kept to himself.

  “Very good,” said Micheu, feeling as if he had recovered a portion of his authority. “I will see you later.”

  “You will,” Sandjer’min said, and went to lift the flap for him.

  When Ruthier returned, Sandjer’min explained what had been decided, adding, “I wish I knew what Order he belongs to—he isn’t a Templar or a Hospitaller.”

  “Are you sure of that?” Ruthier asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said Sandjer’min. “He hasn’t the manner of either. No, I suspect he’s with one of the clandestine Orders.”

  “Why?” Ruthier asked.

  “He’s too … self-possessed.” He hesitated. “No, that’s not quite it. He is calculating and observant.”

  Ruthier considered this. “Do you think he may be seeking to entrap you in some way?”

  “For what reason?” Sandjer’min asked, but with a tingle of apprehension in his question. “But he might have a private purpose.”

  “You’re not a Christian. You’re not from France. You know more than he does.” He flapped his hands in frustration. “I don’t know.”

  “I doubt it, but I’m not certain.” Sandjer’min looked toward the top of the tent. “It’s unfortunate that we didn’t treat the seams with tar.”

  “We’d still get wet,” said Ruthier.

  “That we would.” Sandjer’min sat down again. “A pity I no longer have that boiled-wool pluvial for tonight’s business.”

  “It’s too hot for this place. You’d swelter, wearing it, if you still had it,” Ruthier said.

  “And this is terrible weather to go after our followers,” said Sandjer’min. “But our attack will certainly be unexpected.”

  “Do you think you’ll have to fight?”

  Sandjer’min shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Then you’ll want what the red-lacquer chest holds,” Ruthier said, and moved into the stack of baggage once again to set the old chest upright. “Under the strap in the back,” he said as he loosed the wide leather band and brought out a slightly curved scabbard, which he held out to Sandjer’min.r />
  “Thank you,” he said as he took it. “Masashige gave me a treasure when he presented me with this sword.”

  “That he did,” Ruthier said. “You’re going on foot?”

  “It’s what Micheu wants.” He stood up, tightened his belt, and slipped the scabbard through it, then shifted it so it sat more comfortably on his hip. He tapped the pommel of the katana. “It is a beautiful weapon.”

  Ruthier said nothing more; he busied himself with rigging a number of vessels to catch the drips that came through the heavy canvass of the tent, then went to help Carlus and Vitalis set up for the evening meal; when that was done, he went to the remuda-lines to make sure the horses and asses were properly fed. By the time he returned to the tent, Sandjer’min had left.

  Micheu was waiting by the low-growing palm trees, a dark lanthorn in his hand casting a small circle of wavering light on the puddle near his feet. “I was beginning to wonder if you would come,” he said quietly as Sandjer’min came up to him.

  “I’m ready to go,” said Sandjer’min.

  “You have a sword?”

  “I do.” He indicated the katana. “It’s an eastern one.”

  “So long as it will cut, the rest hardly matters.” Micheu touched his belt. “Two short swords. Almost as good as a broadsword and a shield.”

  “You’re a tall man, and that makes the short swords good weapons for you, since you have a long reach.” Sandjer’min squinted up at the rain. “It’s lighter than it was.”

  “I think so.” Micheu began to walk, trudging steadily.

  Sandjer’min fell in beside him. “Do you know where the followers are camped?”

  “Last night they were about half a league away, in a little cluster of desert plants. I doubt they moved today.” He did his best not to swing the lanthorn. “Moving lights attract attention,” he remarked.

  “Yes, they do,” said Sandjer’min, who had no need for the lanthorn; his night-seeing eyes saw the gentle slope ahead of them as if it were in half-light rather than full dark. Already his paragaudion and femoralia were damp and would soon be drenched. The rain made him uncomfortable, but not incapacitated.

  “They have a single tent, and we can take them both at once.” There was a note of pleasant anticipation in his voice. “We have the element of surprise in our favor; we must be careful not to lose it.”

  They went along in silence for a bit, then Sandjer’min asked, “You said we are to capture the followers. Does Sieur Horembaud want to question these men?”

  “Of course. He wants to know why they are following us, who they work for if not for themselves, and he is eager to mete out punishment to them.”

  “Punishment? For what reason?” Sandjer’min was not surprised at this, but it troubled him.

  “As a warning to others, if nothing else,” said Micheu. “Sieur Horembaud knows his duty.”

  “Then he plans to kill them, or maim them.”

  They were nearing the place where the followers were camped. Micheu motioned to Sandjer’min to stop. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper. “Their animals are on the east side of the thicket. We will approach from the west. With the wind out of the south, they shouldn’t catch our scent until we’re in the camp.” He pointed off to his left. “Less chance for the animals to make a fuss that way. Use your sword to open the side of the tent so we may enter unexpectedly. Make as little noise as you can.”

  “All right,” said Sandjer’min, catching sight of the tent in the middle of the brush.

  They were almost at the stand of bushes, and now slowed their pace. “Be careful not to break any branches. That could wake them and warn them. It would be sure to make their animals fret.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Sandjer’min said quietly.

  Big though he was, Micheu moved lightly as he sped up to a jog. “You keep to my right.”

  Sandjer’min matched his pace. “As you wish.”

  “Draw your sword,” Micheu ordered.

  The katana came out of the scabbard with a soft, metallic snick.

  “Cut the tent up to down, and step inside as soon as the cut is made.” They were less than ten paces from the tent now, and they were almost running. “I’ll make a double-cut with my swords. See you keep away from me once we’re inside. We’ll be fighting at close quarters and we might inadvertently injure—”

  “That I will,” said Sandjer’min, and lifted his sword to thrust it into the heavy goats’-wool cloth; the side of the tent yawned open as three rents broadened. Sandjer’min went through into the interior, noticing that two figures on unrolled beds were coming quickly awake, one of them reaching for a Damascus blade lying on the ground next to him. Stepping over to him, Sandjer’min pulled back the upper coverlet and moved the point of his sword to a hairs-breadth above his throat. “Stay still,” he said first in Coptic, then in Arabic.

  The man swore comprehensively in Coptic but remained where he was, his eyes fixed on the rippled elegance of the Japanese blade.

  An instant later, the man in the other bed reached out for his companion’s sword, and took a swipe at the backs of Sandjer’min’s legs with it, whooping as he felt the steel encounter cloth and flesh.

  Sandjer’min yelled, the pain coming quickly. Both his calves ached and he could feel the muscles strain. He was so taken aback that he let his katana slip; the superb blade slid through the man’s throat and spine as if passing through fresh cultured milk. The man gave a hideous gargling sound, jerked twice, and lay still. Appalled at what he had done, Sandjer’min tried to take a step back so as not to damage the body. The cuts he had received began to bleed in the steady, pulseless manner of his kind, and he had to steady himself to allow a moment of vertigo to pass that promised a hard recovery. “My legs. Are cut,” said Sandjer’min, and fell back, pinning the second man to the ground. He raised his sword and, using the hem of his paragaudion, wiped the blade clean, then returned it to the scabbard; he noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. So much blood and all of it useless, he thought, for the man is dead. More than twenty-five centuries ago he had tried to restore himself tasting the dregs of battle among the fallen, but without life, the blood had provided nothing; that had been the last time when he had resorted to such desperate measures. He moved a little to hold his captive in place.

  The second man twisted under Sandjer’min, trying to free himself, but Sandjer’min would not budge. Micheu lifted his dark lanthorn, directing the small circle of light down at the second man, and then at the dead man. “I underestimated you,” he said to Sandjer’min.

  Sandjer’min rolled a little but not enough to allow the man he was sprawled upon to move enough to reach his weapon. “Find this one’s sword.” The pain in the back of his legs had settled into a steady, acidic ache.

  “Let me kill him and be done with it,” Micheu said.

  But Sandjer’min was staring at the second man. “Gudjei?” he said at last.

  “Sidi,” he said resentfully. “Why did you kill my brother-in-law?”

  Outside the tent, one of the asses brayed, which started the horses and the second ass to fretting.

  “What the Devil?” Micheu exclaimed. “What is he saying? Do you know this churl?”

  “You should recognize him,” said Sandjer’min, addressing Micheu. “He was the company’s guide for a time, before Firouz,” Sandjer’min said in French. “His beard is longer, but he is not much changed.”

  Micheu turned the lanthorn on Gudjei’s face. “Lord Jesus!” He crossed himself.

  Gudjei whispered something in Coptic.

  “Why have you been following us?” Micheu demanded, moving a step closer to Gudjei and holding crossed short swords over his face.

  “We were ordered to,” said Gudjei, glaring at Micheu as he repeated, “Why did you kill my brother-in-law?”

  Sandjer’min translated for Gudjei, and managed to sit up in spite of a persistent dizziness, and to slowly lever himself to his feet; once he was upright, he
took hold of a tent-pole while he regained his balance.

  “Your brother-in-law, was he?” Micheu said, pointing to the dead man, and let Sandjer’min translate. “Why were the two of you following Sieur Horembaud’s company of pilgrims? Did Firouz threaten you, or pay you?”

  Gudjei started to move, only to find Micheu standing over him, straddling his chest, both short swords pointed downward. “Stay still, you worthless pile of dung. It would give me great pleasure to kill you now.”

  Again Sandjer’min translated, then said to Micheu as calmly as he could, “You say Sieur Horembaud wants to question—”

  “That he does,” Micheu interrupted. “How badly are you cut? Will I have to leave you here and send others to bring you back to camp?”

  “There are horses and asses; all three of us can ride,” Sandjer’min reminded him. “The sooner we leave here, the sooner Sieur Horembaud will have his answers.”

  Suddenly Gudjei struck out with his legs, kicking Micheu on the knees with as much force as he could summon up; Micheu roared with fury and pain, going down heavily. One of his swords cut into Gudjei’s shoulder, and then Micheu lunged at him, reaching for Gudjei’s throat. “Lame me, will you!”

  Sandjer’min lurched forward, reaching out to stop Micheu from throttling Gudjei. “No!” he shouted. “He must stay alive. For Sieur Horembaud.”

  Micheu tried to shake Sandjer’min off him, growling like an angry bear, his hands showing blood as he tried to squeeze above the slice he had made. To his astonishment, this was difficult to do; Sandjer’min was much stronger than Micheu had assumed he was, and his tenacity was formidable. “He tried to kill me!”

  “And you’re trying to kill him. Neither one of you is dead yet. Let go of him, let him up and secure him, then we’ll work out how to use the horses and asses.” Sandjer’min felt himself weakening and knew he could not reveal this to Micheu. “Come, Micheu. Release him.”

  The three men remained locked together for several breaths as the rage drained out of Micheu and Sandjer’min continued to hold him back from his captive. Then Micheu let go of Gudjei with a gesture of disgust, and pushed back from him, dislodging Sandjer’min in the process. “He’s not worth the penance.” He got up, then bent down and hauled Gudjei to his feet. “Where’s your rope? And don’t tell me you don’t have any.”