Crescendo

by Markland, Anna

  The cathedral monks of Oloron extended their hospitality to the Knights. A sense of foreboding swept over her as she entered the church’s ornate portal.

  On the morrow, she would face the mighty Perinés.

  * * *

  Izzy tried to dissuade Amadour from accompanying him. “I need you to remain at Giroux to watch over the dissidents.”

  Amadour shrugged. “There are other loyal men capable of doing that. I cannot allow you to make the journey alone. If we follow the Pilgrims’ Path to Spain, you will need an experienced Crusader with you.”

  Izzy was adamant. He took the reins of Amadour’s horse, intending to pass them to a stable boy. “Robert will not be pleased I have deserted my post at Giroux. You too will bear the brunt of his disappointment.”

  Amadour grabbed the reins. “Milord Robert already knows that you command the loyalty of the vast majority of men at Giroux. He is impressed at how quickly you have improved things.”

  “But it will be for naught if the supporters of William Clito win the day.”

  No matter his argument, the two left Giroux together, bound for Tours. En route, they stayed at Alensonne, the enormous castle dowered to Robert’s sister, Rhoni de Montbryce by her mother. His cousin, now Milady MacLachlainn, greeted him warmly, casting a curious glance at his sword.

  He embraced her. “It’s good to see you, Hylda Rhonwen—”

  He looked at her and winked.

  “—Je m’excuse! I mean Rhoni.”

  She punched his shoulder and flounced off to greet Amadour. Rhoni had grown up in England, but had spent most summers with her parents at Montbryce. She had met Amadour on many occasions.

  Izzy shook Lord MacLachlainn’s hand. “Ronan, your wife knows my comrade well, but I don’t believe you have met Amadour de Vignoles.”

  Rhoni’s Irish husband slapped Amadour on the back and offered his hand. “No, but I know of your heroism during the Crusades. Welcome. Let’s go inside.”

  They spent a pleasant evening enjoying a delicious meal in the Great Hall of Alensonne.

  Ronan MacLachlainn spoke Norman French, but was more comfortable with English, thus they communicated in that language. “Better than the only other language I speak,” he quipped. “I don’t suppose either of you speak Gaelic, and Rhoni’s the only one who can manage Welsh.”

  Rhoni smiled her agreement. “It was my good fortune that Baudoin married a Welsh woman, who has helped me with the language. By the way, did you know my brother and Carys are expecting another child?”

  Amadour chuckled. “Seems Baudoin was a mere lad when I first met him on our trek back from Asia Minor. I haven’t seen him in a while. How many children does he have now?”

  “Two boys, Gallien and Etienne,” Rhoni replied. “Carys is a wonderful mother and wife, and her brother, Rhys has become a good friend of Baudoin’s. Rhys is the Prince of Powwydd.”

  Izzy knew and liked Carys, Countess of Ellesmere. “Yes, Baudoin hurried away after François de Giroux’s funeral, anxious to be off on a road-building expedition with Rhys.”

  Rhoni called for more wine. “They have already embarked on it. Carys and Rhys’ wife, Annalise, are alone together at Ellesmere Castle. Both pregnant.”

  As they chatted, Amadour remarked on the warm friendship the cousins, indeed all members of the Montbryce family, seemed to share.

  Izzy smiled. “Rhoni and I have been friends since childhood, though she was born in Wales and grew up at my uncle Ram’s castle in England. We’re about the same age, and our parents gave us both names we’ve preferred to shorten.”

  Amadour grinned and turned to Rhoni. “I know the story of your birth in the Welsh mountains during your mother’s captivity.”

  Izzy could not resist the urge to tease. “Oui, she’s fond of repeating it. It’s a hair-raising story. Actually she’s proud of the fact she was born in Wales.”

  Amadour arched his brows. “I would be interested in knowing, then, how you came to be married to an Irishman.”

  Ronan laughed. “Especially a one-eyed rogue.”

  Later, sitting in front of a hearty fire in the gallery, Izzy felt comfortable telling his cousin of the reason for his journey, but his anger flared when he learned Berthold and his knights had enjoyed the hospitality of Alensonne. “What on earth was he doing here? He was supposed to be at Mont Saint Michel. The man has been plotting.”

  Rhoni put her hand on his. “We got the impression he was returning from Spain, but he made no mention of a princess.”

  Izzy seethed, his mistrust of Berthold growing. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “I am happy you have found love, cousin,” Rhoni went on. “You’re a good man.” She glanced at her husband’s eye patch. “Believe me, a woman in love isn’t deterred by physical afflictions. It’s the heart that matters.”

  “Indeed,” Ronan confirmed. “It was Rhoni helped me cope with the loss of my eye. But we’re getting maudlin. I was wondering about your strange sword. You even wore it during supper.”

  He smiled. “Let me show it to you. It’s an incredible weapon that makes me feel invincible. You don’t know what a relief that is to me.”

  Ronan whistled at the sight of the curved blade. “I can imagine. It’s impressive. May I hold it?”

  Suddenly, the fire felt too hot. Izzy did not want to let the blade out of his possession. Perhaps the hand of another might destroy the alchemy he and the shamshir shared. As long as he held it, he had a connection to Farah. But he would appear petulant if he refused. Reluctantly, he handed it over.

  His cousin-by-marriage laughed as he hefted the weapon. “Don’t worry. I won’t damage it. I want to feel the weight. You’re right, it’s incredibly light. Lethal. Such workmanship. Perhaps on the morrow I can practice with it in the training yard?”

  Izzy reached for the weapon, sheathing it quickly. “We would stay longer, but we are already several days behind the Knights. Dawn will see us on our way.”

  The Mighty Pyrenees

  It was not difficult to follow the route the Hospitallers had taken. They had left a lasting impression everywhere. Izzy and Amadour were steadily gaining ground and discovered to their relief they were now only a day behind.

  Izzy shuddered when he envisaged Farah sleeping amid the tombs in Poitiers. Was she hale? How had she fared on the journey? Many of the monks remembered the Knights, but had little to say about the woman they escorted, except that she looked frail and unwell.

  Izzy intended to exact punishment on Berthold for subjecting Farah to this strenuous journey. It was difficult enough for a seasoned warrior. Did she even know how to ride a horse?

  Amadour and Izzy caused excitement in their own right. Izzy’s foreign sword and the Crusader’s cross sewn into his companion’s cloak led many to assume they had visited the Holy Land. No one had trouble believing the two were indeed bound for Santiago de Compostela, especially when they noticed Izzy’s hands. “Seeking a miracle from Saint James,” whispered many a sympathetic pilgrim signing the Cross of Our Lord.

  In Bordeaux, they discovered there were two routes over the Pyrenees. They questioned the priests at the church where pilgrims sought shelter. “Did the Knights intend to take the route through Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Roncesvalles, or did they travel to Oloron in order to take the Somfort Pass over the mountains?”

  “Why do you wish to know?” one indignant cleric asked.

  “One of the Knights is my brother,” Amadour lied. “Our father has passed, and I must advise him. He is my father’s heir.”

  They were told the Knights had probably opted for Oloron, since they intended to visit a monastery in Chaca.

  * * *

  Vermudo Díaz had crossed the Perinés many times. Somfort Pass had become an important trade route, and he had transported African goods from Aragón into Gascogne and the Pays Basque more than once. It was a lucrative endeavor.

  It was also dangerous, especially near the bridge at Canfranc. Having crested the divide
, weary travelers descending the rugged, desolate gorge cut by the fast flowing Aragón River were often set upon as they crossed the narrow stone bridge. It was a place favored by thieves, and the summit towering over it was named Coll de Ladrones in recognition.

  This was where Vermudo decided to ambush the Knights. The raging fury of the Aragón would quickly dispose of the bodies.

  He knew the bandits who made their living there, having paid them off to leave his caravans alone. They would be only too willing to assist, aware they would be well rewarded. There was no necessity for them to know it was the King of Aragón’s sister they murdered. If they were blamed—so be it. It was better than laying the blame on wandering Moors, an unlikely scenario this far from the plains.

  He took only his most trusted lieutenant with him, a man known as The Wolf, because of his given name, Lope, though in appearance he resembled his crow-like family name, Velasco.

  Like a wolf, Velasco was a ruthless killer, dogging his prey, but like a crow he was a wily scavenger. The brigands of Canfranc feared Lope Velasco. They would do Vermudo’s bidding or suffer the consequences.

  * * *

  Alfonso worried. Dominguez reported that Vermudo Díaz had been seen only in the company of his henchman, the Wolf. Despite intense surveillance, no one else seemed implicated in the plot. Spies watching his mother reported Vermudo had not met again with la Reina Madre.

  The King of Aragón paced his chamber. “How can he hope to overwhelm a party of Hospitaller Knights with only Velasco?”

  Dominguez scratched his head. “I do not know, Majestad, but I have received word this morning that they left the palace together, leading two donkeys laden with supplies. They took the road to Chaca. I have men following, at a discreet distance.”

  “He is counting on help from someone else. It is the only reasonable explanation. But who? Did messages get through to the monastery, warning them?”

  “Sí, majestad, they report nothing unusual. And I have posted reinforcements there.”

  “So, either his plan is not to lay an ambush, but to rely on other methods of murder, or he intends to get someone else to help him.”

  “Ladrones,” Dominguez said.

  Alfonso stopped pacing. “What did you say?”

  “Ladrones, majestad. There are many thieves in the mountains who prey on weary travellers.”

  Alfonso fisted his hand and struck his palm. “Por supuesto! Of course! And where are the worst brigands? Not at Chaca—”

  “—Canfranc,” Dominguez exclaimed. “The bridge.”

  Alfonso strode to the door, issuing commands. “Prepare a score of fully armed men. We must pursue Díaz into the mountains. He will avoid the monastery and evade the soldiers there. We leave in an hour.”

  * * *

  Years of living in hot climes had not prepared Farah for the bitter cold of the mountains. After countless days on the road, sleeping fitfully in damp surroundings, she had lost the will to live. Dread of what awaited her in Aragón roiled in her belly.

  Why had she not challenged Berthold? She watched him now through weary eyes. He strutted and boasted to the other pilgrims, shrugging off their concerns about rumors of thieves in the passes. His booming voice echoed off the sides of the narrow valley. “Fear not, you have Hospitaller Knights to protect you.”

  The ascent from Oloron was gradual at first but then became steep. Beyond the summit of the Somfort Pass, where they knelt beneath the giant cross, they came across the Priory Hospital of Santa Cristina. Farah thought of seeking sanctuary, but Berthold made sure she was never alone. She was ill. The Knight must have noticed her pallor, her lack of appetite, her constant shivering, yet he refused to allow her to enter the hospital.

  He awed the others with his knowledge of this institution and his own in Jerusalem. He waxed long on the topic of the fortress at Candanchú that protected the hospital, pointing to the castle in the distant alpine meadows.

  “All downhill from here,” he proclaimed jauntily. “Follow my lead. On to Canfranc.”

  * * *

  Having learned that the Knights and Farah had left Oloron only hours before, Izzy and Amadour continued on, following the river as it meandered towards the mountains. The heavily wooded terrain became hilly, but the valley cut by the river was wide enough that the going was easier than they anticipated.

  Izzy was incensed by what the monks told him of Farah. “A wraith,” one said. “Wouldn’t eat,” added another.

  She was obviously ill, yet apparently Berthold refused to allow her to receive care, insisting they journey on to Chaca. A vision of Farah’s warm, smooth skin pinched and paled by sickness boiled in his belly. If only he had asked her to stay at Giroux. He remembered how happy she had been there, as if she belonged.

  He and Amadour were tired, as were their horses, but they pushed on as fast as they dared, determined to gain ground.

  “What’s our plan once we catch up to them?” Amadour asked, his voice muffled by the cloak pulled across his face against the bitter wind.

  Izzy gripped the hilt of the shamshir. “I don’t know exactly, but I am prepared to use this weapon if Berthold won’t agree to release her.”

  He wished he felt as confident as he sounded. The cold had seeped into his bones. He could barely move his gnarled fingers.

  At the summit, they dismounted and knelt at the foot of the cross erected there. Izzy did not recall the last time he had asked God for anything, but he prayed earnestly for Farah. Tears welled in his eyes. Amadour noticed and gave him a reassuring slap on the shoulder.

  “It’s the wind,” Izzy rasped, but his friend’s sympathetic smile showed he was not convinced.

  Amadour remounted, but Izzy hesitated. “This is not your fight, Amadour. You have seen me safely to Spain. There is no reason for you to risk your life for me.”

  His friend dismounted and stood nose to nose with Izzy, his eyes ablaze. “I am Amadour de Vignoles, a knight sworn to your service. Risking his life for his Seigneur is what a knight does. Would you have me crawl back to Normandie, not knowing if you and Farah—”

  Izzy held up his hand. “But I am not your Seigneur. I am Robert’s Seneschal—maybe not even that any longer.”

  Amadour shook his head. “Non, Izzy de Montbryce. Milord Robert knows it would be impossible to find a more courageous or loyal Seigneur for Giroux. Now, no more talk of my not going with you. Allons-y!”

  They mounted their steeds and looked down into the rugged, desolate gorge that led to the valley below. “All downhill from here,” Amadour shouted over the wind.

  I Won't Let You Go

  Vermudo Díaz was satisfied. Once the leader of the bandits had been convinced to carry out the attack, he had taken charge. Quique Raúl and his band were experts, well concealed by the thick bushes as they lay in wait. Vermudo knew they were there only because he had seen them disappear before his eyes.

  The roaring waters of the Aragón drowned out all other sounds. The first Hospitaller Knight confidently coaxed his mount onto the narrow stone bridge. Vermudo was watching a silent tableau, one that he had composed. When the bandits swooped, it would be a dance of death.

  He pitied the unsuspecting pilgrims unlucky enough to be traveling with the Knights. Usually, victims were robbed and left alive to continue their pilgrimage. Today, none of these travelers would continue on to Santiago de Compostela. Those who survived the blade would be tossed into the rushing river.

  Four Knights were on the bridge when he saw his king’s half-sister, the woman he had come to murder. She did not look like a princess. Her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped forward. She gripped the mane as if afraid to fall off the horse.

  “I doubt she would have made it to Huesca,” he whispered to the Wolf crouched next to him. “All this trouble, likely for naught.”

  Velasco drew his dagger, his hooded eyes bright with bloodlust. “We’re here anyway. No turning back now.”

  Vermudo unsheathed his sword. “Patience,
we must wait until they are all on the bridge.”

  * * *

  Farah raised her head, vaguely aware something had changed. Berthold had stopped talking. They seemed to be on a bridge. She looked to her left. A rushing torrent roared under the bridge and leapt its way down the mountain. The water did not look deep, but the danger lurking in its rock strewn course made her dizzy. Her mount seemed nervous. She gripped the horse’s mane more tightly.

  But there was another noise, a battle cry, barely heard above the crash of the water. She turned slowly to look behind her. Brigands swarmed from the bushes. Berthold shouted and drew his sword, but she could not hear what he cried. Some of the pilgrims on foot ran back the way they had come.

  A tall, swarthy nobleman strode towards her from the other side of the bridge, sword drawn. An incongruous plume atop a ridiculous hat fluttered jauntily in the stiff breeze. Had she gone mad?

  He came closer. The murderous gleam in his eyes penetrated her daze. Was this the brother who purported to love her? Would the tortuous journey end here?

  God forgive me, I almost wish it so.

  When her horse reared, she did not have the strength to hang on. The impact of her shoulder slamming into the cold stones of the bridge took her breath away. Berthold appeared out of nowhere to stand over her. The plumed nobleman attacked him. The other Knights fought with the brigands. Farah feared she might be trampled as horses panicked and men grappled. Numbed by pain, she edged closer to the side of the bridge, cowering against the low protective wall. A bandit was tossed into the river, his scream silenced by the rushing waters.