“A lily?”
“That’s what I said, my lady.” The irritation in his voice was just subdued enough to be decorous but not enough to be unnoticed. “Here.”
Aude watched his finger trace the symbol. According to legend, she thought, the lilies pointed the way across a river for King Clovis as he rode to battle. Charles’s father, Pepin, struck the last of that line down years ago.
She straightened as the realization struck her.
“I thank you,” she whispered. She gathered her skirts and whisked from the shop.
A shadowy figure lingered in a nearby alley, watching Aude and Jerome ride hastily up the Aachen road. When she was out of sight, spider-veined hands pulled a finely made cowl over gaunt features, and Petras stepped out onto the track. He walked up the steps to the shop and pushed open the door.
Across the room, Gregory closed up the vellum book and shoved it to one side. He mumbled under his breath, turning to tend liquids bubbling in pots on oil braziers. The old apothecary paused when he heard Petras’s footfall.
“Oh,” he said, straightening and brushing thin strands of white hair from his eyes. “I didn’t see you come in. How may I help you?”
Petras drew back his cowl, a friendly smile stretched across his lips. But his eyes remained coldly fixed on the old man’s face.
“And how may I help you, Father?” Gregory said more respectfully, though this time a little more shortly.
Petras placed a hand flat on the book, his eyes still holding Gregory’s.
“It appears that you’ve been visited just now by a lovely and inquisitive young woman,” Petras said in a low voice.
Gregory paused, his eyes narrowing. “Why, yes. She was looking for an old family remedy. Something easily resolved.”
“Oh? And how does one resolve issues of succession with a brew?” Petras hissed, a long-bladed seax appearing in his hand from the folds of his cloak. The single-edged knife gleamed wickedly in the dim light.
“I assure you,” Gregory said, backing up a step or two, his feet painfully dragging the floor as he reached behind him, “I know nothing of succession or other things. I’m a simple apothecary.”
“Yes, I suppose now you’re just a simple apothecary,” Petras noted. “As a man should be who concocted potions for the Empress Irene and was forced to flee the Eternal City when Nicephorus took the crown into his bloody hands.”
“Sleeping philters are the norm of my trade, I assure you,” Gregory countered. “What do you want? Speak, man, or leave my shop this instant!”
He backed into a jumbled table with deceptive clumsiness, but he was quick. He flung a bowl at Petras, spraying oily drops that ignited as they passed over the flaming braziers.
Petras threw his hands up. The burning droplets seared his face, smoking splotches scattered across his dark robes. He howled and leaped forward, quick as a cat, hurtling over the worktable to bury the long knife into Gregory’s breast.
Blood spilled from the wound to the hard-packed earthen floor to sizzle among the flaming droplets of oil. The surprise and annoyance in Gregory’s eyes faded for good. Tears streaming down his blistered skin, Petras straightened, pushing the body away in disgust. He plunged his face into a pail of tepid water by the back door and scrubbed at his flesh, leaving angry red welts across his pale features. Then he turned his attention to the documents scattered across the shop, and particularly on the vellum book upon the desk while flames began to lick the dried herbs on the shelves.
Moments later, his visit concluded, Petras drifted down the front steps of the shop and faded into the shadows of the encroaching evening. Behind him, smoke twisted out a window and then billowed out the open door. Flames spread through cracks in the walls and up to the moldy roof thatching. Villagers tumbled from their huts to combat the flames quickly consuming the shop and spewing glowing cinders into the air to threaten them all.
Petras dug his heels into the flanks of his mount and cantered at a breakneck pace toward Aachen.
Aude clung to the saddle pommel atop the lathered horse that clattered into the courtyard. She brought the steed to a hard stop and dismounted, thrusting the reins into Jerome’s tired hands even before he could come to a stop behind her, then dashed up the steps of the palace.
In the adjoining garden, Gisela played with Baldwin. The young woman rushing across the tiled floor to the grand stairs caught Gisela’s eye, and she gestured for a nursemaid to watch over the baby as she hurried after Aude.
At the top of the staircase, Aude’s door was slightly ajar. Gisela knocked quietly and pushed it open to find Aude standing in the center of the room, wiping wet eyes.
When Aude caught sight of the older woman, she flung her arms around her.
“What is it, child?” Gisela brushed strands of hair from Aude’s face. “What frightens you so?”
“Poison, my lady! A draught for a silent death!” Aude wiped her face with the back of her hand. “And the symbol of Ganelon’s house? A white lily on a field of blue?”
“Yes. The sign of our Lady, the mother of God.”
“As well as the symbol of deposed Childeric, exiled by your father, Pepin.” She drew a shaky breath and plunged on. “The man who bought your potion bore the same symbol.”
Gisela’s hand trembled though her fingers continued to clench Aude’s in hers. “As I had feared, but I was afraid to speak. So it was Ganelon?”
“No,” Aude said. “The apothecary noted a scar above the eye.”
“Gothard,” Gisela breathed through her clenched teeth. “Oh, dear God, Roland was right. Charles must know.”
Aude prepared for the journey south at a livery near the outskirts of the city, for the royal stables stood too close to the corridors of gossip in the palace. Besides herself and Jerome, only two retainers of unquestioned loyalty would be their entire strength. She opted for haste rather than building a cumbersome entourage that would not only slow each step but also draw attention to her movements. The older of her two retainers, Gregory, fretted over details much like he had in the years since being sidelined from service in the Vale’s auxiliaries. In those days, he served as a supply sergeant, a man who knew everything from the daily price of meat in any local market to the weight of barley needed for soldiers’ rations. And he knew how best to acquire such items, legitimately or otherwise.
Peonius, a tall, dark, younger man from the vale, augmented Gregory’s obsessive focus with quiet strength and simple, honest humor. He checked gear and sorted supplies with nary a cross word or question. For the better part of two days, both men quietly vanished from their quarters early each morning, not returning again until just before the palace gates closed in the evening.
For her part, Aude sorted through the accumulation of things she’d collected while living in Aachen for the past three years. Most would remain behind, locked in her quarters to await her return. But she packed spare boots, a cloak, and trousers in her travel bag. She paused when she came to Roland’s sparkling necklace. She pressed it to her lips, that magical night of their wedding now but a closely held memory. She thought she could still detect his lingering scent—
A young woman’s voice said, “So it’s true. You’re leaving us.”
“Oh,” Aude said, a bit flustered.
Berta stood in the doorway, a frown upon her lips.
“My dear, you startled the life out of me.”
Berta’s good-natured soul never allowed her to long hold a frown. Still, Aude tended to tread lightly with all members of the royal family—a habit she’d acquired while dealing with Aldatrude’s ever-changing moods.
“Imagine how I felt knowing you were leaving and hadn’t told me,” Berta said, pouting. “I thought I’d be the first to know such things!”
Aude put down her folded clothes.
“I’m sorry,” she began, then launched into the excuse she’d worked u
p. “I’ve received word Father may not live through the autumn. I do want to stay, dear heart, but I must attend to him.”
Berta rushed in and wrapped her arms around Aude, burying her head in her shoulder.
“I don’t wish you to leave!” she blurted out. “There are so few to speak with, or even trust.”
Aude returned her embrace. To her, the court nobility were just barely tolerable in their incessant jockeying for position—but there was a sweetness about Berta that Aude used for a refuge from the constant machinations at court.
“I shall miss you too,” she whispered. “But it will be only for a short time. Before you know it, I’ll return. Then we shall have tales to tell and confidences to exchange!”
Berta released her, and Aude brushed the tears from her eyes.
“Take me with you!” Berta pleaded. “Take me from this pit of vipers! Oh, I’m sure one or two mean well, but I’ve no one to confide in except old priests and the scholars with their fingers stained in ink. I’ll be no trouble, I swear! And I’d love to see the Vale in the fall.”
“I can’t bring you,” Aude said. “You’re central to the kingdom, with your family campaigning in Spain and an army on the Saxon frontier. But I can bring you something, if you like. A gift from my home, perhaps.”
Berta stomped her foot. “I knew you’d say that. I could have the guard hold you—keep you in the palace.”
Aude smiled and brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Berta’s face, tucking it gently behind her ear. “And then my father would die without his daughter at his side. I wouldn’t be good conversation were that to happen.”
Berta bit her lip. “No, I suppose that’s true,” she admitted. “You know I wouldn’t do it anyway.”
“Of course I do.” Aude rummaged through her bag and withdrew a small silver-chased crucifix that had been given to her long ago. She held it up to Berta. “Here, sister. This was my mother’s. Keep it safe for me.”
Even with all the baubles provided by her station, Berta’s eyes widened.
“You mean it?”
It was then that Aude realized that Berta had never been offered something so personal—a sort of acceptance into another’s family and life.
“I do. Since I cannot take you with me, you must keep a piece of me with you.”
Berta nodded, and Aude strung it about her throat.
“I swear to you, I will keep it safe,” Berta whispered as she admired the delicate work, turning the crucifix gingerly in her fingers. Then she looked up, her eyes brimming once more. “Return to me, sister. Swear it!”
“I swear,” Aude said, not knowing if she told the truth.
AOI
The pickets raised a noise along the river facing the Saxon frontier, startling the Frank camp from its fitful slumber. Shouted alarms passed from station to station. Soldiers tumbled from their sleeping bags, gathering weapons and armor as they stumbled into the gray dawn.
Gothard shrugged through his tent flaps, tugging a leather coat over his head. He craned his neck while he gathered his weapons and rushed toward the commotion. Soldiers jostled into hasty formation and armored knights thundered past atop their steeds. Gothard pushed through the ranks to the front, and what he saw arrayed across the field caused his breath to chill in his lungs. A vast Saxon army spread out in loose battle order along their side of the Rhine. Ten thousand enemy throats let out a raucous jeer as the Franks scampered into place, those with shields taking positions in the front ranks.
With no time to kit out his steed and locate the levies from Tournai, Gothard pulled on his mail coat and found a place among a group of peasant levies. Apprehension fluttered in his stomach. He shook his arms and legs to encourage circulation as a handful of Tournai men appeared at his side, having followed him from the tents. Gothard nodded to them wordlessly.
The Saxons stomped to within fifty yards and then with hardly a pause charged with a booming roar. The Franks drew their swords and braced themselves before the Saxons rushing across the field. With a metallic crunch, they drove into the front ranks and cut a swath with heavy blades that left the Franks struggling to fill the gaps of the fallen.
Gothard stepped over a peasant on his knees clutching at his ruptured bowels. He shouted encouragement at his struggling comrades to keep the heavily armored Saxons at bay, but the onslaught was unrelenting. The Saxons drove hard into the buckling center, cutting down the ill-equipped Frank irregulars with a bloody reaping that left the field sown in a torn and mangled human crop. As Tournai men fell around Gothard, even their bitter resolve began to melt. That melting became a stream and then a rush of men fleeing the field, leaving their comrades to struggle against the overwhelming Saxon tide.
A nearby youth dropped his weapon and turned to run.
“Stand and fight!” Gothard shouted raggedly. He deflected a wicked cut from a stout warrior and plunged his sword into the man’s bearded face. The deserter hesitated as Gothard tugged his sword free—but only for a moment. He shook his head and turned to run. Gothard cut him down before he could take two more steps.
“Rally, men! Rally!” he yelled above the din.
A tall Saxon broke through the Frank shields, roaring at the top of his lungs and hacking through limbs with his broadsword. A spray of blood showered Gothard’s eyes. Heedless, he stepped into the gap and took off the Saxon’s head with a snapping cut.
Sudden pain shot through his own gut, and Gothard’s body jerked. His heart seemed weighted by a stone. He looked down to see the tip of a rusty blade protruding from his belly through his mail coat. Blood exploded in a flood through his garments. He painfully turned to see who had stuck him, and his legs buckled, the ground rushing up to greet him.
The battle swirled and seethed around him but then passed him by. Retreating Franks were replaced by charging Saxons until only stragglers sprinting among the wounded to keep up with the fluid battle-line could be seen. Through blurring eyes, Gothard watched an old peasant sink down to embrace the body of the coward he had killed.
Gothard chuffed blood.
A passing Saxon swiped indiscriminately at the old man’s neck. He clutched at a fountaining wound, sagging in a heap over the boy even as Gothard’s own last breath choked through his teeth.
CHAPTER 21
Fire from Heaven
Under the baking summer sun, Frank clerics herded an endless line of prisoners into the creek’s sluggish flow. Dusty and dejected, prisoners went in on one side; muddy and defeated, they came out on the other. On the far bank, they sank to their knees before priests administering oaths, one of allegiance to the God of the Christians, and the other of fealty to Charles, before being led off to rough food and crude shelter.
But it was better than the alternative.
In the distance, something mechanical clattered and groaned beneath a thick cloud of smoke that rose from a mud-and-clapboard building. Even the Franks gave the place a wide berth. The prisoners whispered among themselves and speculated. Only a few ventured a guess as to what lay within, and those speculations lacked confidence, fueled only by rumors heard from drunken seamen relating frightened tales on stormy nights. A few murmured prayers to the god of their homeland, rather than to He whose water still dripped from their hair—secretly grateful that for them the war was finally over.
John, finally able to bear the sun once more, ventured out of the doorway of the smoky shack and shambled to the river with an empty bucket. Kennick stood at the water’s edge, watching the Greek’s progress and wrinkling his nose in disgust. Turpin stopped on his way to the baptisms and noted the look on the marchman’s face.
“In all my days, Bishop,” Kennick said, clearing his throat, “I’ve never smelled anything so vile.” He spat as if it would help clear the stench away.
Turpin touched the four corners of the cross on his breast with a nod. “Rocks that stink this badly? Sure
ly God meant this for the damned!”
Kennick grinned, his peppered beard bristling, and slapped Turpin on the back. “Something to look forward to!”
Inside the crude work shed, Roland spoke with Leo while the Greek shaped and bent copper tubes with curious tools. To Roland it looked like a senseless, twisted mass. Leo held the tangle before his eyes and squinted at it critically. With a satisfied grunt, he fitted it to a nipple on a cauldron burbling thick sulfurous smoke.
“The last shipment of oils arrived two days ago,” Roland said. “And the smith finished the metalwork you required. When will the device be ready?”
Leo sat back on his heels and finally focused on the champion.
“We’ve not tested it,” he replied. “It needs a trial run to ensure the entire apparatus is sound.”
“But men are dying,” Roland insisted. “We’ve no reinforcements coming to fill the ranks. We must make it ready before the caliph intervenes. If he succeeds in bringing shiploads of troops up the river, the siege will crumble.”
John returned with the bucket. “It’s a dangerous thing you require of us, my lord,” he offered. “I see the men dying myself—every day I do—but many more would die, and even more if this explodes while pulling it through the camp.”
Roland took the bucket from his hands and lifted it over the jumbled parts to set it next to the cauldron. “I understand that. But we must take the city. They continue to range from the northern gates and disrupt our supply lines. We must retake Carcassonne so we can move on to Saragossa.”
Leo and John exchanged glances.
“We will prepare the weapon, my lord,” Leo agreed, though John’s face visibly tightened. Leo rose and crossed the workshop to a simple table littered with documents. He shuffled about until he found a sheaf of vellum sheets. “Here,” he said, handing them to Roland. “This is the shell that will house the weapon, to keep it protected from missiles and the like. All the measurements are included.”
Roland examined the document—the page covered with lines and numbers that frankly meant little to him. “We’ll get men working on this immediately.” He stepped out of the workshop eagerly.
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