Peonius cut a piece of wood, covered it in a leather strap, and then pushed it between her teeth. “Bite this. It will help,” he urged.
Aude did as she was told, and Jerome wrenched the bones back into place. She ground the leather with her teeth. Sobs huffed through her nose, and tears streamed down her face.
Jerome wrapped her arm snugly into a trough of bark and slung it against her side. When he finished, Peonius stroked her jaw and eased the branch from her mouth. Teeth marks cut deep in the leather. He tossed it aside, then he and Jerome lifted Aude to her feet.
“My horse?” she croaked.
“You’ll ride on mine, my lady,” Peonius said simply.
Aude felt a cold tightness in her chest when she realized what that meant. An old man, an injured woman, and down two horses with half their journey yet ahead of them. She nodded, fighting the urge to cry out as the two men helped her onto Peonius’s horse. She caught the pommel of the saddle and swung her leg over. For the first time, she looked about, ignoring the pain. The storm’s fury left shattered branches jutting starkly against the gray sky as the last clouds scudded overhead on the tails of the wind.
Peonius clucked his tongue and led the horse to the road. Aude clung to the pommel, her face pale, cold sweat upon her brow. Yet she kept a brave face when Jerome swung his mount in beside her to set to a gentle pace.
The muddy track opened to a series of farmers’ fields. Rows of turnips, wheat, and other greenery checkered the dark earth in shades of green. Her broken bones grated together, causing Aude to clench her teeth against the continued pain. She sought distraction amid the forests rimming the fields that passed slowly by to the measured plod of the horse’s tread. She would pick some interesting tree ahead and trace its branches and study its roots until they drew abreast, then would find another further on and repeat the game.
Then, amid her desperate meditations, Aude saw leaves move against the breeze. Fever was her first thought. Many who lay at death’s dark portal succumbed to strange visions while fever burned in their bodies. Suddenly feeling a bit unhinged with the constant assault of the pain, she slumped over the saddle. Jerome reached across between the two horses and kept her upright. Even so, her eyes remained on the woods, where the motion resolved into a shadowy figure.
“There. Who is that?” she whispered.
Jerome craned his neck. “I don’t see anything, my lady.”
Yet there was the figure of a man, she was certain, accompanied by the glint of steel. A cloak appeared to flutter like black raven’s wings about broad shoulders. Martial echoes stirred in her mind. The figure raised an arm in what could be a greeting—or a warning. Overwhelmed by a sense that she knew who he was, her fingers stretched to touch him.
And then he was gone.
A breath of cool air on her cheek brought her back to herself. “He was there, Mary as my witness.”
Jerome halted them and dismounted. “Of course he was. Of course.”
He climbed up behind her to keep her steady and motioned for Peonius to mount his horse. With tired eyes, he scanned the wood line.
“What will we do?” Peonius asked.
“Ride on as fast as you can,” Jerome said. “Find assistance.”
To Peonius’s credit, he hesitated only for a heartbeat then slapped the reins against his horse’s flank.
Jerome clucked to Aude’s mount, watching the forests warily as Peonius galloped down the muddy rutted road.
That night, Peonius led them to shelter in a small town, a simple room in a log-and-stone tavern, but it was dry and secure. While Peonius saw to the horses, Jerome found a graying woman who claimed knowledge of healing arts. In a back room, he watched her work, surprised by the deftness of her gnarled hands. She tugged rather brutally on Aude’s shoulder until a pop and a click signaled the bones had moved back into place. The young woman, benumbed by strong wine, stifled a cry then sank back against the bed. The village matron wrapped Aude’s arm with linens and wooden slats, immobilizing her arm to the wrist.
“Keep her still,” she said with furrows deepening about her eyes. “She must rest.”
Aude doggedly shook her head and struggled to rise. “No time. We must keep moving.”
Jerome gently pressed Aude back down.
“No, my lady,” he whispered to her. “We rest and keep counsel to ourselves.”
Hours passed, and Aude drifted in and out of troubled slumber. When Jerome finally gently shook her, she stirred reluctantly, feeling exhaustion deep within her bones and torn muscles.
It was still dark outside the dirty, oiled parchment window.
“And now we must go,” he said. “Peonius is bringing the horses around.”
Aude tried with one hand to tie her tangled hair back from her face, but it was Jerome’s fingers that finished the task.
“There were men here,” he explained. “This evening, they stopped field hands returning home to ask about travelers on the road. We’d best put distance between us and the village before the morning.”
Aude threw her good arm around Jerome’s shoulder. Each step was a jarring effort. Yet they crept through the inn’s common room to the kitchen and out a back door into the bracing chill of the night. Peonius lifted her into the saddle, and Jerome climbed up behind her once more.
They struck out across the nearby fields, picking up the road further south. Above them, clouds drifted across the face of the moon while the night wrapped them in her cool embrace. And then the moon, the sky, and the indifferent stars disappeared beyond the leaf-laden boughs of the forest when it closed overhead.
They rode silently, and for Aude painfully, for hours. Slowly the sky lightened, and the first birds began to sing.
Then Peonius tumbled from his saddle, a dark shaft sprouting from his chest. The air whistled, arrows speeding past Jerome and Aude. The old attendant buried his heels in the horse’s ribs before Aude realized what had happened. Figures rushed through the brush after them. Steel flashed behind the trees. A man’s voice shouted, and the horse shied. It threw its riders, and pain burst anew through Aude when she hit the ground. Jerome staggered to his feet, drawing a long knife from his belt.
There was a whistle, and an arrow pierced Jerome’s throat. The old retainer fought to take a step, to protect his charge, but his legs crumpled. Aude cried out and dragged herself to him. Jerome sagged against her, gurgling his apologies through the blood gushing from his torn throat.
In the shadows of the verdant canopy, edged steel glinted in the pale light. A bow creaked. An eye sighted along the shaft and made contact with Aude’s defiant gaze a score of yards away.
She clutched Jerome with her good arm, her clothes warm from his blood.
Out of the trees, a man stepped forward, chilling Aude’s blood when she recognized the voice.
“Daughter, you’ve come so far,” Petras hissed. “It’s a shame the journey was for naught.”
“You dare? You betray your king!”
“Betray my king?” the priest sneered. “Childeric is my king—dead these nearly fifty years. Yet his heir lives, and I shall see him returned to the throne!”
Aude straightened defiantly. “Then end this here. You’ve already spilled the blood of men more honorable than your master. What’s a little more?”
Petras’s smile stretched tightly across his lips, and he nodded to the archer.
An arrow hissed through the air, burying itself in flesh with authoritative finality. The archer crumpled, and chaos broke out among Petras’s men. More arrows flew. Petras tried to rally his men, but more collapsed in cries of shock and spurts of blood. Petras turned to flee, but an arrow struck him in his back, followed quickly by a second. He stumbled only a few paces before falling to the ground in a dark spreading puddle.
Aude threw herself over Jerome’s corpse, offering what scant protection she c
ould from the soldiers breaking through undergrowth to cut down Petras’s remaining men. She lifted her eyes and saw a cloaked figure step from the forest then rush to her with arms open.
“Sister!” Berta exclaimed. “Oh, my dear Aude!”
Tears streamed down both women’s cheeks. Aude collapsed into Berta’s arms.
“I knew you weren’t going to the Vale,” Berta whispered. “Do not worry, sister. Now you travel with me.”
Aude wiped her eyes and for the first time noticed the colors on the soldiers’ surcoats—brilliant red emblazoned with a royal golden Roman eagle.
CHAPTER 23
The Price of Peace
Saragossa opened her tall gates to the flood of troopers streaming up the road. For miles beyond those gates, soldiers struggled for the city among the tide of peasants and merchants from the outlying countryside who also clogged the thoroughfares. All fled the Frank demon Roland and his hellish angel of fire that perched atop the smoldering bones of Carcassonne. The air reeked of fear. Refugees haggled alongside the soldiers for shelter, provisions, or simply for a place on the road to pass on to safer havens.
Near the city walls, chaos erupted at market squares as the mobs and residents jostled, contested, and then fought for scant supplies. Some merchants simply beat back the crowds and closed up their tents, choosing instead to keep what little they had for themselves. Others braved the assault, risking injury for coin, though each passing moment prices rose to meet the demand, and tempers mounted to match. Vigilant mothers shepherded their children through the influx of strangers and the ever-present ironfisted guards who strained to herd the refugees into some semblance of order.
Far above the Saragossa’s streets, the emir’s palace stood gleaming in the shimmering sun. Along the walls, banners snapped bravely in the warm summer wind. Within those walls, cool marble floors defied the heat and the sweaty smell wafting up from the city below.
Drumming his fingers on a drink chilled with ice brought from the mountains at great expense, Marsilion sat on the edge of his divan. Intimates of his court surrounded him on thick cushions and argued over the disastrous progress of the war that would soon ensnare the city. The nobles’ nervous faces examined the lines of the purposefully bland dispatches, hoping to read into them some glimmer of hope to stay the emir’s fits of temper, which could only be reined in by Blancandrin’s steadying hand.
“The entire extent of our lands—everything is in Charles’s hands!” Marsilion slurped his drink. “His armies encamp within sight of our walls!”
Blancandrin leaned forward, his eyes intent. “My lord, without the caliph’s aid, we’re no match for the combined strength of the Franks and Barcelona. We must consider that he will use another machine such as at Carcassonne.”
The doors behind them opened, admitting five figures dressed in plain dark robes. They padded across the tiled floor and bowed respectfully to the emir.
“Ah, what is this?” Marsilion asked. Blancandrin rose to his feet and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.
One of them stepped forward, holding up both hands to the general.
“There is no need for concern with us, sir,” he said, his voice low and coiled as an adder. “Emir, you sent to the Old Man of the Mountain for assistance. We are here to fulfill your request.”
Blancandrin stepped between them and Marsilion. “My lord! These are killers of the night! You didn’t?”
“Yes. Yes, I did,” Marsilion said with a firmness that surprised all around him. A son was lost during the course of this war. Indeed he had lost entire cities. Now he was beyond honoring rules of engagement. “When the caliph couldn’t send even a single horse and his fleet remains bottled up in Cadiz by pirates—well, we needed options.”
The assassin smiled and gestured toward his silent colleagues. “We intend to provide you with those options, Emir.”
AOI
Saleem rode with his retinue strung along with him through the captured village—a once-pleasant town that had been destined to pass to Farad until the Franks had taken it. The villagers bowed silently as the riders swept through their dusty street clad in resplendent chain mail under billowing cloaks of red and blue. Pointed helmets trimmed in gold stabbed at the sky atop their heads. A son of the emir was returned in cruel glory, but he remained too far from the seat of power yet inside Saragossa’s strong walls. He rode past the prostrating peasants without a glance and drew up beside a wagon on the edge of town where five commoners bent their backs loading sacks of grain. Their threadbare garments spoke of a lifetime toiling to sustain a meager living. Saleem dismounted and strode to the wagon, inspecting both the men and the contents.
“Such provisions are rare during these times,” he observed.
One of the men reached into the wagon and sliced open a sack with a slender knife. The grain spilled over to the ground, but the man ignored the loss and the hungry stares of incredulous villagers. He reached into the sack and pulled forth a silver-chased box. He opened it for Saleem with a deep bow. Inside, the velvet lining nestled a gold signet ring. Saleem took it and rolled it between his fingers.
It was his father’s.
“Our benefactor promises you much more than this,” the man hissed.
Saleem narrowed his eyes knowingly. “Oh, yes, he does. And he will make good on each and every promise? I assure you, I mourned with him when we lost my brother.”
With a cold eye, he looked at the nearby peasants staring transfixed at the precious grain spilling to the mud.
“No one will speak of this.” He raised a hand and pointed to one at random. “Kill that one, to be sure they learn the lesson.”
His lieutenant cleared his throat. “But, my prince, no one would believe them anyway.”
“I suppose you could join him.”
The lieutenant blanched. He quickly nodded to two troopers, who dismounted, grabbed the condemned man, and forced him to the ground. A saber flashed, releasing a fountain of crimson to the parched ground.
Saleem slid the ring onto his finger. “It does look nice there,” he observed. “Yes, my father has always been generous.”
AOI
Ganelon’s retainers huddled near their campfires, some scrubbing the day’s dust from their gear and others quietly spooning up stew that steamed in their bowls. In the distance, sprawling settlements outside Saragossa’s city walls were lit with roving torches while the populace continued crowding the towering citadel. Yet with victory in sight, a hush had encompassed the camp, for many troopers recalled the bitter street fighting of recent days and the toll it had taken on their army—too many of their brothers already lay in unmarked graves scratched from the baked Spanish soil.
Ganelon squatted at a cookfire with Guinemer and Alans hunched over their own bowls. Nearby, Julian dropped a bundle of wood onto a stack near the fire.
Ganelon lowered his spoon and glared into the faces of his compatriots.
“Our move comes soon,” he said in a low voice. “Soon Charles will decide to return to Francia, and we must strike when he is most vulnerable.”
Alans shook his head, grinding a piece of gristle between his teeth.
“But his war hound,” he said. “We must separate the king from his champion.”
“No easy task to cut the gristle from the bone,” Guinemer observed.
Alans waved his spoon at Ganelon. “His power over Charles grows with each passing day. It must be soon.”
Ganelon set his bowl down then warmed his hands before the flames.
“True,” he agreed. “Roland must not return to Francia alive.”
The two men grumbled in agreement.
Alans dropped his spoon into his bowl and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Your men? They will follow you in this?”
“Of course.” Ganelon laughed, surveying the Tournai men around them. “They’
ve proved their mettle time and again—and their loyalty.”
Alans reached down, grabbing his cup and lifting it to eye level.
“Then we are in this together,” he toasted.
“Until death,” Ganelon agreed, snatching up his own cup.
They drank long into the night while the fire burned into red smoldering embers.
And Julian watched.
Long after sunset, Frank guards leaned on their spears and squinted through the darkness. They straightened when a cart creaked toward them up the track. The duty sergeant rubbed his nose with his fist and narrowed his eyes. A single hunched figure, features lost in the folds of a deeply hooded cloak, held the reins of two slowly tromping oxen. The sergeant held up a hand and signaled to one of his troopers, who hefted his spear to arms and examined the vehicle in the gloom.
“There’s no entry after sunset,” the sergeant barked, holding his own spear at the ready while the other guards converged on the vehicle. “Turn your rig around. The quartermaster will see you in the morning.”
The driver raised both hands.
“My apologies, eminent sir,” he said, his Saracen accent quite apparent. “But we bring provisions that just reached port for Charles’s own table—wine from Greece, dates from Palestine, and fish from Massilia. We don’t want them spoiling while the king’s own chef waits on them.”
The guard warily held out a hand.
“Papers,” he commanded.
The driver fished around under his seat then eventually produced a rolled sheaf. The guard snatched it and waved for a torch.
“Of course, we had trouble getting through,” the driver continued. “Saragossa pillages wagons on the road. It made the trip quite dangerous.”
While the man spoke, shadows crawled from beneath the wagon, mere whispers of black that moved with deadly precision. Barely a gurgle escaped the guards’ throats when hands clamped over their mouths and sharp knives finished their grim work. Then the shadows dragged the twitching corpses to the back of the wagon.
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