“Need to be putting your steeds up for the night?”
Ravan ignored the question. “Have you seen a group of men come through here? Ten or thereabouts, and with children—at least two—captive?”
The man squinted at Ravan, obviously suspicious of the serious band of men with their strange questions. He rubbed his chin and glanced sideways as though strongly considering just hobbling away, as though no one would notice if he did.
“I mean you no harm,” Ravan offered. “It is my son I seek. He looks like…” His brow creased and his face was cast into darkness. “He looks like…” He struggled.
Velecent stepped his horse forward and tipped his head, allowed a beautiful smile to spread warmly across his lips and face. “He looks like my friend here. Every bit the scoundrel that he is as well.” He nodded toward Ravan and became more serious. “The boy is twelve. We would pay dearly for information.”
The elder tipped his head back, squinted into the overcast light, and appeared to deeply consider what the strangers just shared. Suddenly, from the barn emerged a boy of about ten years of age. “Grandfather! Are there horses? Do we have customers?”
Ravan’s dark face did not change, not in the slightest, but he cast his eyes immediately on the boy as though he could not tear them away. His voice was hoarse as he spoke to the old man, but kept his eyes fixed on the child. “I see you too have a young one who must be very dear to you.”
The old man hissed at the boy. “Back into the barn! Bennet, go back into the barn! You know the rules!”
Bennet’s face was a flash of remorse, and in another flash, he was gone. The livery man watched to make certain the boy obeyed, then turned to Ravan, this time with longing and appeal in his eyes.
“Please, he is all I have. I can put up the steeds, but I beg of you, don’t hurt him.”
His comment surprised Ravan completely. “You insult the memory of the boy’s parents if you believe I would harm that child. But harm may come to my son, and you have the opportunity to do a noble thing.” He focused his stare entirely on the old man. “However, make no mistake. If you purposefully lead me astray, it will not be the boy whom I harm.”
Again the man cowered but appeared to consider the stranger’s words carefully. He finally admitted, “There have been none this way for at least two weeks.”
“Children? Two weeks? My son has only been missing for…” Ravan’s words trailed off, his heart weighted with disappointment as he realized Risen had not been through the town. It was not as he’d hoped to hear.
The old man replied, “Yes, two weeks. Not recently, but I can tell you there have been those who have come through before—with children, as you say.”
Velecent brightened. “When? When have you seen this?”
“I am a livery man. I see everything and nothing.” He shrugged. “These men come through on their way to the coast. This is the only pass if you come from the north.”
“We do not. We hail from the west.” Ravan could not answer him fast enough.
“Then you need to go farther south. The children you speak of are a strong two—maybe three days from here—from you. They would be in Nevers by now, or on their way to Lyons. But once they reach the port of Toulon, they will be lost.”
“Why?” Ravan implored the man. “How do you know this?” he demanded.
The man drew back, seemed reticent to answer. Then, as though he perhaps feared the immediate wrath of this ill-tempered stranger more than the eventual anger from those that captured children, he explained, “They will go to Naples, perhaps—maybe Sicily. They are bound for the Ottoman Empire.” He shrugged. “It’s the Turks who own them now. Word is that they have an army of children—human shields. That is what they use to march north and west against the Byzantium.”
“Why?” Velecent repeated the question.
“The Ottoman’s, one called Murad, sacrifice might with numbers. These soldiers, they say, are hardened boys only because they survive to become one.”
Ravan was stricken. Could it be? Could his son have been taken merely for sale? For service in a foreign army? Of course he could! Such was the capacity of evil amongst men! He, himself, had fallen victim to these kinds of men. This thought fueled in him an immediate feeling of desperate helplessness. This was an emotion not entirely foreign to Ravan, but it had been a very, very long time since he’d suffered it.
All at once, impotent rage overcame him; he simply needed to kill something, to punish something for this terrible wrong. With swift reflex, he pulled his sword from his scabbard and raised it over his head as though he would strike the old man down simply because he dared share this awful news.
The livery man cringed, raised his arms over his head, obviously expecting the blow, but Velecent’s sword was drawn nearly as fast and clashed against his friend’s before it could be swung. Their eyes met, locked on each other, Ravan’s black with rage and Velecent’s in hardened defiance. His first in command and closest friend hissed beneath his breath. “He is not your enemy, my friend. He is simply profiting from your enemy.”
Ravan relaxed but held his sword firm against Velecent’s. “He enables the traders to keep stolen children here. He knows he does wrong.”
“Kill him and you kill your source of information. He is the only link we have to your son.” Velecent shoved Ravan’s sword from him and appealed to his sense of morality. “You would leave the child,” he indicated the direction Bennet had disappeared, “with no one. We cannot right all that is wrong. But we can find Risen and Sylvie.”
With that, rational thought returned, and Ravan slid his weapon back into the scabbard. Swinging from his steed, he motioned to his men. They liveried their horses for the rest of the afternoon and into the night. Over the evening they discovered what more they could from the old man, and it was significant. He told them of one named Murad I—the reigning sultan of the Ottoman Empire—told them word was Murad was pressing his forces against the Byzantines. Gallipoli was his evident conquest, and his army was fortified by boy soldiers, or so the old livery owner had heard.
“I didn’t believe it at first. But then the children kept coming.” He swept with his hand as though they might see a herd of them at any moment. “I worry. Afraid they might take my grandson.” He motioned again, but Bennet was nowhere to be seen.
So that was where Risen was bound. If the boy was strong enough, he would survive to be sold on the slave market, an indentured soldier to the Sultan’s empire. And it would be profitable for the man who sold him, for Murad was wealthy beyond imagination—so the liveryman said.
What kind of king enslaves foreign children for his army, Ravan wondered to himself. Then he swallowed the bitter question, sharing it with no one. It was no king, not a monarch or emperor. Men did such a thing. It might be a king in this instance, but it was the nature of humanity to do such wretchedness to the weaker, more innocent of mankind.
He glanced up from his lonely thoughts to see Velecent’s encouraging face, his kind eyes, his sincere determination that Risen would be found. No, perhaps it was not the nature of all men, he thought. It was only the nature of the worst. Men like Velecent leveled the balance against the evil ones who walked amongst them.
Furthermore, Ravan thought if he could orchestrate the fall of the one who believed it would be acceptable to sell his son into a slave army, the world would be a much better place for it. And with Velecent by his side, he believed he had a reasonable chance of doing it. And what sweet retribution that would be!
It was enough to center him. The mercenary focused on strategy now, renewed in his efforts, determined more than ever that Risen could be found. The old livery man produced some very worn maps and spread them right on the stable floor. Under candlelight, they inspected them closely.
They were rough, rudimentary images drawn from men’s descriptions—how long it took them to ride to this or that town on what horse, what they’d seen along the way, what they could remember of their tr
avels. In another time, the liveryman might have been a fine cartographer, but for now, he embellished his hobby as best he could.
Dark spots marked the highest peaks of the Massif Central. To the east of the mountain range ran the Rhone River, snaking its way south to the Mediterranean. To the east of the river were the Alps. The map, for as rudimentary the resources of the man who penned it, was surprisingly accurate.
Leaning closer in the torchlight, the mercenary ran his finger along the markings. The men who stole his son would certainly be following the river south to Marseille. “You say Toulon. Why? Why not Marseille?”
“It is not as it used to be. The trade of children is uncivilized now.” It was unusual to hear these words from a man who gave shelter to the types of men who dealt in slavery of children.
“Then how do you justify allowing them use of your livery.” It was Velecent who asked what Ravan was thinking.
Dropping his eyes as though he had shame for it, he replied, “I was a liveryman before this trade route became widely used. I have no choice. I look the other way or die at their hands. Who would take care of my grandson then?”
It was sad but true. “And Toulon?” Ravan asked.
“We are not our ancestors—perhaps not yet civilized—but we are not as brutal as they were.” His old eyes flitted from one face to another of the small troop of men. “Marseille does not want the ships, not want the indecency of it. No—you must go to Toulon. It is there that you will find the depravity of the sort that would sell a child.” He bobbed his head like an old buzzard considering carrion.
Ravan surmised that the man was correct, that they were behind by several days because they were too far north, but he was determined to make up the difference. Their horses were traded for fresh ones, and before dawn, in the still darkness of the night, the band of men continued on their journey. He wished again that he’d brought Nicolette.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
†
For some reason, it seemed natural to the group that the Englishman would assume charge of the captives. William chose to carry Sylvie, and it surprised him how small the girl felt in his arms. She was hoisted by another soldier up onto his horse and struggled to smooth her skirts as she flopped down in front of the Englishman. He thought he could feel her terror—or disdain—for she was rigid and seemed almost to try not to touch him. For some reason he was unable to identify, it made him uncomfortable that she might feel this way.
Her fingers appeared so fragile and pale clutching the pommel of his saddle, like they might belong to a bird. Long and tangled, her hair was such an unusual color. Even filthy, when a lock of it lifted in the breeze and lay across the bracer of his left arm, it looked not of this world but like something rare and exotic, spun for an angel, perhaps. He’d once seen sap run from a wounded tree with just this color, and eventually he noticed how, when a sun ray broke through and struck it just right, it glistened with all the colors of the rainbow.
She never looked up—only down—and at one point a drop of water fell onto his glove. He squinted, scanned the sky; it was grey now, but there was no rain on his face. He wondered if the child cried, but if she did, her shoulders and breathing did not betray her lament.
Today was the first time he more clearly noticed the brace on her leg. It was a fine brace, had been fashioned of leather and steel from a good forge. There was nothing unskilled about it, and he wondered who, and of what means, had contrived such a device. It was certainly nothing a common child would have possessed. He also noticed for the first time how the brace wore into the child’s leg on the outside of her knee, through her stockings, where he spied the raw flesh beneath. This was probably from her wearing it nonstop since her capture, but he never heard her whimper for it.
It was nonsense! Madness that they’d even taken the girl! What an utter waste of resource to have to care for one as fragile as her. This is what he told himself, and William thought about this for a long time. Why had Yeorathe and Odgar been willing to take a child such as this for sale, crippled as she was? True, the boy had been defiant against them, but they could have easily separated him from her, killed her—put her out of their misery—and been on their way.
Perhaps they had believed the boy’s threat, believed that if they harmed the girl, the dark haired child warrior would find the right moment to kill himself, and their efforts would be for naught. Perhaps Yeorathe had seen this in Risen’s eyes. Wicked as he was, the one-eyed tyrant certainly knew how to profit from war.
These were simply idle thoughts to pass the hours. Eventually William wondered about the one who’d generously supplied the brace for the girl, and his thoughts turned again to the boy—the one who was found lost in the woods with the fair haired beauty. He believed the answer lay with the boy. He had stood fearless in the woods, ready to lay his life down for the girl—had braved Yeorathe himself. Were they siblings as he claimed? They certainly appeared like anything but relations.
William continued to occupy himself with these thoughts as the day wore on. Neither he nor the child in his arms spoke, and as was inevitable, Sylvie weakened. Eventually, she succumbed, slumping back against him. Her head flopped, and he repositioned her so that it rested against his arm as they rode. For the first he was able to clearly see her face, and he swallowed hard, nearly unable to take his gaze from her.
Her eyes were closed, faint amber lashes resting against her cheeks, so pale and with only enough flush of pink as to deny death. Her small, perfect mouth fell open as she slept, and William believed she looked like an angel who wished to sing. It made him intensely uncomfortable, not the weight of the child, for she was scarcely a fawn in his arms, but something about seeing her sleeping—at his mercy as he held her.
Just as William struggled with this, Sylvie lifted one small hand, resting it in her sleep upon his arm. He stared at it, unable to draw his attention from it, from the dirt crammed beneath the delicate fingernails.
Another horseman—the one with the boy bound behind him—passed them just then. William glanced up just in time to meet the eyes of the ebony haired boy and saw within them pleading, as though the boy begged compassion for the sleeping girl that the soldier held.
So, William thought to himself, he is not her brother after all. He loves this girl, and not like a brother loves a sister.
He ignored Risen, gazing instead again on the face of the sleeping child. William’s thoughts went another direction entirely. As the horses plodded on and he cradled Sylvie, there was a slip. Small at first, but definitely a slip, and in no time he was sliding, falling so fast he could not catch himself. He and Sylvie rode the horse only in body as the Englishman’s mind and heart drifted a very long ways away and found themselves on a cool, autumn day in Gwynned, Wales…many years ago.
* * *
William stood on the north foot of the Crib Goch—the massive, rocky ledge that drew the greatest rainfall of all the kingdom. There was nothing else here; he was entirely isolated, and he loved it this way.
This was his home, and today the rains had ceased long enough for the sun to shine brilliantly through the clouds in dreamlike rays that trussed the sky to the earth in a glorious fashion. He was grateful, for his small cottage sat nestled at the base of the ledge, and every morning, the first thing he saw upon rising was the beautiful, green slopes that were his homeland. Today the valley was like an emerald, glistening green, its magnificence truly rare.
The splendor of the valley, however, was nothing compared to the beauty of Eleanor. She stepped into the doorway and lifted a hand to shield her eyes, marveling at the glorious, new day. A smile lit her features up like the sun, a hand resting on her belly and…their unborn child.
It was the most perfect moment, William thought, of his entire life, and he could not tear his eyes from her. If time had frozen just then, he could be happy for eternity, he thought to himself.
That was the last time Eleanor was well. The next day she was struck by that terrible
scourge from the East. What had they called it, the black plague? She first only seemed as though she might be tired, but the illness set fast into her lungs, and there was nothing to be done after it.
The wicked affliction took Eleanor and their unborn child before two nightfalls hence, and along with her…it took him.
Why? he asked. Why has she been taken and not me? To the very end, he held her until her last breath—breathed it with her—had prayed that the black death would reach its fingers from her throat into his mouth, down to his broken being, and take him as well. Wherever it was God believed she should be, he only wished to be there as well. So why was he spared? It was a dreadful gift, a malady worse than hers, to have survived her—to have survived the Bubonic Plague.
Eleanor was everything to him—all that he had—for William was an orphan and without family. His young life had been a struggle, and when he found her, he believed he’d stepped from a cruel world and into paradise, for he was deeply in love. Finally he understood this thing that could make one mad with joy, believing every morning was a dream.
Now…he was more alone than he’d ever been. He held Eleanor, held her until he could bear it no more, and then he burned the home with her and his unborn within. He curled on the rocky steppe, close as he could endure, the heat of the flames blazing against his skin. As the fire spent itself, he edged closer and closer. In fragments, he inched into the ash until he lay where she had. It was here, curled up in the cinders of his wretched life, that William was first lost.
When she fell, he only wanted to fall as well. He wanted to fall as deeply and darkly as he could, fall so far that he would forget what had happened, forget Eleanor, forget he lived. Nothing could drag him from this terrible wish. William was determined to have his way, and so he did fall—through Hell and then beyond. William sought war—any war. It was the wretched salve that he spread on his heart, the poison arrow for his soul, for if he could drown himself in the debauchery of death and sorrow, perhaps he would become forever hardened, and the pain would go away. Only then could he forget.
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