The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  The red jongleur looked around for support, glanced at a couple of knights, and locked eyes with Francisco. There was no recognition in those gray eyes, just pleading, yet Francisco felt a shiver of dread. He had seen the performer before, but couldn’t place when or where. His heart began to race, but logic assured him it was nothing. Just a fancy, a dream.

  The crowd continued to chant.

  Francisco elbowed Sancho, “You can tell them your El Cid story. I’ll introduce you. Come on.”

  Sancho glared at Francisco. “You want to start another holy war?” He grabbed hold of Francisco’s sleeve and tugged hard enough towards the ravine to pull his jerkin off.

  The cool, moist air under the trees at the ravine’s edge made Francisco grateful for mouthing off at the alcalde. The air had a tinge of cedar and a bite of cypress. It was so pleasing it would have made Francisco forget their errand’s danger had it not been for the darkness that cloaked all but movement. Every step brought risk of discovery with the crackle of leaves or twigs underfoot. Heeding Gombal’s warning, they kept their words few and quiet, and made good progress up to the edge of the ravine. The edge sloped down suddenly but was only about Francisco’s height. He could easily slide down the leaf-covered ground to the creek below where the slope tapered off to rocks.

  Francisco tied the last bundle to the burro’s back when Sancho, who was resting at the ravine’s edge, held up a hand for him to stop. Francisco tightened the knot, grabbed his crossbow, and crawled up next to Sancho. They both looked over the edge.

  A dark figure, a man, moved upstream along the bank as quietly as a cat.

  Francisco asked, “Someone fetching water?”

  “Not one of us,” Sancho said. His words tickled Francisco’s ears. “Look at his helmet.”

  The figure’s helmet did not come to a point on top like theirs. True, some crusaders wore rounded helmets like caps, but none of them had a turban around it.

  “And his sword,” Francisco noted, “if that’s a sword sticking out from his side.”

  Sancho nodded. “It is curved,” he said. “A scimitar. And the way he walks. He takes long—” Sancho looked at Francisco. “What are you doing?”

  Francisco was carefully maneuvering the crossbow into position. He sighted it on the dark figure.

  “Don’t kill him.” Sancho’s words were so harsh, Francisco was sure the figure heard it, but the figure kept moving at the same pace.

  “Why not?”

  “Are you mad? We do not know if he is even an Almohad. And if he is, he might be a farmer or merchant. We should go back and report this.”

  “No. It will be too late.”

  Sancho placed his hand on the crossbow string, keeping Francisco from firing it.

  Francisco slid the crossbow over to Sancho. “Very well. I’ll make sure he’s a scout. When I raise my hand, shoot him.”

  “What?” Sancho asked.

  Francisco had already hopped over the edge and slid down the ravine. Come on stone. Don’t fail me now. He fished out the healing stone from the pouch tied to his waist. It had become uncomfortable in his boot after the second hour of marching. He held the stone firmly in his left hand, half expecting the scout to challenge him. It was a scout, or at least a Saracen soldier. Francisco could see him clearly now.

  The scout turned away from Francisco, and ran.

  Francisco held up both hands, careful to not let go of the stone. Nothing happened. He started chasing the scout with his hands up.

  The scout yelled something in Arabic, “Dingther! Dingther!”

  Francisco screamed, “Shoot, Shoot.”

  The scout crumpled to the ground, yelling in pain. Francisco didn’t even hear the crossbow release. With a few long strides, he was upon the scout, who rolled on the ground. The scout’s words came through clenched teeth, clipped and guttural. After placing the stone into its pouch—Francisco did not want to heal the man unless the wound was mortal—he pulled his knife and the twine he used for binding logs. He stooped down, found the wound. The bolt was lodged into the man’s leg. He flipped the man over as if he were a yearling calf, knelt on the man’s back, and bound his hands together. Elated with their capture, Francisco ran back to Sancho. When he reached the spot where he slid down the hill, sounds of a tussle checked his stride. The sounds came from the ledge above. Two figures, one lanky and the other stocky, stood above another figure. Lanky and Stocky held knives. The one on the ground, the one with the crossbow, was not moving.

  Dread as dark as the deepest shadows in the ravine filled Francisco’s soul. He had broken another vow and it wasn’t even one day into the crusade. He had given his word to Sancho: On this day, I solemnly swear that I will stay by your side and heal you during this campaign, so help me God and all the saints. Francisco scrambled up the hill, slipping on leaves and soil. Stocky tried to jump him, but Francisco knocked him down the hill. Heart pounding, Francisco grabbed roots for handholds. I’ll be open to attack when I reach the top. Thank God for the stone.

  Without losing a moment, Francisco skittered over the edge. Lanky must have counted on more time to prepare. He was stretching out Sancho’s crossbow between foot and hand to load it. Francisco was upon him before the scout had time to drop the spent weapon and grab his knife. Francisco hit him with such force that it hurt Francisco’s shoulder and knocked the wind out of the scout. Francisco scrambled to his feet. Lanky lay on the stones gasping, not able to take a breath.

  Ignoring Lanky and with stone in hand, Francisco rushed over and knelt next to Sancho, who at first seemed fine in the semi-darkness. Francisco rolled him over. Sancho’s eyes were wide open. His throat was cut deeply from side to side. Blood. Whatever meager light filtered through showed blood, dark on Sancho’s neck and unmoving chest. Before Francisco had a chance to place the stone on Sancho’s neck, Stocky came over the ridge, his face tense with anger and want of revenge. Francisco hopped to his feet, dropping the stone. He had no time to look for it or even notice where it fell. Stocky’s threat was more urgent. With speed Francisco wouldn’t have thought possible, Stocky was upon him. Not ready for a knife fight, Francisco backed up fumbling for his blade and found himself in the clutches of Lanky, who pressed a curved knife against Francisco’s naked throat.

  His throat.

  His neck.

  Without the stone.

  Driven by the energy of this new fear, Francisco pushed back against Lanky, who caught his foot on a root and fell with Francisco on top of him. Lanky had pulled his knife away to break his fall. Francisco scrambled to his feet only to face Stocky who backed him up with a drawn scimitar. The long, curved blade glistened in the twilight. A sharp blade. A blade that could slice off a head with ease. Lanky was back on his feet with his knife in hand. Francisco, trapped between them, drew his sword and tried to keep an eye on them both.

  Stocky lunged at him.

  Two events happened at once that froze Francisco for a deadly instant. Lanky crumpled to the ground as if an invisible bolder had fallen on him, and at the same time, a man appeared from nowhere behind Stocky. In the blink of an eye, the man was there with his sword drawn, running toward both the scout and Francisco. Was it a trick of the shadows? The man wore a mantle—a large cross on a field of white. A knight. Stocky gasped as the knight’s sword drove through him. The kill was clean and quick. Lanky dropped to the ground. He didn’t trip or even fall.

  Francisco turned to the knight, who had stooped down and pressed to fingers to Sancho’s throat. “Thank you,” Francisco said. “Who are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “Sir Angelo?”

  The knight didn’t answer.

  Francisco shook himself. Sancho! The vow. The stone. Franticly, Francisco looked down at the ground, which seemed to be covered with leaves and little round stones. One day I’ll paint that rock red. He searched, wishing he had a torch, desperate to save Sancho, furious with himself for losing the stone. He noted Lanky’s unnatural form: his legs lay bent u
pward at the knees and his face smashed. Francisco turned, repelled. Ah, the stone! He stooped and picked up a ... no, too thin. It was becoming harder to distinguish between leaf and stone by the moment. This one? No. Ah. No. This? “Yes!” he cheered.

  He heard a moan and looked up to see Sancho sitting up and rubbing his neck. Francisco looked around, behind him, down the hill. The genie-knight was gone. The first scout was down in the ravine. He had moved from his original location, but was now still—either fainted or dead.

  “Thank you,” Sancho said.

  “You’re alive?”

  “Of course.” Francisco couldn’t see his face, but heard the sarcasm. “You healed me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. My neck tingles and itches a little.” Sancho scratched his throat.

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Then, who?” Sancho pulled up his hauberk by its blood-soaked collar.

  Francisco smiled. “The genie-knight, I guess.”

  “Genie-knight? Here?”

  “Yes!” Francisco said. “I can’t figure out whose side they’re on.”

  Chapter 20

  Francisco

  North of Malagón

  St. John the Baptist Day

  4 Days on the March

  JUST BEFORE SUNRISE on the fourth morning, the army of northern kingdoms led by King Alfonso VIII of Castile held mass, broke camp, and marched out of the hill country onto flat land that seemed to stretch on forever. What does it look like when it rains? A lake? Francisco comforted himself that at least here in the open he could see the enemy coming, whereas in hills, the enemy could be hiding in ambush. But it was what he felt, rather than what he saw that bowed his shoulders and burdened his thoughts: the parched, dusty July heat. The relentless, ferocious sun pressed down upon them in an attack worse than a shower of Moorish arrows. The same sun set on Toledo, of course, but there he could seek shelter behind shadows or feel the spray of the fountains. Here, his chainmail armor seemed to transmit the heat and the leather kept it in, pressing sticky sweat to his skin.

  “Where is the enemy?” Mateo grumbled. “Has al-Nasir heard of our coming and fled?

  Francisco glared up at their new enemy, the sun. “It taunts me,” he said. “It has not moved for hours. It is the devil’s spawn, the orb of hell. Oh, Tío, where are you?”

  “What?” Sancho asked.

  “Tío, the water carrier. Remember water? That cold, clear stuff of life? Tell me you remember it Sancho.”

  “Water? Yes.”

  “I don’t,” Francisco said. “Tell me about it.”

  “Noon is almost upon us, my friend,” Sancho said. “You will have your water break then.”

  “How do you handle the heat so well?”

  Sancho smiled. “My ancestors wandered a desert for forty years without Tío and they thrived.”

  “Oy. Save your words.”

  Sergeant Gombal, who was two rows ahead of them, stepped to the side of the ranks until Francisco and Sancho caught up. “You scoundrels aren’t talking about the alcalde again, are you? You would have thought he would be more… more rewarding.”

  Gombal shrugged. “What did you expect?”

  “He told me to bring back something of value,” Francisco said. “What’s more valuable than a prisoner? Shouldn’t we get a reward or … the hand of the King’s daughter in marriage?”

  “He doesn’t have a daughter,” Sancho said.

  “I know, but we should—”

  “You were lucky you weren’t killed,” Gombal said, “but you cannot trust to luck. If you survive this crusade, you will realize half of it is due to skill, half to luck, and half God’s providence.”

  Sancho asked, “Wait. Three halves?”

  “What is providence?” Francisco asked.

  The one-eyed veteran laughed and answered. “Do you know who Lucky is?”

  “No,” Francisco said.

  “He is our one true king. Alfonso the Eighth he is. Back in ’95, he met up with Ya’cub’s army and underestimated the Saracen. Our king nearly lost his life at Alarcos, he did. Lucky he was.”

  “So,” Francisco asked, “if I shouldn’t count on luck, what should I count on?”

  “Common sense,” Gombal said. “That’s the other half.”

  Sancho held up four fingers. “That is four halves. Señor Gombal, you worry me.”

  Gombal squinted, peering over the horizon with recognition in his eyes. “Ah, there it is,” he said, pointing over the next rise to their right. “Malagón: the first fortress on the road to Salvatierra.”

  “I see it not,” Goliath said.

  “From your height,” Mateo said, “you should be able to see over the battlements and count their troops. Just over the rise. See that bush near the top? Behind it you see the tower.”

  “Oh.”

  Francisco’s heart sank. The fortress was nothing more than a stone wall with battlements and a single tower. “Is that it? They could have at least built a castle for all our marching.”

  Goliath shrugged. “We should start small.”

  Sancho glared up at him, shielding his eyes from the harsh noon sun. “There you go with the small jokes again. Need I remind you about a boy named David?”

  Goliath rubbed his forehead. “Ouch.”

  The siege of Malagón began with the Christian army forming ranks around the fortress just out of archers’ range. The army engulfed the tiny fortress, shield to shield, row after row, and took up more than five times the landmass than the fortress occupied. From an archer’s view on the battlements, it must have looked imposing. A trumpet sounded and three men on horseback rode toward the gate under a sign of truce. Two were dressed in plate mail, glittering as they rode, but the center man wore only a nobleman’s short red cotte and tunic belted at the waist. The only thing protecting his legs was black hose.

  “I admire bravery,” Mateo said, “but they are fools if they think—”

  Gombal chuckled. “It’s our envoy, lad. He’ll offer them a means of surrender. No need to spill blood if they figure they’re out numbered.”

  “How long will that take?” Francisco asked.

  Gombal shrugged. “Could be an hour, could be ‘til sundown. Can’t say. ‘Til then, we set up for siege.”

  “Why waste the time if they are going to surrender?” Goliath asked.

  “It shows them we mean business,” One-eyed Gombal said with a wink—or maybe it was a blink. He issued orders for their squad to fall out of line and to ready the siege engines. As everyone unloaded the siege weapons, Gombal explained, “For you three that didn’t bother drilling with the rest of us, let me tell you ‘bout these two ladies.” He patted the side of one. “This one here is Valencia. She’s a lovely ballista she is. If you say she looks like a crossbow that even Goliath here can’t handle, you’d be right. She’s accurate and able to fire iron-tipped darts with enough force to pierce plate mail and knock even Miramamolin30 off his high horse.”

  After setting up their gear, Gombal ordered them to wait for orders. No news had come. Francisco wished for a tree to camp under, but for their bivouac they had been assigned a dusty, rock-infested patch devoid of shade. He pulled off his dented iron helmet and ran his fingers through his sweaty black hair, wishing that the cloth padding breathed better. A green lizard skittered off the rock it was sunning itself on and across the ground behind Valencia.

  Then he heard a voice, clear and familiar over all the others: “Agua! ¿Quién quiere agua? Agua para calmar su sed!”

  “Ah, finally!” Francisco cheered. “Saint Tío, God bless you!”

  Tío sauntered up with his burro. He wore a droopy, oversized cloak, painted with the red and yellow Castilian colors. He peaked out from under a chaperon hood and apologized. “I’m afraid it is not as cool or sweet as Toledo water. The King’s men deserve better.”

  Francisco filled a cup and savored every refreshing drop. “Ah, heavenly.”

  He leaned
over to Sancho who was enjoying his drink and said quietly, “Word travels slowly down the ranks. We can make our way up camp and get the news when it comes in.”

  Sancho gaped. “How?”

  “Walk up to the King’s tent. We are militia. We blend in.”

  “What if we are caught?”

  Francisco shrugged. “We say we had to use the latrine.”

  Sancho’s voice raised an octave. “At the King’s tent?”

  “No, don’t be daft. We say we are looking for a good place to piss and just happen to make our way over there.”

  Sancho hesitated.

  “I’ll do it without you.”

  “No. I cannot have you hear news before I do,” Sancho said, “but check with One-Eye first.”

  Gombal saw through their ruse. “Go on your fool’s journey,” he told them, “but if you’re stopped, I did not give you leave.”

  It was easy to find the royal tent at the center of the encampment on a low hill. The sides of the royal tent were held up on poles to allow for the best shade and air-flow. Yellow tassels from the corners rippled in the slight breeze. A red and white striped banner with the traditional yellow castle was raised high next to it. Gombal had insisted that his squad recognize each banner instantly.

  Now that Francisco faced the royal tent, his resolve ebbed. But for the sake of his own pride, he could not go back. He noted the activity on the hill. Only noblemen milled about the tent. Francisco’s anonymity of low rank now counted against him.

  “Oy,” Sancho said pointing, “our envoy returns.” The nobles gathered around the tent like a brood of hens rushing a farmer scattering grain.

  Without hesitation, Francisco and Sancho walked up behind the last, straggling nobleman. The crowd drew close, shoulder to shoulder, but Francisco glimpsed the one he thought was King Alfonso VIII. Two men wore crowns, but this man was the only one with Castile’s yellow castle on his mantle, and the envoy directed his words to him. His long, gray hair and nearly white beard showed his old age. But he didn’t seem feeble. He stood erect in light armor, attended to the report, and by the look of his heavy brow and wrinkles around his eyes, seemed to be more wise than wizened. Next to him stood the other crowned figure, a man half King Alfonso’s age and wearing the crest of Aragon on his mantle. He had broad shoulders, coal black hair, and a beard that was thin along his strong jaw and came to a point at his chin.