Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  “Are you?”

  “A better smith?”

  “A smith. A diplomat,” Alfonso shrugged. “Maybe even a spy. I know you have a different master than you lead me to believe, but do we have common goals?”

  Lazare dipped his piece of bread in the oil again, debating what to tell the king. Would the king of Castile believe his story? What would happen if Alfonso scoffed and dismissed his tale as pure fancy? It was true that he was not concerned about the abbot’s reaction to being manhandled, but if the abbot insisted that he leave the camp—and if he told the Templars to make sure that the disgraced brother was driven off—then his mission could be compromised. And what of his mission? Was he really searching for a sword of legend, or was that merely a physical relic of what he truly sought? A sword was a tool, but it was only as useful as the hand that wielded it.

  Lazare wondered if he had been searching for the wrong thing. At the same time, he kept sensing that his quest had not been abandoned; that what he truly sought was within reach.

  Old Ox—the enigmatic companion of the lady of the woods—spoke of a knowledge known as Vor. The art of knowing without learning. The art of seeing what was not there, but knowing what was true nonetheless. Lazare had scoffed at such a pagan notion, but the more embroiled he had become in the politics of the Iberian kingdoms, the less foolish such a notion seemed.

  That was the idea that had been tickling the base of his brain as he had tried to navigate the complicated mores of the local peoples. The strict rule of Rome did not apply, any more than the hard creed of the Muslim faith. There was mutability in the Iberians, and nowhere else had he seen such flexibility on the part of each individual in regard to the differences of his immediate neighbor.

  It was something more than trust and something less than divine inspiration.

  “I only seek to ensure the freedom of all people,” Lazare said. “In this case, the people of your kingdom. Of Navarre.” He gestured out past the open walls of the tent. “Of those who dwell in Al-Andalus, even.”

  “It is an admirable desire—foolish even—but still quite worthy of effort. But how do you hope to accomplish this lofty goal?” the king asked. “By conquering all those who threaten them? If you mean to protect the Moors in Al-Andalus, then you are in the wrong camp.”

  “Am I?” Lazare asked.

  Alfonso grimaced and took a long drink from his cup. He picked up the jug and poured more, leaning over to refill the scant amount that Lazare had drunk so far. “I have emptied my coffers to pay for these…these peregrini. And the coffers of my priests as well. The Templars—for all their vaunted claims otherwise—would not be here if there were no coin in it for them. They attacked the Jews not out of any desire to save good Christians, but simply to plunder the wealth they assumed was there. Had we not arrived when we did, they would have done the same here at Calatrava. They’re not interested in bringing Christ to Iberia and Al-Andalus. They only want the gold and silver and riches that can be taken from those they conquer.”

  “Are you going to let them?” Lazare asked.

  “Of course not,” Alfonso said with a snort.

  “What will they do?”

  “If I don’t pay them? I don’t know. What does any army do when the money runs out?”

  TWELVE

  As he crested the wooded hill that hid the valley where the orchard and villa lay, he spotted Louisa wandering through the field of wild flowers along the northern edge of the pasture. He let his horse find its own way down the slope as he rested his forearms on the horn of his saddle and watched her. She was wearing a blue linen dress beneath a gray cloak, and her hair was loose, streaming down her back in a glossy black wave. Her rotund belly made it difficult for her to bend over and pick flowers, but every once in a while, she would make the effort to add another long stalk of purple flowers to the basket she carried under one arm.

  As he neared the bottom of the hill, she heard the sound of his horse’s hooves against the stony ground and she looked up, shading her eyes against the glare of the midmorning sun. She recognized him and waved, and he felt a huge desire to wave in return while part of him shivered with shame for having stayed away over night. She was glad to see him; nothing else mattered.

  Thus it had always been with Louisa: nothing else mattered. He wondered if he would ever truly be able to accept that truth about her. His scars did not frighten her. His past did not alarm her. She did not see any sign of the blood that had stained his hands for many years. She did not know—or even need to know—about the anger that lurked inside him. She looked at him and saw what she saw, and it was enough. Anything less was his own failure to acknowledge the innocent simplicity with which she chose to live.

  Such earnestness—such purity—made him weep. Even he, who had lived for five years as an animal—constantly hunted by both Moor and Christian alike—and whose resolve was tested time and again, was not that strong.

  “Ramiro,” she called, moving through the field of flowers.

  He dismounted before she reached his horse, so that she would not have to look up at him. She spread her arms, embracing him awkwardly, both her belly and her basket getting in the way. He held her tightly, though, inhaling the scent of her hair and skin. “I missed you,” she whispered in his ear. It was true, and it did not matter if he had been gone an hour or a day. Her face lit up the same way.

  “Hello Louisa,” he said gruffly.

  “Did you go to the village?” she asked.

  “Almuradiel?” He shook his head. “There were other things I had to see.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “Did Fernando tell you what happened in the village?” he asked.

  She frowned slightly, her free hand dropping to her belly. Absently, she rubbed her bulge through the linen robe. “He said there was an altercation.”

  “An altercation?” Ramiro raised an eyebrow.

  “He said it was all a misunderstanding.”

  “I apologized afterward.”

  “Good,” she said simply, loosening some of the knotted lines on her forehead.

  “How are Maria and Fernando?”

  She considered the question briefly. “Good. She likes to tell me what to do—in my own house!—but I think she means well. Her resting hand patted her stomach. “He is strong and healthy, she says.”

  “He?”

  Louisa beamed. “We’re going to have a boy.”

  “We are?” Ramiro could not believe what he was hearing. He reached out and grabbed the edge of his horse’s saddle to steady himself. A boy! He did not know what to think. Up until this moment, he realized he had not fully recognized what was about to happen in a few weeks. He was about to become a father, to a child who would not be able to protect itself for many years. To a small boy child, who would look up to him and emulate everything he did.

  “Why are you crying?” Louisa asked.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, dashing away the water leaking from his left eye.

  A boy!

  Then the crippling doubt swept over him, a quaking terror about the world into which his child was being born.

  Fernando found him as he was brushing down the horse at the stable. Without a word, Fernando hung up the tack, fussed with the saddle where it hung across the rail of the stall, and shook out the blanket that usually lay between the saddle and the horse’s bare back. He set the saddlebags near the stable door, leaving only the sword and scabbard propped up against the wall of the stall. Only when the horse was contentedly munching on grain and Ramiro had put away the brushes and closed the stall door, did Fernando ask about Ramiro’s ride.

  “How far did you go?”

  “To the Despeñaperros,” Ramiro said. “There is a citadel there that watches over the road. Castillo del Ferral.”

  “Christian?”

  Ramiro shook his head. “Not for some time.”

  “How many?”

  “Enough,” Ramiro said. His lower lip curled awkwardly as
he tried to smile. “But not too many.”

  “Maria says the baby will come in the next few weeks.”

  “Let us hope nothing happens during that time,” Ramiro said.

  “If the Muslims come?” Fernando shook his head. “I am not a soldier.”

  “We will not fight them,” Ramiro said, the words coming out with difficulty. “Not here. Not with…”

  Fernando took a step back. His expression was a familiar one—not unlike the one worn by the Moor in Almuradiel shortly before the man died. Ramiro was not hiding his anger well. It was distorting his already-monstrous face.

  The last time he had fled from battle had been Alarcos, and the retreat should have killed him.

  It was not lost on him that had he died there, he would not have been a father.

  Nor was he one now. Not yet.

  That night, as he lay on his makeshift bed, listening to the sounds of the horses breathing and quietly moving about their stalls, he heard the stable door creak. A shadow flitted up the aisle, and one of the horses nickered softly—recognizing the mysterious visitor. He recognized her too from her distended shadow that crossed the wall at the foot of his bed. He moved his blanket back, inviting her to join him, and Louisa sat down slowly and then lay back against his chest. He flipped the blanket over her and then wrapped his arms around her ample stomach.

  Beneath his hands, he felt a distant ripple of movement. Louisa laid her hands over his, guiding him down and back. Her hands settled, holding his to her belly, and he waited. It didn’t take long. He felt movement again, like a fish swimming, and then a very pronounced and distinct kick against his spread palm.

  “He’s restless,” she whispered. “When the moon comes up, he turns and kicks.”

  Ramiro pressed his face against the back of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair and sweat. Beneath his hand, his son kicked again. “He’s strong,” he said.

  “And big,” Louisa said. “Maria tells me not to worry. She knows how to coax a boy out, but it will hurt. She doesn’t say so, but I know it will.”

  Ramiro thought of the Muslim saber that had taken the tip of his nose and laid open his face. For weeks, he had lain in constant, unbearable agony. The memory burned less now, worn by time and the memory of other injuries that had been sustained more recently, but he could remember how excruciating the pain had been. How much he had wished for it all to go away. To feel nothing, ever again. “It will pass,” he whispered. “And when it is gone, you will have a son.”

  “I know,” she whispered back, snuggling against his chest. “All the suffering will be worth it for this gift.”

  Their son kicked again, as if in happy agreement.

  THIRTEEN

  Someone kicked him awake. Lazare groaned, dragging one eye open and peering into the half-light of dawn. The flaps of his tent were pulled back, and he could make out several shapes, obscured by recalcitrant shadows. As he stirred, a booted foot launched itself into his tent again and cracked him on the hip.

  He shoved away from the aggressive boot, and as it—and the shadowy figures retreated—he clawed his way out of his tent to stand, shivering, in the pre-dawn. He wore only a long linen shirt that fell nearly to his knees. His legs and feet were cold. The night air was in stark contrast to the sweltering heat of the day.

  Abbot Amairic stood nearby, his face obscured by his hood. Lazare recognized the heavy cross about the man’s neck. He was accompanied by a trio of mailled men who wore sheathed swords at their hips and ugly helmets jammed down low on their heads. They wore no surcoats, but Lazare knew they were Templars.

  “What is it?” he snapped. His hip ached and his teeth chattered. He was in no mood for skullduggery.

  “You laid your hands on the head of your abbey,” the abbot said, his voice pitched lower as if such subterfuge would be enough to disguise his identity.

  Lazare clenched his fists and raised his right hand. “I can do it again,” he said. “Right now. If there is any doubt as to my previous actions.”

  One of the Templars stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt. Lazare relaxed his hands, opening them and letting the Templar see his palms.

  “You are not fit to be Cistercian,” the abbot said. “You have desecrated the order, you have violated your vows, and you have abandoned your covenant with God.”

  “I have?” Lazare wondered. “Simply by touching you? Which part of our code—specifically—did I violate?”

  The abbot shifted from foot to foot. “You act unbecoming of a Cistercian,” he snapped.

  “As compared to you?” Lazare said. “As compared to the Templars who murdered innocent people in Toledo?” He shook his head. “I fear I am not the one whom God will punish.”

  “God is going to punish all the unbelievers,” the abbot said. “We are the fire with which Iberia will be cleansed. Our inquisition will stamp out heresy and—”

  “I know what it will do,” Lazare interrupted. He glanced at the Templars and sighed. “Would it be easier if I volunteered to abandon my vows?” he asked. He put up his hands again. “Okay, I forswear my brothers and the vows of the Cistercian order. I am vile. I am unclean. I am…I am…tired, and I would like to go back to sleep. Can I do that now?”

  The hooded figure of the abbot nodded once, and the three Templars stepped forward. The one in the lead started to draw his sword.

  “Brother Lazare!” Brother Crespin emerged from the gloom, stumbling into the tense tableau before Lazare’s tent. “Oh,” the round priest said, coming to a sudden halt as he spotted the Templars.

  “Brother Crespin,” Lazare said happily. “Are you here to collect me for our morning prayers?”

  “Our what?” Crespin asked. “Oh, oh! Yes, of course.” He beamed at the Templars as if he knew exactly what Lazare was talking about.

  The Templar slammed his sword back into its scabbard, and with a curt nod to the other pair, he backed away from Lazare and Crespin. The abbot waited for a second; while his hood obscured his face, Lazare was fairly certain the abbot was glaring at Crespin’s beaming face. The abbot raised his hand and pointed at Lazare. “You are no longer one of us,” he intoned. “You are no longer my responsibility.”

  “I can’t say I’m saddened by this turn of events,” Lazare said, nodding politely as the abbot withdrew as well.

  As the quartet disappeared, Lazare clapped Crespin on the shoulder. “That was judicious timing,” he said.

  “For what?” Crespin wanted to know. “Was that the abbot? Did he just throw you out of the order?”

  “He did, Brother Crespin.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “He just did.” Lazare slapped Crespin lightly again. “Or maybe I quit. Maybe the weight of all these vows is too immense for me. I cannot bear the strain.”

  “What are you talking about?” Crespin wanted to know.

  “I’m not really a Cistercian,” Lazare said. “I have been carrying this lie for so long, and I am so glad to be rid of it.”

  “What lie? Wait, what just happened?”

  “Shall we go for that stroll now?” Lazare asked.

  As they strode through the sprawling camp along the Guadiana, Crespin doggedly trying to extract an explanation from Lazare, they noticed an unexpected level of activity in the various camps. The men were not rushing to put on their maille and gather their weapons; instead, they were taking down their tents and packing their wagons and mules. By the time the pair reached the Castilian camp, Lazare had counted a half dozen companies that were readying to march, including the Templars.

  The walls of King Alfonso’s tent were rolled down, and a quartet of stern-faced soldiers guarded the entrance. Light spilled out through the drawn flaps, and a crowd gathered just beyond the entrance, people pushing and shoving in an effort to peer inside the tent.

  Lazare walked up to the entrance as if he were expected, and the two guards extended their arms so that their spears crossed over the lit entrance. One of the other two put a hand on
Lazare’s chest and gently stopped his forward movement. “Not you,” the guard said gruffly.

  “He’s with me,” a voice said, and Don Ruy walked past Lazare and pushed the guards’ spears aside. The guard holding Lazare back removed his hand, and Lazare and Crespin followed Don Ruy and his two companions into the tent.

  A pair of torches were mounted on low poles in each of the four corners of the tent. The table and map were still in the center of the tent, and the king, his gray hair mussed from sleep, slumped in the wooden chair he had sat in the day prior. The rest of the tent was filled with the various commanders of the armies and other stewards, and they were all talking noisily. A pair of men in hooded robes flanked the king’s chair, hands in the folds of their sleeves.

  The only man who was not engaged in the discussions was Helyssent de Verdelay, who was dressed as if he were about to ride out to battle. He stood off on the left, watching the crowd squabble, a satisfied smile on his lips.

  The abbot, his hood now pushed down, caught sight of Lazare and Crespin and stormed over, pointing at Lazare. “This man is a criminal,” he yelled. “He is a disgrace to our order, and a dangerous insurrectionist.”

  The abbot’s voice carried and his words cut through the other arguments like a sword through cloth. When Don Ruy replied to the abbot, he did not have to raise his voice for the room had fallen silent. “Is he not a Cistercian?” Don Ruy asked. “Is not his disgrace reflected upon the head of the order?”

  “He is a Cistercian no more,” the abbot said, his face darkening. “He is a heretic.”

  “I used to be a Cistercian,” Don Ruy said, glancing at Lazare. “But not anymore. Not since I took up the sword. Does that make me a heretic too?”

  The abbot sneered at Don Ruy. “You think your order protects you.”

  “My order is recognized by the king of Castile and the Pope in Rome,” Don Ruy said. “If that is protection, then yes, I am protected.” When he slid his sword out of his sheath, Helyssent and his Templar companions—the same three who, Lazare noticed, had accosted him earlier—half drew their swords as well. Don Ruy held up one hand, inverting his sword in his other hand so that he held it loosely by the pommel stone. He offered it to Lazare who, somewhat cautiously, accepted it.