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

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  They all wore plain garb, though Brother Crespin was loath to set aside his Cistercian robes. Lazare wondered aloud why the Cistercian brother was even joining their mad quest, and Crespin’s simple response had been Better a mad quest than a mad priest. Lazare had embraced him for that, and after an awkward pause, Crespin had returned the show of affection.

  On horseback, with an escort of three other knights of the order—equally attired, though outfitted with maille hauberks and helms—they headed west across the wide campo of Calatrava and the plain of La Mancha, chasing the story of the Beast of Calatrava.

  Two days later, in Valdepeñas, they heard of a drunken troubadour who told a stirring version of the legend of the Beast, and Lazare heard for himself the story of what had happened in Almuradiel. Though, later, Don Ruy told him that it was only four Moors that the Beast had slain, and not six.

  A day later, in a squalid tavern in Cózar, they met a man named Diego who, for a price, told them a story about a stolen goat.

  The next morning, they turned south, heading for the Sierra Morena. They were looking for the Despeñaperros River and the valley it had carved through the mountains.

  SIXTEEN

  Ramiro heard the goats bleating, calling out to foreign beasts that were approaching. They didn’t sound alarmed, which meant horses—which they had become accustomed to—and not predators. Ramiro retrieved his sword from the stable and ducked into the orchard to investigate who was approaching the villa. From the edge of the orchard, he spotted the six riders approaching. They were making no effort to hide themselves, and in their plain tunics and robes, they did not seem to be Moors. He saw longswords, and three carried crossbows slung across the backs of their saddles.

  Christian soldiers.

  Unlike the deserters from months ago, these men did not appear to be lost.

  He met them at the oak, carefully putting the bulk of the tree between himself and most of the party. He made no effort to hide his face, and he noticed two of the men seemed pleased to look upon his scarred visage.

  “God be with you,” one of them said, nudging his horse forward of the rest of the group. His skin was as dark as the rest, but his hair was lighter. He had been in Iberia for some time, but he was a foreigner, and he spoke with an accent that reminded Ramiro of the Latin spoken by the priests in the churches in Toledo.

  “And with you as well,” Ramiro said, not unaware that they had just exchanged a variation of the Islamic greeting. “Are you lost?”

  “That would imply we had a destination in mind,” the man said with a laugh. “Is there a place ahead where we might have a drink and water our horses?”

  “No,” Ramiro said.

  The man glanced at his companions, his gaze lingering on the stout man who sat in front of the armed escort. The stout man lifted his shoulders slightly and the foreigner slid off his horse. Ramiro let his hand fall on the hilt of his sword as he watched the man fumble with one of his saddlebags and extract a wineskin.

  The man walked toward him, pulling the stopper out of the skin. He paused, a respectful distance from Ramiro, and drank from the skin. “It is good I have my own wine then,” he said, offering the skin to Ramiro.

  Ramiro stared at the man, noting that while he did not have a sword, he stood in a loose stance that spoke of some experience wielding a sword. “I do not drink before noon,” he said, offering a reasonable excuse that would not be offensive.

  The man squinted up at the sun. “Is it still morning?” he asked. “It feels later. This sun…” He left the sentence unfinished and took another pull at his wineskin.

  “Why are you here?” Ramiro asked, not liking the easy insouciance of these strangers.

  “My name is Lazare,” the one with the wineskin said. “That is Crespin and Ruy.” He pointed to the pair behind him in turn. “Hernando, Lope, and Miguel are our escorts back there.”

  “That does not answer my question,” Ramiro said.

  “Do you know the story of El Cid?” Lazare asked, ignoring Ramiro’s comment. “Prior to coming to Castile, I did not, and I have found it the most fascinating tale. He fought for Castile against the Moors, and then he fought for the Moors against…other Moors, I think. Maybe even against Leon. It gets confusing. And then he founded his own fiefdom, in Valencia.”

  “Everyone knows the story of El Cid,” Ramiro said.

  “He had a sword too,” Lazare continued, his face brightening. “It was called Tizona. No one knows what happened to it after he died. A beautiful sword, from what I hear. A most distinctive guard and hilt. Very ornate.”

  “I know of no such sword,” Ramiro said. “It is nothing more than idle foolishness. The stuff of legend.”

  “An interesting story, nonetheless,” Lazare said. “Like other stories that I’ve heard since coming to Iberia. The fall of Calatrava, for instance. The retaking of Calatrava. Have you heard that one?”

  “I haven’t,” Ramiro lied.

  “No, I don’t suppose you would have,” Lazare said, sucking on the wineskin. “Hidden away up here in the hills. I suspect you hear very little of the world.”

  “And see even less,” Ramiro said. “Which is the way I like it.”

  “Of course,” Lazare said. “Still, I’m sure you’ve heard the story about the monster who owned a goat? Yes? Or the one about the half dozen Moors who made the mistake of disturbing a local man in a drinking house not far from here?”

  “Why are you here?” Ramiro said, the tenor of his voice making it clear that this was the final time he was going to ask the question.

  “Was it really six men?” Lazare asked. “At the tavern in Almuradiel.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ramiro said. “The stories tell a better tale.”

  Lazare nodded as if that was somehow the answer he had been hoping to hear, and Ramiro found himself confounded by the man’s reaction. His confusion only increased as Lazare smiled and looked at his companions. “I think we’ve found our man,” he said.

  “Aye, I think we have,” said the one named Ruy. He dismounted from his horse and walked over to Ramiro. “I am Ruy Díaz de Yanguas, master of the Order of Calatrava.”

  Ramiro was shaken by the realization that he, ostensibly, owed this man his allegiance, even after all this time.

  “Welcome, Master Ruy,” he said, offering his arm for the other to clasp. “I am a poor host.”

  “Well,” Ruy said, laughing. “It is a good thing we are not here for your hospitality.”

  Ramiro had Fernando bring out food and water from the villa, and as the horses were cared for and the men were fed, he and Lazare and Ruy wandered off to the shade of the orchard to talk.

  “I remember you,” Ruy said as they walked along the rows. “I was a squire at Alarcos, serving Pedro Ruiz de Guzmán. I was among those who were released with the Lord of Vizcaya. It was because of you and the other knights who stayed behind that I sought out the order.”

  “You are mistaken,” Ramiro said gruffly. “I was not at Alarcos. I am not—”

  “You saved my life,” Ruy said sternly. “Do not belittle the gift you gave me.”

  Ramiro shut his mouth and bowed his head. “My apologies,” he said. He gestured loosely at his face. “I am a rough beast, and my manners are as equally disturbed.”

  “You know the Moors are coming,” Lazare said. “Miramamolin has more than two hundred thousand men on the other side of those mountains. There is a letter in Toledo—”

  “A forgery,” Ruy interrupted.

  “A forged letter,” Lazare corrected. “It claims that Miramamolin seeks to march on Rome. That he wants to do what his forefathers could not. Drive the Christians out of Iberia forever. It doesn’t matter if he wrote this boast or not; his men think it to be true. The kings of Castile and Navarre think it to be true.” Lazare paused and put his hand on the trunk of one of the apple trees. “He’s coming to La Mancha at the very least,” he said. “Two hundred thousand men will be on the plain. They will go
north to Toledo. They may go east to Valencia. They make even go as far as Barcelona. Who knows? They will definitely spill over into these hills, especially once they hear stories about the Beast of Calatrava—the monster, haunted by revenge, who hunts Moors.” He dropped his hand. “It took us only a few days to find you, and there are only six of us. How long do you think it will take hundreds—thousands—of Moors to track you down?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ramiro said. “I died a long time ago. My life is insignificant.”

  Lazare ducked his head and peered down the row of trees. In the distance, a portion of the villa’s roof could be seen. “It’s not just your life that is at stake anymore though, is it?”

  “What do you care?” Ramiro said, his hands shaking. “This is not your home. This is not your fight.”

  “My home is far from here,” Lazare said. “That is true. I left behind people I love in order to find a way to help them in their struggle.” He shook his head. “I wanted to find a symbol that could give my people hope, and during the time I have spent among the people of Navarre and Castile, I have realized that such symbols do not lie outside the home.” He touched his chest. “They’re here.” He gestured at the tress around them. “And here.”

  “What do you want from me?” Ramiro demanded.

  “We want you to give them hope,” Ruy said. “The kind of inspiration no king can command from his people.”

  “I am a murderer,” Ramiro said. “I slit men’s throats while they slept. I am not a symbol of hope. I cannot be redeemed by leading an army to victory.”

  “You don’t have to be anything other than a man who seeks to protect his family,” Lazare said. “That is, I have come to understand, what binds all of Iberia together.”

  “Family,” Ruy echoed.

  “Very well,” Ramiro said after gnawing on the scar tissue inside his check for a moment. “You must do something for me first.” Ruy nodded. “There is a citadel a half-day’s ride from here. Castillo del Ferral. They threaten my family more immediately than Miramamolin.”

  “If we take this citadel, then you will help us.”

  “I will consider it,” Ramiro said. “But only if he comes with us.” He pointed at Lazare. “Your arguments may be convincing, but your actions speak more truly. Help me, and I will help you.”

  “Okay,” Lazare said. “I suppose there is a long tradition here of monks becoming knights.”

  “Aye,” Ruy laughed. “There is.”

  SEVENTEEN

  They approached the Castillo del Ferral in the late afternoon, when the heat of the day was still heavy about the walls, and the shadows among the trees were getting long. They numbered six—Brother Crespin remained with the horses in a narrow vale a half mile away—and they carefully appraised the citadel’s walls and towers. It was Ramiro and Ruy’s assessment that not more than two dozen Moors resided inside—maybe half of them would not be combatants. The pair, having had several hours to discuss strategy during the ride from Ramiro’s villa to the citadel, were well past the awkwardness of the initial meeting.

  The other three knights were professional soldiers. They knew what to do, and Lazare did his best not to distract them while he prepared himself for battle.

  He had not been entirely honest with Ruy and the others. While he had spent years pretending to be a Cistercian monk, he had grown up in the green woods outside Yorkshire, where there was no shortage of opportunities for young orphans to learn martial skills. Unlike the other youth, though, he had little interest in becoming a longbowman. He had been drawn to the mysterious associate of Marion, the noblewoman who had been a source of constant consternation for Locksley. He and the other boys had called him Old Ox, a childish perversion of the name by which the others knew him—Audax. He had once heard Marion call him by a different name, and he had kept that secret to himself—for it meant that Marion and Old Ox had known each other before coming to Sherwood.

  Perhaps that was why Old Ox had suggested he spend more time with the Cistercians. Why he had suggested that young Lazare learn not only how to wield a sword, but how to make one as well. And later, when the opportunity arose to travel to France and the center of the Cistercian world, both Old Ox and Marion thought he should go.

  He had not had a chance to find a proper hilt for his new sword. The blade was finished, sharp and polished, but the handle was nothing more than two pieces of shaped wood wrapped tightly around the bare tang of his sword and covered with a layer of taut leather cord. The sword squirmed in his grip, untested and unready. Much like he was.

  He wore Miguel’s hauberk. Miguel was going to cover their assault with the crossbows, and while a padded tunic would not stop a Moorish arrow, they all hoped Miguel would remain far enough away that a hastily fired arrow would be his only concern.

  “We can’t scale the wall,” Ruy was saying. “We don’t have the proper equipment. Unless there is another way in, we have to get them to open the gate.”

  Ramiro nodded in agreement. When Lazare had first seen the man, standing beside the old oak, he couldn’t decide which was more gnarled and twisted—the bark of the tree or the man’s face. Ramiro’s beard—spotty as it was over the scar tissue—alleviated some of his ugliness, but up close, there was no disguising the tortured knot that was the end of his nose or the twisted curl of his lips. Lazare could imagine how much more horrific that face would be if it were seen by torchlight or partially obscured by shadows. No wonder the Moors had been so frightened…

  “You should announce yourself,” Lazare said suddenly. “Just walk up to the gate and tell them who you are.”

  “What?” Ruy said.

  “You’re the Beast of Calatrava,” Lazare said. “Famous for killing Moors in their sleep. For strangling children and frightening cattle to death.”

  “I never strangled children,” Ramiro said.

  “You’re a monster that hides in the shadows,” Lazare said, a little disturbed that Ramiro had not denied frightening animals to death. “You don’t fight in broad daylight. You skulk in the night. If you simply walked up to the gate and said, ‘I am the Beast of Calatrava, and when the sun goes down, I am going to kill all of you,’ don’t you think they might send out a war party to kill you now, instead of waiting for you to catch them all sleeping?”

  “They’d have to open the gate,” Ruy noted. “If we were all waiting, it might be our best chance of getting inside.”

  “What if they put archers on the wall?” Ramiro said.

  “Don’t stand that close,” Lazare pointed out.

  Ruy laughed and looked at Ramiro, who shrugged. “I’ve attacked a castle with less of a plan,” he admitted.

  The Moors responded even more readily than they had hoped. A few minutes after Ramiro had caught the attention of the single guard atop the wall, shouting out a long list of atrocities he was going to perform on all those who resided within the walls, the castle gate shuddered as the heavy bar behind it was removed. Ramiro stood his ground and as soon as the gate was halfway open, a horseman charged out.

  The horse barely cleared the shadow of the wall before it was brought down by one of Miguel’s crossbow bolts. The archer at the top of the wall fell next. By that time, Lazare and the others were sprinting across the open ground between the forest and the citadel.

  The second rider was thrown from his saddle as his horse abruptly changed direction in an attempt to not collide with the first horse that was still thrashing on the ground. Lope killed the fallen Moor with a single stroke of his sword as he ran past, and Hernando paused by the dying horse to thrust his spear into the face of the Moor still trapped beneath it.

  The third horseman was caught, framed in the open gate, and with an unholy howl, Ramiro leaped over the downed horse and rider, hurling one of the three Moorish swords he had brought with him. Lazare gaped, unable to believe what he was seeing, and even though the thrown sword hit the Moor like nothing more than a stick bouncing off a wall, the effect of such an unexp
ected attack was immediately felt.

  The Beast had come to Castillo del Ferral.

  Ramiro pulled the stunned Moor out of the saddle, hurling him to ground where he beat the man so savagely with the pommel of his sword that blood spurted high enough to mark Ramiro’s hair and beard. A Moor charged, and Ramiro threw himself to the side, slashing with his sword. The sword severed the Moor’s right leg just below the knee, and the Moor collapsed, screaming and clutching at his blood-spewing stump. Ramiro walked away from the howling man, and it fell to Lazare—his eyes burning, his chest heaving—to put the man out of his misery.

  He did the same for the man whose face had been battered in by Ramiro’s pommel. As he took stock of the pitched battle inside the gate, he realized that the Moors were ignoring him. Horrified at what he saw happening around him, Lazare understood that his role was to bring mercy to those who had been touched by the Beast of Calatrava.

  He threw up after he killed the third mortally wounded man. Wiping his mouth and fighting to keep from vomiting a second time, he desperately tried not to think what this abattoir would be like if none of the Moors were given mercy. How long would all these men scream and wail before they died?

  Such was the legacy of the Beast—the horrible truth that none of the stories captured. What really happened when the Beast came was so much worse than any troubadour could dare imagine.

  “Was it awful?” Crespin’s worried face hovered in the moonlight. “I heard so many screams.”

  Lazare took the offered wineskin and drank heavily from it, washing the bilious taste of the sick from his mouth. “It was,” he said after swallowing several mouthfuls of warm wine.

  Crespin looked past him, his head bobbing as he counted the returning members of their company. “Who?” he asked when he came up one short.