She straightened her back. She remembered the serpent in the haunted church. She had refused to show fear in front of Silve. In the mob out there were a thousand Silves, brutes ready to be titillated at the sight of a woman being burned alive. And she would not bring shame on the blood royal by showing fear in front of them.
The door opened. Antonius and four members of the papal guard entered. Regeane’s further memories of her journey to the stake were fragmentary. They tried to get her to remove her shoes, saying that a penitent should be barefoot. She responded by stating flatly she was not a penitent. “I have done nothing for which I need do penance.”
They did manage to persuade her to remove the fillet that held her hair back. Antonius took her arm. The papal guard pushed their way through the mob.
The journey wasn’t as bad as she’d supposed it would be when they stepped out of the Lateran. She’d been afraid of stones and curses, but most of those gathered near the church were either indifferent or greatly amused, eyeing her the way they might have gawked at some rare bird or beast, a tiger or monkey being led by for their entertainment.
The stake itself was a stone post, six feet high and roughly a foot wide with an iron ring fixed to it waist high. Four steps led up to it.
Gundabald and Basil waited there. They were mounted on horses and they directed the way she was fastened to the post. Her wrists were lashed to the iron ring. But Basil and Gundabald added a further refinement—a chain leading from the iron ring to a bronze collar around her neck. The executioner twisted her head to one side and held her cheek against the stone post while he hammered it shut. Gundabald and Basil both loomed over her and examined the executioner’s handiwork.
“That cannot be undone with a key,” Gundabald commented. “It will have to be pried off.”
Regeane turned her head so as not to look at them. Antonius stood at the foot of the steps looking up at her. Her mouth was bone dry. “Please,” she asked him, “I’m very thirsty. Give me something to drink.”
Antonius asked and someone produced a clay flagon with a bit of sour wine, mostly lees in the bottom. The taste was ghastly, but she took a mouthful.
Basil and Gundabald were laughing together. “Her mother was a damp rag, always weeping, but that father of hers …” Gundabald turned and glanced down at Regeane. She let the mouthful of wine fly. The stream caught him right in the eyes. The raw wine stung. He screamed and the horse bucked, nearly unseating him.
She shouted hoarsely at Basil and him, “Filth, the names of either of my parents are profaned by your lips.”
The crowd around Gundabald’s horse scattered, cheering Regeane even as they dodged. Basil pulled his horse’s head around viciously and rode toward her, his fist lifted for a really savage blow. Regeane tried to think of a way to duck, but she was pinned by both collar and wrists. Someone rode between them. She recognized Rufus. He roared at Basil, “Away with you, sir. Your cruelty exceeds all measure.”
Gundabald, no horseman, was already halfway across the square. He contented himself with bringing his horse under control. Rufus and his men surrounded the post and pushed the crowd back. They formed a protective half-circle around her, allowing her to view clearly the battleground in front of the Lateran.
Rufus spoke loudly to both Basil and the mob. “The lady will be subjected to no further insults or indignities. Her life is at hazard, that is enough. I will tolerate no further abuse from anyone. I have given fair warning. The next man to violate my orders dies.”
“My lord,” the executioner protested, “I must pile the faggots at her feet. It is the law.”
“To be sure,” Rufus sighed. “Go ahead.”
The executioner, a small gray man with watery eyes, and two boys who were apparently his sons, began to unload a nearby cart filled with wood. They began dumping bundles of thin sticks on the steps to the post.
Regeane looked down at the stones at her feet. They were granite blocks, but she could see they were scorched, and thick soot was ground into the spaces between them. In fact, she could smell, even with her human senses, charcoal and stale smoke. The wind whipped her hair back. Even the heavy canvas shift fluttered and flapped around her body.
Hadrian and his people took up positions on the high steps to the Lateran church. Regeane realized they meant to be comfortable—folding stools and chairs were being carried from the palace for the assembled notables so they could watch the drama unfold without inconvenience.
Hadrian, alone, stood on the very top step of the church.
“He wanted to bless you,” Rufus told Regeane, “but we refused to permit it. If he clothed you in the majesty conferred by the Vicar of Christ, how could we tell if you were guilty or not?”
Regeane nodded.
“Girl, you have chosen the one form of judgment against which there is no earthly appeal. If the very angels in heaven came to earth bearing proof of your innocence, we would still have to burn you if your champion loses.”
Hadrian looked over at her. He didn’t raise his hand, but he stood a tall, lonely, pale figure against the glowing robes of his flock. Sharing her discomfort, even as she was sure he would share her fate if Maeniel failed.
The crowd gave a murmur of delight, and she saw what she was sure must be Basil’s champion enter the improvised arena in front of the church. He was the biggest man she had ever encountered. So large, he was almost grotesque. Everything about him was gigantic. Legs, arms, hands, feet, chest, and shoulders. He topped Maeniel by at least a foot, and his whole body was bigger by similar proportion than his opponent’s.
Maeniel stood quietly on the Lateran steps. He was armed. Helmet, mail shirt, greaves on his thighs, and shin guards. He was examining several swords being proffered to him by his people.
Then, Matrona arrived with one. The sheath was old, the leather cracked and peeling, but when he drew the sword, it shimmered with the cool glow of moonlight on still water. When he lifted it into the sun, rainbows played along the glowing metal, sending red, yellow, blue, purple, and green fire dancing along the steel.
Regeane heard Rufus’ indrawn breath. He’d placed his horse close to her. “What is it?” she asked.
“The sword,” he replied. “I had always believed such things were legends.”
Regeane shrugged as well as she could. “It’s pretty, but …”
“Pretty?” he snorted. “But then you’re a woman not a warrior. For the first time today, I begin to believe Basil will not have things all his own way. My lady, I would not have any idea where to find such a weapon, much less have the courage to wield it.”
Basil’s champion stood, his naked blade in his hand. It was, like everything else on him, larger than other men’s, longer than Maeniel’s sword by at least a foot. He studied Maeniel with mild, but brutal amusement in his heavy-lidded eyes.
“What’s his name?” she asked Rufus.
“Scapthar,” Rufus said. “And I might add, he has been Basil’s champion for a long time. He has twenty-seven kills to his credit. He began by challenging poor farmers to fight, forcing them into duels. Then, he killed them, took their lands, and sold them. His career of successful villainy came to Basil’s notice. He hired him. They have been together ever since.”
As Regeane watched, Scapthar shouted something to Maeniel.
Maeniel who was finishing a cup of wine ignored him.
Scapthar walked toward Maeniel, raising his sword. Maeniel watched him over the rim of the cup. Scapthar swung his sword down, but suddenly Maeniel wasn’t there, though Scapthar nearly did kill a few of the innocent spectators to the match. His hard swung sword rang on the stone, sending sparks from the street.
Maeniel, only a few feet away, handed the cup to Gavin and drew his own sword. Scapthar wheeled quickly and drove another blow at Maeniel. He parried and the sword rang like a chime, giving forth a sound eerily like a cry of joy. A few in the crowd gasped, and from the corner of her eye, Regeane saw Rufus cross himself.
N
either combatant carried a shield. Scapthar apparently wanted to swing his sword with both hands. Methodically, he began to hunt Maeniel down. Every time Scapthar struck at Maeniel, Regeane’s heart pounded. Sometimes he came so close, she was sure Maeniel would be bisected or lose an arm or leg to Scapthar’s gigantic sword. But somehow it never happened. Maeniel, it seemed, was blessed with a quickness a viper might envy. But she was to find that, unlike a viper, he could strike while retreating.
At first, despite his inability to land blows, Scapthar seemed to have things his own way. He pursued Maeniel relentlessly. The crowd parted to let them pass. Regeane heard bets being placed as to how long it would take Scapthar to catch and kill him.
The fight swayed one way, moving away from her to the other side of the square, then toward her, and the two men fought almost at her feet. Maeniel kept making Scapthar miss. The wind was still blowing hard, the sun now high in the sky. It burned into Regeane’s face, arms, and back.
Regeane’s eyes fixed on Maeniel, she saw he was holding up well. Perspiration was only a light sheen on his exposed skin, whereas Scapthar was sweating so heavily it dripped from his chin and stained his shirt. Even so, Regeane wasn’t sure when Maeniel began to close with Scapthar.
The sun had reached its zenith, and with a heavy heart, Regeane began to believe Maeniel was slowing. Scapthar’s blows were getting closer and closer. But each time the miraculous sword turned them, sometimes when Scapthar seemed within a hair of killing or crippling his opponent. Each time Maeniel’s sword would aim its sweet, ringing cry of derision at Scapthar. And each time it spoke, it struck. At first, only a shallow cut or two on Scapthar’s arm. Nothing really, scratches only on a man Scapthar’s size. But then Regeane realized Scapthar was leaving a trail of blood. Moreover, a trail that grew thicker as the fight progressed.
The heat was becoming intense, in part because of the sun beating down on the exposed stone surfaces and in part because of the packed bodies of the multitude watching the battle.
For a moment Regeane tore her eyes from the combatants. The square was packed, people filled every nook and cranny of the flat, open space. Hawkers sold wine, fried bread, and filled pastries of all kinds. Spectators covered rooftops of every building, including the steep basilica. All porches and balconies were filled, and four or five viewers fought for position at every window.
“Regeane!” Antonius stood next to the stone post, as close as he could get. The bundles of faggots prevented him from getting too near.
“Where have you been?” she asked. “There weren’t this many people here this morning. What’s happening?”
“Mother asked you for time,” he answered. “Well, you gave it to her. We are four—Hadrian, Mother, you, and I.”
“Five,” Regeane said, nodding toward Maeniel still coolly fencing with Scapthar.
“Five, then,” he said. “And none of us may see tomorrow’s sunrise, but neither, I promise, will Basil.”
Regeane’s attention was jerked away from Antonius by a loud shout from the crowd. Maeniel had been tripped. She saw Maeniel falling. Scapthar pounced with better speed than Regeane had seen from him all day. But Maeniel rolled into the man who’d tripped him. He fell over Maeniel’s back, and Scapthar’s sword cut him in half.
The crowd scattered, leaving Maeniel, Scapthar, and the corpse in the open space.
“Admit you are beaten, Scapthar,” Maeniel said. “Let me go my way and take the woman. I don’t want your life.”
Scapthar shook his head like a wounded bull. “I don’t get paid for letting men live. Or women either.”
Regeane saw something harden and change in Maeniel’s face. And found herself thinking, I hope he never looks at me that way. Then they closed again.
The sun moved from overhead. Clouds began rolling in. They were thick and dark with bright edges and didn’t completely cover the sky. The wind picked up, sending everyone’s clothes to flapping. Regeane’s wolf nose caught the scent of rain on the wind.
Even the most ardent spirits in the crowd didn’t have the energy to cheer or scream insults any longer. They followed the fight as silently as the two combatants.
Maeniel and Scapthar went for each other in deadly earnest. Scapthar driving Maeniel before him, round and round the square, trying to exhaust him. Maeniel mercilessly inflicting a new wound on each pass. At last, they ended where they began, in front of the steps to the Lateran Basilica.
The pope stood there, and the bishops and cardinal priests of the city. They had waited as the long day wore away, a day everyone realized had reached its ending.
Scapthar was a mass of blood. Those looking at him could hardly believe he was living. His clothing was soaked with gore, his armor smeared with it. When he paused, pools of sticky red dripped from his clothing.
Yet it was only too clear his opponent was tiring also. Maeniel’s face was gray with exhaustion. His tunic had been sweat-soaked and dried, then soaked again. He’d also been wounded in the leg. Nasty, but not crippling or fatal. His boot squished blood with every step. Every time he lifted his arm to parry Scapthar’s blows, he moved more and more slowly.
The sun was low in the sky close to the horizon. It shone down the streets leading to the square and filled them with a last golden haze.
Regeane at her post was approaching her limits, also. Her hands were numb. No matter how vigorously she wiggled her fingers, nothing seemed to restore the circulation. Her fingers felt as though they were pierced by knives. The staple of the collar had rubbed her neck raw. She’d had no food or drink all day. Her tongue felt leathery and her lips were cracked.
Maeniel and Scapthar circled each other, both looking almost too weary to attack. A deep hush filled the square. Scapthar stepped back and gave a roar like an enraged bull. The strange light flashed on his sword and armor, turning them to flame. Then, he loosed the sword like a throwing knife, directly at Maeniel.
Maeniel stepped to the right, expertly deflecting the thrown sword.
Regeane screamed. She’d seen the point of Scapthar’s attack. As Maeniel stepped away from the sword, he moved within range of Scapthar’s maul-sized hands. In a second, he was going down, one of Scapthar’s fists around his throat, the other holding his sword arm by the wrist.
Regeane screamed again as the two men grappled on the ground. Not wanting to see Maeniel die, she looked away and saw the executioner with a torch. No, she thought. No. But then, Yes! Her teeth sank into one side of her lower lip. Her mouth filled with blood. It dribbled down from one corner to her chin in a thin stream. For a second she met Rufus’ eyes. He tried to turn away, but her gaze held his, her eyes two pools of blank blackness.
The executioner raised the torch.
Rufus drove the point of his sword at the man. He backed away in confusion and dropped the torch. One of Basil’s men picked it up and threw it quickly into the pile of faggots. A bundle of the dry wood caught with a roar. Regeane’s body bucked at the post. The ropes tore her wrists. She thrust against the collar and her neck gave, but not the brass. Then, she was still. She had only a moment of pain-free life left.
She saw Basil riding forward through a crowd that sounded like a storm surf to claim his victory. On her left, she heard Rufus say, “I will not let you feel the flames,” and saw his sword rise. The setting sun was in her eyes.
She heard a sound, an unearthly yell rise from the mob. A scream of rage and triumph so terrible that even in this last extremity, it made every hair on her body rise. Through the blowing flame she saw Maeniel on his feet, his left arm red to the elbow, fingers dripping blood, something clutched in his hand. Basil was close to him. He threw whatever it was in Basil’s face.
Rufus shouted, “He’s won! My God, he’s won. Get that fire away from her.” Then, miracle of miracles, they were throwing water and raking the wood from around her feet.
And she knew she was going to live. Wonderfully, unbelievably, she knew she was going to live … to live. Oh, God, she thought. Tha
nk God … to live.
Scapthar wasn’t quite dead yet. The crowd drew back. He was lying on the cobbles, blood pumping from between his legs in spurts. He screamed, a sound that tore at her ears. He screamed … opened his mouth to scream again … and died.
Basil turned his horse away and tried to ride back to his men. Someone was pounding at the collar around Regeane’s neck, trying to get it off, when she saw Basil die. Antonius appeared in the crowd near him and drove a sword into his horse’s neck. The dying beast’s legs folded under it. A dozen hands pulled Basil down. From the sounds she heard, she didn’t think he was alive when his body reached the ground.
Basil’s men tried to make a stand. Against the comparatively unarmed citizens, they might have succeeded, but Rufus, his men, and Maeniel’s people joined the Romans. In short order, all that was left to do was mop up.
Someone found a flagon of halfway decent wine. She drank it mixed with water. It went directly to her head and so she made no protest when Maeniel came to claim her.
He lifted her to the saddle in front of him. She found all she wanted to do was rest her head on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. From there, she saw the last half-circle of the setting sun dip below the horizon.
The sky above them was a dome of thick, black clouds with blue edges, here and there laced with lightning.
The downpour began before they reached the villa. They stopped the horse and stood in the dark, empty street and let it pour over them, allowed the clean waters of heaven to dissolve the perspiration of terror from her skin, wash the blood of slaughter from his body. The icy water laved his wounds and began healing them. It plastered her hair to her scalp. They opened their mouths and drank from the springs of heaven.
It was still pounding down when they reached the villa. Their clothing was completely soaked. He led her to a side room where they toweled themselves dry. It was lit only by a single candle. He left and returned dry, wearing a clean tunic. He offered her a coffer. She opened it and lifted out a gown.
The Silver Wolf Page 51