The Crystal Crux: Blue Grotto

by Allen Werner

Another major change that had occurred after The Healing was the curious way Bertina Fabbro now addressed her mother-in-law. She no longer referred to her as Ma for some reason, instead calling her Iris.

  Meliore never pushed her for a reason. She was actually honored, having an affinity for the iris flower. The crest of her family estate was the twining black and gold iris and her mother always kept dozens of flowerboxes overflowing with them. Meliore liked being called Iris and never asked Bertina to explain herself.

  Meliore Fabbro rose to her feet and straightened her red dress with weathered hands. She lifted a soft brush from the vanity stand and motioned for her dance partner to come and sit on the chair.

  Bertina did.

  “I shall be gone a whole month. I have extended family out that way. It will be good to see them, get reacquainted.” She touched the brush lightly to her daughter-in-law’s scalp, ever so gentle drawing back the bristles, guarding the remaining strands. The poor woman had been losing enough on her own.

  After a quiet second and a few delicate strokes, Meliore stopped and got down on her knees in front of Bertina. “I need your help, my Daughter.”

  Bertina’s crazy smile returned instantly. ‘Anything for you, Iris.”

  “I don’t want to stay away that long. I will miss Tancred too much. I want to return to the city early and surprise him. But I can’t do it alone. I’m going to need your assistance getting back in without anyone knowing I have returned.” Meliore knew Bertina was mad but this madness meant people would pay her little if any attention. It was Meliore’s hope that if Bertina managed to stay in her right mind long enough, she could arrange things here. No one would notice and if they caught her doing something that might be considered suspicious, questionable or strange, they wouldn’t address it for fear of being read. No one wanted to make Bertina mad at them. They didn’t even want to talk to her. They prized their souls and reputations.

  “What shall I do?”

  “In a fortnight, I will return. On the night before my return, I need you to hire a driver and send one of the women of the Court on an errand. Send her down the coast to Sorrento under the cover of darkness. Make sure the cab they use is one of the three royal carriages. I will already have one of them with me in Melfi.” She paused and straightened her daughter-in-law’s flowery dress. “I will to return to the city the next day claiming to be the woman you sent out on the errand the night before.” Playful, Meliore put her index finger and thumb close together and held them up near her eye. “It is but a small untruth for one unusual occasion. No one will be hurt by this and you won’t get in trouble. I promise.”

  Meliore fumbled through her dress pocket and withdrew several coins that had been swimming around beneath a pomander ball. She placed the coins in Bertina’s sweaty hand. This should be enough to secure the driver and cab. She placed a sealed envelope in Bertina’s hand as well. “Give this letter to the girl you choose. Tell her to read it once she reaches Sorrento and not before. It will reveal my tale and bid her return home. No harm done.” Meliore smiled.

  Bertina’s countenance fell slightly. There was concern and doubt shading her brown eyes.

  “What’s the matter, my love?” Meliore touched her daughter-in-law’s arms.

  “My mind, Iris.” She placed her knuckles firmly against her pale cheeks before pushing a slow fist into the side of her head. “I don’t think right anymore. I can’t remember things. I haven’t been accountable for anything in so long. I’m not sure I can do this. What if I do something wrong and mess up your plans.”

  Meliore hugged Bertina. “Oh my sweet, sweet dear. Do your best. That is all I ask of you. If the plan to sneak back into the city fails, and I am found out, then it was not meant to be. God sees what we cannot. Many plans be in the mind of man, but it is the will of the Lord that shall stand.”

  Day Two

  Saturday

  14 August, 1198

  Lamentations 1:21 ‘They have heard that I sigh: there is none to comfort me: all mine enemies have heard of my trouble;

  they are glad that Thou hast done it …’

  Chapter 2 – Get Away

  Every tree in the forest was alive or so it seemed, a labyrinth of eerie tentacles seeking strangers to snatch and devour. Francis Whitehall was highly unsettled but resisted the urge to see wraiths and soldiers behind every bush, impeding his path. It was time for his veteran’s sensibilities to kick in. He was tired of being afraid of every shadow and noise. He was outraged, infuriated. His home at Capua was a smoking ruin, his family dead inside.

  ‘There is no one out here. There is no one out here.’

  The Griffin was pulled between two torturous virtues. One virtue was his faith. He believed in God but didn’t want to hear from Him right now. He wasn’t sure when, if ever, he’d be ready to speak with Him again. Francis was not prepared to learn if this massacre made some sort of sense. The pain was still too real, fresh and bloated, seeping regret and loss.

  The other virtue was to simply fall on his sword and die, join his family in the afterlife and be done with this cruel and wicked world once and for all. Francis made a fist and pounded it against his thigh. He had no sword to fall on. He couldn’t end his life if he wanted to. His faithful blade was still up there in the castle where he left it, right beside his daughter Anne.

  Eight lonely hours ago, Francis Whitehall was half-asleep, digesting the evening meal, safe and sure in his favorite reclining chair in his apartment at Capua. His best friend, Pero de Alava had left him an inheritance. Francis was perusing that letter, debating within himself whether to stay at Capua or return to England. He dropped the letter when Anne challenged him to a duel. She was getting older quickly and there wouldn’t be many more days of roughhousing left.

  When dark smoke and the howls of war foisted themselves up from the bailey, all debates ended. The Griffin took charge and made a bold assessment concerning the attack, the siege. He initiated the plan, a method by which they might hope to escape. It was a slim chance, but it was a chance. “We must go where they are not.”

  He saw Anne’s lovely face again, her body straddling him and pinning him down, all twelve freckles smiling down at him briefly. ‘I love you, Da.’ That’s what she said. ‘I love you, Da.’

  A soft wind whistled and several trees before him moved. Francis glanced at them askew and commanded that they be trees, and only tree, and they were trees. ‘I must keep believing. We have gone where they are not. We have gone where they are not.’

  “We.” Francis realized immediately why he used the word ‘we’ and pricked up his ears. A set of clumsy footfalls was tailing him. He was relieved to hear them. The Griffin chastened himself yet again for having disremembered his comrade. That was at the very least, the fifth time. These lapses in attention and care were due to fatigue but still he refused to accept that excuse. ‘I am responsible for him. I’m responsible for Guidus Salvatore.’

  The fifty-year-old former Provost of Parthenope had been nothing short of knightly. Francis commended the statesman for that. It was not to be expected. But Guidus did it. He had battled bravely alongside the Griffin, cutting down mercenaries with impassioned strokes.

  ‘Poor Guidus,’ Francis thought empathetically. ‘I’m sure he has never endured a night such as this.’ Francis felt his compassion for Guidus wane. ‘Who has endured a night like this? This has been the worst night of my life.’

  “Damn it,” Francis softly grumbled. He pounded his fist gently against his thigh again. The palms and fingers were roped burned and stung but he didn’t care. He wanted to feel something, anything.

  ‘Get away.’ These two word were important words tonight and bared repeating. It was the mantra impelling him forward. ‘Get away. Get away from Capua.’ He fought the image in the hallway but the vision kept running up on him, leaping on his heart and tearing at. He could see Midonia’s broken face coming away from that wall, thin strands of burgundy hair tumbling down over her delicate shoulders. Ann
e was so brave, standing tall on her knees, her loose-fitting chamois fallen from her shoulders, tears and blood streaking down her freckled face. ‘Don’t forget …’ He hated remembering the rest of her plea. Still, it came to him from out of the mists of time. “Don’t forget me Da!”

  ‘I can’t forget you, Anne. Not ever. I won’t forget you.’ Stifling tears, he craned to look upon Guidus Salvatore and forget his daughter.

  Fiscus was slowly trudging a few weak steps behind him, his shoulder’s hunched and slumped over, the top of his bald head facing forward. It was a wonder in that position how the old man hadn’t bumped into a tree or two by now.

  Francis turned and resumed his course. Occasionally the canopy of the wood would part enough so he could read the stars above them. It was a clear and cloudless night. While in the Outremer, Francis Whitehall learned everything he could about the stars, the stories and legends. He taught them to his daughter. With only a quick peek at them, he reassured himself that their direction was true. They were still headed west, due west. ‘Get away. Get away.’

  “That is all, Francis.” Guidus Salvatore suddenly stopped moving. He threw his full weight against the bole of a large oak tree. “I’ve done all I can do. We’ve been walking all night and I can go no further. I must rest.” With a dirty sleeve, the fifty-year-old wiped sweat from atop his bare head. He managed to chuckle at the perspiration. “You know; I was just preparing for bed when this calamity transpired. I had travelled the whole night before just to reach Capua and deliver that correspondence to Pero. I’ve had no rest since. Every man has his limits and I have reached mine.” Guidus hesitated and allowed the Griffin a chance to respond. Francis did not. “You may proceed without me, if you wish. I’ll not hold it against you. I’m an old man and will only slow you down. You have brought me this far, and for that I am thankful. If I’m taken, I shall not speak of you. I promise.”

  Francis Whitehall inhaled the first full breath he could remember taking in hours. It was clean and quiet air. His brown eyes examined the pathless void of gloom standing before them, still unsure where the future now lay. He looked back on Guidus just as the statesman was slowly lowering himself to the ground, his back maintaining contact with the bole of the tree the whole way down.

  After releasing a depressed sigh, Francis rounded back and sat down on the ground, his back leaning against the other side of the same tree. He knew he could not desert the former provost. It was not in his nature. Their fates were entwined. They were fugitives together and shared the same burdens.

  “Well,” the astute Griffin calmly reported, “there have been no riders or soldiers, not even a stray patrol. I think I was correct in my assessment. The attackers were arrogant and didn’t consider the possibility that any might escape. I believe it is safe to assume we have travelled far enough to start thinking about our next move.”

  Guidus was relieved to hear this. “My next move is sleep.”

  Sore and having to concentrate more than he had to do in years, Francis suddenly remembered a source of insurance he had on his person. He bent his left leg up to his chest and pulled off the soiled boot. The leather was normally dark but now it was dismal, covered in mud, feces and crud. He wiped some of the filth away and located a secret compartment in the heel. He yanked it open and removed four gold coins. Clinking the pieces between his burnt fingers, he held out his hand so Guidus could see them shine. “It would have been more had these been my riding boots.”

  Fiscus grinned, admiring the Englishman’s resourcefulness. “Is there more in the other boot?”

  Francis nodded, confirming there was.

  Fiscus patted his stomach as if he were full. “I too am a cautious man. I always wear my money belt beneath my finery, even to bed. I’ll not be caught emptyhanded. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  The two men enjoyed a tired chortle before the hopelessness of their predicament assailed them once again. The reprieve was too brief and all was quiet again. Patiently they watched the darkness begin to leave, the tan and gold smudges of dawn gradually opening the woods around them, the swaying titans and their extended arms nothing more than trees. Sparrows and swifts swept beneath the canopy, their cheerful morning chirps waking the wood. Soon the stars would no longer be visible. The summer air would grow hotter and more humid.

  Francis snuck a peek at his lacey white nightshirt that was completely ruined, toxic, splattered and splayed with blood, urine and feces. He was ripe. He remembered the blinding darkness inside the shit pipe, the tighter spaces between the mortar and block where they feared they might become logged, left to die a slow, suffocating death.

  “So what is our next move,” Guidus asked, hoping the Griffin had formulated a plan.

  Francis inspected their surroundings from his seated position and nothing had changed but the new light. “Bed down, Guidus. I will set a perimeter and stand the watch for a few hours. After that, we will find an inn and secure provisions.”

  Guidus apparently nodded off the moment he was granted permission. Francis could hear a whimpering snore emanating on the other side of the tree.

  “Get away,” Francis whispered. “Get away.”

  Feeling a tad bit more hopeful, Francis jingled the four gold coins a few times more before placing them back inside his boot heel and the boot back on his foot. He thought to rise and set the perimeter but as soon as his sore hands hit the ground to aid his ascent, he discovered he lacked the will to rise. He remembered several times during their walk, reaching for his sword only to find it was not there. No sheath, no belt and no armor. He was defenseless. Powerless. The stink pipe they had slid down to escape was incredibly narrow. It was a good thing for them they were not portly, for they could barely fit with the stark clothes on their backs. Francis felt his optimisms sink yet again. “There is nothing I can do to defend us.” He glanced at the heavens. The canopy of the trees gently swayed back and forth allowing a little blue light to sneak through. “We are truly in God’s hands.”

  Francis was going to bring his head back down when the blue sky started to remind him of Ven of Black Leaves. The hopeful young knight’s eyes were so luminescent, brimming with complete and utter confidence. ‘Such faith.’ He was so sure of himself as he descended those circular stairs, heading for battle, believing his sacrifice was the right thing to do. He did not hesitate as though it were his fate to be there at that very moment, doing what he was doing.

  ‘What did he say to me?’ The words came back speedily. “We are all angels.” Francis refuted the charge. ‘No, we are not.’ He turned to the earth again, a place where some shadows still lingered. “Angels know peace and truth and never doubt. I am troubled and lost, discarded and cast to the wind.” He thought about grabbing a handful of dirt to place on his head in mourning but then he recalled Rugerius Fabbro barging through Anthea Manikos’ door. His face crinkled up at the memory and a bad taste formed in his mouth. Any thought he had of grieving went away. “I will live for no other reason than to kill that man.”

  The air was steadily transforming and a more consistent breeze was developing with it. The sun spilled in and replaced all the dark spaces. The Griffin put the back of his head to the tree. “Shield us, Lord, for I cannot.”

  His brown eyes went to closing.

  Francis Whitehall went to sleeping.

  Chapter 3 – Aceldama!

  The morning sun was bright and forced Rugerius Fabbro to open his eyes before he wanted to. The Castellan yawned and snarled much in the fashion of Sarcinus, the purple dragon emblem embossed on his silver plate. It had been a rich sleep, a victorious sleep. He had a dreadful, pounding headache, a hangover more or less. He wasn’t all that convinced he wanted to get up out of bed and start his day. ‘Who’s bed am I in anyway?’ His surroundings were strange and unfamiliar. For a long drawn out moment he stroked at his crumb-encrusted beard, staring blankly at the ceiling, his thoughts virtually empty. His hand got wet and he sniffed the fingers. ‘Ale.’ He started to sm
ile as memories of the various acts of debauchery he participated in the night before came washing back. He drank, ate and caroused, fucking anything that smelt like a female. And then he winced. His jaw hurt too much from smiling. For a strong, arrogant knight who prided himself on his ability to endure pain, his mouth was still tender and in the process of healing. Every time he flexed any of the muscles in the jaw a bit too much, it stung. The pain nearly always triggered a profanity or two, an enduring blaspheming of the Spaniard who had broken it.

  ‘Pero’s room.’ He remembered now. Rugerius knew where he was and that thought suddenly elevated his spirits and inspired him to get up out of bed. ‘I won. I’ve taken Pero’s castle and his bed. Capua is mine. Pero is dead.’

  Gagging on his joy, he struggled to reacquire his bearings. The inebriation still had a lasting consequence against him. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth and tasted the ale as well as the soured nectar of a woman’s juices still lingering on his lips. He felt the weight of said-woman still bearing down on him. A glance aside revealed a crumpled-up figure, a strange young redhead lying almost on the pillow, her bare body still straddling him, her hips coupled to his naked crotch.

  The Castellan gave the girl an angry, violent shove. Her limp arms flailed about as did her legs. She toppled lifeless off the side of the bed and onto the floor.

  A small green lizard was nearly crushed. It darted soundless beneath the bed.

  This time Rugerius smiled. It was painful, extremely painful but he didn’t care, it shone straight through his shaggy, broken beard. He raised his hand again and squeezed the sore jaw remembering how he had squeezed the girl’s throat while coming inside of her sometime last night. “A good fuck,” he whispered exultantly to the ceiling. ‘Her last fuck.’

  It had been an evening filled with death and depravity, mendacity to murderous measures. Thanks to the stealth of two young men, Strenna and Fabio, two men due for promotion, Rugerius Fabbro’s mercenary lot effortlessly swept into the Capuan fortress, across the drawbridge and into the bailey, executing the siege to perfection. The Volturno River ran red with blood. The castle was decimated and desecrated.