Casimir's Journey

by Lisa Manifold

  He squared his shoulders. With a final wipe of his sleeve, he cleared his face. He was weak. Should he make it back to his previous life, he would strive to be strong, to be the man he’d been raised to be, to be the ruler that Thea was. He would strive to be her equal and win her heart and hand again.

  First things first. He needed to get to this chapel and find a way to beat the knight errant rumored to live there.

  He shook his head to clear all the doubts and whispers. What would his father say? What would his plan be faced with this unknown enemy?

  He needed a weapon. He had the blade, but if the knight had a sword, or mace, or an axe, his blade would be nearly useless. The lack of reach alone would negate it as an effective weapon.

  He debated as Toly ambled along. Would it be better to go to the chapel and see what there was to work with? He wasn’t sure he had the coin for a good weapon, nor did he want to bring attention to himself in the acquiring of one. Most of those who carried weapons were of birth, or of a guard, or knights that had reason to carry weapons. In his guise of a traveling scribe for hire, the blade would be acceptable, but seeking out a sword would cause comment. He didn’t want the attention.

  So there it was. He’d go to the chapel and see if there were any weapons from previous applicants to entrance, or whatever. He couldn’t remember why anyone would go there, but he’d heard the stories of knights attempting to enter and losing the fight. As unchivalrous as it felt, if there were long gone knights, there might be armor or weapons about that he could use.

  He gave Toly several nudges, and the amble became a trot. He was anxious to reach the next village to be that much closer to his goal. He felt his stomach shrink a little at the thought of meeting an insane axe-wielding knight, but pushed that fear way down. If Thea could brave her future, he could surely do this.

  “Let’s get there, Toly. Let’s get this done and over.”

  ***

  Casimir was on the road early the next morning. He’d made good time to the last village before the woods and the chapel. The little village was on the edges of Blanchewood Forest, and he’d ridden the entire day through stopping only to water Toly and offer him a little grain. His own meal of boar and bread had been eaten in the saddle.

  He made the tavern before nightfall and had brushed, fed, and watered Toly, taking his time, and talking softly to the horse. At one point, when he was inspecting Toly, the horse had turned his head and rested it on Casimir’s shoulder. The simple gesture of affection brought tears to his eyes. Remembering it made him scratch the horse on the neck, and pat him, murmuring, “Good boy.”

  There had been no fair Elspeth at this tavern, thankfully, and he’d bedded down early so as to leave early. He was grateful Catrin had given him a decent amount of mixed coins, as the ability to sit in peace and eat a hot meal and have some cool ale eased the rigors of travel and the incessant ramblings of his treacherous mind.

  Today was the day. He’d make the chapel by midmorning, if he had estimated correctly. He needed to hobble Toly a safe distance from the chapel, but not so far that he’d be out of range should Casimir himself need to leave in a hurry. He also needed time to scout out the chapel, seek any weapons, and get a sense of what he was dealing with.

  In spite of his tortured thoughts the day before, he felt hopeful today. Probably at the prospect of actually doing something, not just getting somewhere. He’d always been a man for action over all.

  Before the sun reached its zenith, he noticed a difference in the road. It had clearly once been more than it was now. When he saw a fallen cross, he knew that he was nearly to the shrine.

  Warily, he dismounted from Toly and looked around. He wanted to leave him close but not too close, and not close to the road. He led the horse forward, carefully inspecting both sides of the road as he did.

  He found a small clearing that was not readily seen from the road. He’d only seen it because he was walking, and slowly at that. He tied Toly’s reins to a branch, and pulled out the small pot that Catrin had given him, filling it with water from his water skin.

  “Wait here, boy. I’ll be as quick as I can.” The horse whickered placidly. Or so it seemed to Casimir. He patted him on the neck and walked back to the road. No sense in getting lost in the woods.

  He didn’t have far to go. The chapel appeared when he’d been walking but a few minutes. It was clear that it was no longer in general use. Moss had grown up around one side of the doors, and onto the roof. It looked picturesque, but there was something eerie about it as well. He walked softly, carefully, as the old master-at-arms had taught him when teaching him about swordplay.

  But this was not play.

  He could see bits and pieces of those who’d come before as he approached. Spying a sword, albeit a bit rusty, he took it up and tested the heft of it in his hand. It felt good. He swung it back and forth, testing his arm in relation to a new weapon. It still felt good. Pulling his blade from the back of his belt under the jerkin, he crouched, and made his way to the doors.

  They were not completely closed. One sat ajar. Casimir knelt down, listening. He heard nothing, but birdsong. That told him that in the front of the chapel, the nave, no one stirred.

  With his sword, he gave the door that was ajar a little push. It opened further, and he thanked those above that it did not creak. Emboldened, he gave it another push, making an opening large enough for him to slip through.

  Once inside, he had his sword and blade out, ready to defend, as he looked around. There were signs of past combat. The pews were knocked about, some broken entirely. He could see a few skeletons along the edges of the church. But no knight, no swinging axe. Stilled, he listened again. Nothing. His footsteps were not entirely silent, in spite of his efforts. There should be someone.

  Since no one was coming at him with axe in hand, he took a moment to survey the chapel. This was the area of worship. This would not be where the lady would be interred. If she were enough of a personage to be buried in the chapel itself, even one as small as this, she would be in the crypt. He appeared to be in the nave, the arm where the long ago parishioners would have gathered. Where was the crypt? He took a few cautious steps, still hoping to keep his presence unknown. He looked forward to the pulpit, and saw a small door leading off to the side. This was a small building, so that would probably be the entrance to the crypt, and hopefully the lady. Hopefully without her knight. Casimir fervently hoped he’d gone hunting.

  Stepping carefully through the rubble, he made it to the pulpit, and then crouched down again. Still no noise. He moved swiftly to the door, and saw that it did indeed have stairs that led down. It was dark, and he had no candle to light, which made him very nervous. Not that he had an arm to hold the candle.

  Can’t just ask the old boy to hold it up for me, now can I, he thought to himself. He grinned at the fact that he could while facing death once more. What’s one more time? The thought made him smile more, and then he heard it.

  He had one foot down the third stair when he heard the rasp of metal on stone. It was just above a whisper, and the sound chilled him to the marrow of his bones. He nimbly went down three more steps, and into a low crouch. He stared into the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust. There were a few slivers of light from casement windows that were along the top of the room. He stared harder, straining to see where the menacing whisper had originated.

  A spark caught his eye. The metal rasp again. There he was. The knight, for it must be him, did not move fast. Casimir did not move at all. To move would pinpoint where he was. He watched in front of where he’d seen the spark and heard another shush of metal on stone, quieter this time. Then another more quickly and one more and—he cast himself forward into a roll from the crouch. He figured he’d be close to the bottom, based on where he’d seen the windows. He was almost right. He timed his roll for where he hoped the floor was, and was a bit ahead of himself, banging his shoulder as he half-rolled onto the floor.

  Just in time
, too. As he bounded up, sword braced, he saw the axe of the knight hit the stair where he had just been. He rushed the man, knocking him to the ground. The knight, while not fast, was large and strong. He threw Casimir off of him, and Casimir fell and rolled into the wall of the crypt. He struggled to get to his feet as quickly as he could. Again, he was just quick enough—the axe struck the part of the wall where he’d been laying.

  On his feet finally, his eyes had adjusted. He could see the outline of the knight with the weak light from the windows and the light from the chapel above that filtered down the stairs. He was big, very big, and for a moment, Casimir felt his knees turn to water. That disappeared as he saw the knight come towards him with the axe raised.

  Casimir was of middling height. He was not full of brawn, either. When the master-at-arms had trained him, he told him bluntly that he would not be as large as some of his brothers and, as the eldest and the heir, that would be something they would take advantage of, so he must use that which he was given, which was greater speed with a lesser stature.

  “Not that you’re a small, wee man,” said Master Odo, “But you’re not going to get the height or size of the two behind you. And well they know it. So you must surprise them. Use speed and cunning, and don’t be afraid to go low.”

  That is what Casimir did now. He went low and shoved his sword below the waist where there was a break in the armor between the torso and the legs. He knew he’d hit something fleshy when he heard the grunt of pain from the other man.

  It didn’t stop the reeky bastard, though. One thing Casimir noticed was that there was a terrible stench, and a large source of it was on the end of his sword. The knight swung his axe at him, and caught Casimir in the face.

  It was a glancing blow, but being a head wound, it immediately began to bleed copiously. He spit as the blood trickled into his mouth. Jerking his sword with a great force, he pulled it free of the knight and brought it across where he thought the knight’s neck would be.

  His aim was true. The knight raised his arm once more. It dropped, ever so slowly, and then the knight took a step back, away from Casimir’s sword. This time, the sword was not stuck in flesh. He stepped back once, twice more, and then fell.

  “A….candle….” said the knight. Casimir was shocked that he could still speak.

  “Where?”

  “Top of stairs. ‘Neath the pul…pulpit.” Casimir could hear the gurgle of blood as the knight’s chest began to fill.

  He raced up the stairs and looked beneath the pulpit. There were indeed candles and a flint and steel. Hands shaking, he fumbled to get one lit. Finally, the spark caught, and the candle flame burned. Carefully, so as not to lose the flame, he made his way back down the stairs of the crypt.

  The knight lay where he fell. Casimir could see that he’d delivered a deathblow, but the knight still breathed.

  “Well fought, good sir. May I do anything for you as a final request?”

  “Kill…her.”

  “Who is she?” Casimir kept his tone even as he knelt beside the man. His beard was long and matted, as was his hair. His eyes were wild, circling around the room, landing on Casimir and then continuing their searching.

  “The…witch. Her that put…me…here.”

  “Who is she? I shall do my best.”

  “Ca….Ca…Catrin.” Said the knight. The eyes, so wildly moving but moments before, stopped and rested on Casimir. With great will, the knight lifted a hand. Casimir took it. The knight gripped it hard, and clasped their hands with his other hand.

  “Thank…you…I….” he said, and his head fell back slightly.

  “Good sir? Good sir?” Casimir leaned in, wanting to hear what the knight had been trying to say. But he would hear no more. The knight’s eyes were still open, but the grip of his hands loosened and slowly fell from Casimir’s.

  Casimir sat back on his heels. Catrin had put him here? But why? When? Questions roared in his head as he stared beyond the body of the man who’d come close to killing him.

  He sat for a few moments, hoping to see if the knight would wake again, knowing that he would not. Then he stood and took measure of the place.

  It was filthy. He could see that the knight had been here for a long time. Long enough that the personal habits that were part of being a knight had gone by the wayside. He picked up the candle and held it high. There was but one crypt in the room. Stepping around the knight, he went to it. There were names engraved on it. First was Illaria, Wife to Roland, and the dates of her life. Underneath that was Roland, Husband to Illaria, and but one date. Presumably the date of his birth. Casimir would bet the man he’d just slain was Roland.

  It pained him, but he felt around the edges of the stone coffin, and finding a break, he pushed with all his might. The stone lid shifted, and he pushed again. Again and again, until he nearly had the lid off. He picked the candle back up from where he’d set it, and cautiously peered inside.

  It was a woman. Her hands were clasped on her chest, and she appeared to be mummified. He could still see the skin on her cheeks and her hair neatly done under a wimple. There was a posy of dried flowers in her hands. Her dress was fine, from what he could tell. He wondered what Roland or Ilaria had done to incur the wrath of Catrin.

  He looked more closely and could see a band of what looked to be iron with a stone set in it on her third finger. “I am so sorry. So sorry. More than you will ever know, my lady.” Gently, he pulled at the finger, and was horrified at how easily it broke from the hand. The ring dropped off, and he hurriedly scrabbled at it. He didn’t want to lose any of what she’d asked for, no matter how abhorrent he found it.

  He wrapped the finger bones and the ring in a small piece of cloth torn from his undershirt and then put them in the small pocket he carried at his waist. Then he turned to go. As he passed the knight, he stopped. Sighed. He could not leave the man this way. He’d fought well. Setting down his sword, he put the candle on the floor close to the coffin and dragged the knight towards it.

  It took some time, but he managed to get the knight into the coffin. It was a marriage coffin, because it was made deep to fit two souls. He was sure the heavy man crushed the woman beneath, but he knew this was where he wanted to be. Once Roland was in, Casimir went round to the back of the coffin and muscled the lid back into place.

  Then he picked up the candle, which was nearly burnt down, and his blade that he’d dropped when he rolled down the stairs. He leaned over the top and in the place where Roland’s year of birth was, he added the year of death.

  “Godspeed to you, good knight. You were a valiant foe. Go to your lady now and be at peace, Roland.” He bowed his head, hoping that his prayer would help the man get to the hereafter. He stood for a moment, hoping that whatever ill had befallen the knight had left him in death.

  Inhaling deeply, and squaring his shoulders, he took the candle and made his way out of the crypt. He left the candle, after blowing it out, under the pulpit where he’d found it. Perhaps others knew they could find a candle there. He wanted to leave things as he found them. He recognized that he was ignoring the fact that he himself had made the greatest change. But tempering that, he knew that he had also freed this knight from something, what, he didn’t know. He had allowed him to join his lady in death. At least, he hoped it was Roland’s lady.

  The day seemed too bright, too early, when he left the chapel. Almost as though it were another world. He shuddered, thinking of what he’d left behind. He glanced over his shoulder, wishing he had salt to toss. He couldn’t say with any certainty that spirits wouldn’t follow him.

  “Peace be with you,” he said. He meant it. Patting his pocket, he hurried to where he had left Toly. The relief he felt at seeing the horse was indescribable. It felt that a large weight had lifted off him. Until he rid himself of the Lady Illaria’s finger however, the weight would not be totally gone. It couldn’t.

  He dug through the packs on the saddle looking for cloth that could clean his wound an
d make him look somewhat presentable. Thankfully, he could hear water nearby, and searching for a quarter of an hour led him and Toly to a stream where he cleaned his face. There were a few still pools on the banks, and he tried to get a look at how bad the cut was.

  It wasn’t good. It really needed stitching, if he was being honest. He had no needle, nothing with which to bind it closed as it needed to be. He sighed. One more thing he’d have to ask Catrin’s help with, and he really didn’t want to ask the woman for anything more. After his own experience, and what the knight had said, he felt there was much about her that he remained unaware of, probably to his detriment.

  Ripping the bottom from the extra shirt, he wrapped it across his face. He wasn’t sure how tight to bind the wrappings. He hoped it was not too tight. All the more reason to get back to the blasted woman and hand over the finger.

  He swung into the saddle, and turned the horse back toward Gallivas. It would be about two days’ hard ride to get back to Catrin’s home. He sent a prayer skyward that he would encounter nothing to delay him.

  ***

  Unlike the ride to the chapel, he made it to Catrin’s in record time. He was starving, having ridden as straight through as possible, not even stopping to rest except when he could feel Toly tiring. He had stopped last evening to purchase something to eat for the both of them, but he had pushed on after giving Toly a good rubdown. The horse had grumbled at not being left in a warm stable, but Casimir told him to hush as he spurred him on.

  This was it. He would get his life back. He would get her to look at his damned face. It had not stopped aching since he left the chapel, and he felt the fingers of fear trickle through him at the thought of what that might mean.

  Her house was as he remembered. A simple cottage set a ways off the road. He walked Toly up to the door, and then wearily slid from his back. He took the steps to the door and knocked, feeling he was nearing the end of his strength.

  The door opened before he stopped knocking. It was Catrin herself. Surprise settled onto her face. “Prince Casimir! I had not expected to see you. Come—” her words were cut off as he fell in the door and nearly atop her.