by Mark Teppo
“There is?” Andreas seemed surprised. “Alas,” he continued, “my companions and I are part of an order that stresses poverty and humility. We have no money, which is why we were taking these wagons to the village. A reasonable exchange would be quite a boon for our—”
“Shut up!” Martis screamed, rising in his saddle. “This is—” He jerked backward, falling against the rear of his horse. An arrow protruded from his open mouth. He gurgled, blood spurting around the shaft of the arrow, and then he slowly slid off his horse and fell on the ground. Everyone stared as he flopped about for a few moments, spitting blood and choking to death, and finally he stopped, his body relaxing.
“Now,” Andreas said quietly in the silence that followed, and there was no mistaking the tone of his voice. It was the voice of the man Jacobi had glimpsed briefly in the inn in Barcelona. The one with no remorse or doubt. “The rest of you have a choice,” Andreas said, speaking to the remainder of Martis’s band. “Join him, or clear the fucking road.”
Behind Andreas, Saluador sat perfectly still in his saddle, his bow ready with another arrow nocked and drawn. The other Shield-Brethren had drawn their swords. Only Andreas appeared to be unready for combat, but Jacobi knew that such indifference was a ruse.
VI
Since Constansa had drawn the bloody picture, a dread had settled over the valley. Only a few knew the source of the despair that had wormed its way into the hearts and hearths of the village, and they found themselves shunning the others. At first, Gaucelis had found the chapel to be stifling and too small when she and Alice both found excuses to spend hours within the sanctuary. She knew little of Alice’s history—as was true for many of the older women who lived in the village—but Alice was comfortable with silence, suggesting that Alice might have been at a nunnery before coming to Estartyol.
When the Inquisition had come, many of the minor orders had found their rules questioned, their beliefs called into doubt. It did not matter how remote their location was or the size of their community. They were leading lives outside the proscribed order. They could not be tolerated.
Gaucelis had found herself dwelling on the existence they had built for themselves at Estartyol. Many of them had come here from the county of Toulouse, fleeing the Inquisition’s persecution of Catharism. The crusaders had taken land and holdings indiscriminately; some had used the Church as an excuse to settle other disputes—the losers having had no choice but to flee France. Men like Folquets de Vilapros, who had once been a landowner near Carcassonne. Now reduced to being a self-titled “captain” of a small band of roving mercenaries. He had claimed to offer protection to Estartyol and a few other nearby villages, but she suspected—and as Tibal had recently confirmed—de Vilapros’s protection was thinly veiled tyranny.
Did they tolerate it because it was less painful than the alternative? And, in the dark of night, when sleep evaded each of them, did they gaze into their hearts and see how deeply entrenched their fear was?
She had been newly married when her husband, a forgotten son of a minor branch of the Counts of Comminges, had answered the call put forth by Boniface of Montferrat and, taking much of their household with him, had departed for Venice to fight for the Church. He did not return, and after a few years of fighting, the chilly disposition of her husband’s extended family grew to be too wearying, so she had left Muret and drifted south and east. She was accepted by a community of Cathars, unaware and uncaring about their divisive religious beliefs, and when the crusaders had come, she had found herself cast out once more.
When she had come to Estartyol, she had fallen in love with the solitude offered by the high mountains. She adored the whisper of the wind on the lake, and unlike the rest of the villagers, she did not mind the bitterness of the winters. The cold air reminded her that life was precious. She had no intention of ever leaving Estartyol.
When the door of the chapel banged open and Míro rushed in, she met his arrival with a wearied acceptance. This, then, was the end, she thought, but she caught sight of the wild elation on his face, and her heart beat more quickly. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Jacobi,” he said. “Come and see. It’s not what we thought at all.”
Of the group, Guillén was the most prone to romantic fancy, but Andreas had to admit that the village seemed as idyllic as Guillén had imagined it to be. The lake—a pale blue mirror nestled between forested peaks—dominated the narrow valley. The village lay on the far side of the valley, a cluster of several dozen tiny houses around a block of dark stone that was undoubtedly an old church. When they reached the valley floor, Jacobi rode ahead to alert the villagers of their arrival, and Andreas let the horses find their own pace as they followed the track around the shore of the lake.
The Shield-Brethren rode quietly, listening to the wind and the birds. There had been little talk after the ruffians had fled the mountain trail. They all had their own thoughts on the encounter, and Andreas knew to let them alone until they were ready to discuss it.
Saluador had fired the arrow without receiving a signal from Andreas. On one hand, he had been disappointed by the other man’s error, but it had been a decisive move, one that had, in fact, spared them all from further bloodshed.
He had been thinking of making an example of Martis anyway, so did he have to say anything to Saluador? He would, eventually, because Saluador knew he had loosed the arrow without real provocation.
Did that make it murder?
Andreas hadn’t decided what he was going to do, and as the horses came within sight of the village, he set aside the conundrum. There would be time later to think about it.
The horses pricked up their ears as they realized they were nearly home, and trotted faster.
A small crowd had gathered in front of the tiny church, milling about in an open field that passed for the village green. Jacobi had already dismounted from his horse, and Andreas caught only a brief glimpse of the trader in the cluster of villagers, eager to hear his news. They were asking him about his wagons, his escort, and Andreas caught a name here and there. Vilapros—was that Martis, he wondered, or the man Martis reported to?
As the wagons approached, rattling over the hard ground, the crowd turned toward him and his men. He drew back the reins, bringing the horses and wagon to a halt. He stared at the villagers, looking at their faces and taking note of the three people who had just come out of the chapel. They were older than many of the others and their clothes were no finer, but they seemed to be important persons in the village hierarchy. “Greetings, good people of Estartyol,” he said, standing up on the wagon’s board. “I am Andreas. My companions and I have been asked to deliver these wagons to you.”
Everyone began asking questions, and Andreas made no move to quell the noise, knowing that it would run itself out in time. There was no need to hurry the villagers. As he waited, a bent man with broad shoulders shoved his way through the crowd and approached Saluador’s horse. Even though the man walked with a limp, Andreas recognized the rolling precision of his step—the way a swordsman walked, always aware of his surroundings. The old man pointed at Saluador’s shield. “Who are you?” he asked, looking at Andreas.
“We are members of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae,” Saluador said.
“They’re Rose Knights,” Jacobi said, and it was his words that stirred the crowd.
Andreas eyed the villagers with some suspicion, wondering what he and the others had stumbled into.
“Was there trouble on the road?” the old fighter asked, looking back and forth between Andreas and Saluador. Andreas found it curious that the old man did not ask the question of the trader.
“Aye,” he said, being honest with the old soldier, “there was. And it was taken care of.”
“Casualties?”
“Just one.”
“Theirs?”
Andreas nodded. “A man named Martis.”
The name caused some reaction among the villagers. The old man hawked an
d spit. “Damn it,” he said, pointing a finger at Jacobi. “You brought this upon us,” he snapped, and then he turned his ire to the group standing on the chapel’s porch. “She brought this upon us.”
Andreas realized there was a fourth person standing at the chapel door. Her body was wreathed in a shapeless brown robe and her hood was pulled up to hide her face. If the old man hadn’t said she, he wouldn’t have been sure the person was female. The crowd began to shout and holler more than before, and like he had done, the person waited for their ire to run out. Finally, when the crowd had fallen mostly silent, she raised her arms—revealing pale and slender hands—and pushed back her hood.
She was younger than Andreas had expected. She looked at everyone, pausing briefly as she gazed at each face. She finished where she’d started—staring at the old soldier. When she spoke, her voice was soft, and in a crowded room, it would have never been heard. But outside in the sunny silence of the valley, her words carried. “What are you afraid of?” she asked.
She did not wait for any answer, turning almost immediately, and disappearing back into the church, leaving only the echo of her words ringing in Andreas’s ears.
VII
Constansa’s question unsettled the crowd, and its jovial mood began to wane. Villagers wandered off, the cold dread starting to seep into their bones again. Alice’s face remained pinched as she watched Jacobi direct the men to unload the wagons. Míro and Tibal made gestures to help, but mostly stood by and watched the work be done by the others. The Rose Knight who had spoken with Tibal extricated himself from the work and approached the chapel porch. His skin had been darkened and his hair lightened by years of sun, and Gaucelis suspected he was from the north.
The Rose Knight stopped at the foot of the porch and bowed—proficiently enough for a man more accustomed to martial affairs. “I am Andreas,” he said, “the leader of these men. I sense that our arrival is both cause for celebration and dismay, and I wish to impress upon you that our intention was to provoke neither reaction. We were meant to be invisible.”
Gaucelis eyed the broad-shouldered man critically. “I am Gaucelis,” she said, “and my companions are Alice and Míro. You have already met Tibal.”
“And the young woman who briefly appeared?” he asked.
Alice made a noise in her throat and shook her head slightly. Míro looked at his shoes. Gaucelis frowned at both of them, but said nothing.
“Aah,” Andreas said. “Well, yes, that explains a great deal.” He bowed again. “For a moment, I had thought the young woman was directing her question at me, but now I see that she was, in fact, speaking to you. It sounds like a conversation that has been going on for some time, and I do not see any reason to intrude upon it. My men and I will be departing shortly.” He bowed again and began walking back to the wagons.
Gaucelis glared at Alice and Míro. The knight’s words stung, all the more so because there was a great deal of truth to them. But Constansa was right. They were afraid, and when she looked in her heart, Gaucelis realized she had been living with fear for a long time.
“Wait,” she called out, chasing after the knight. She heard Alice call out her name, but she ignored the older woman. Too long, she thought as she strode across the field. I have been frightened for too long.
“Her name is Constansa,” she said as Andreas turned back. “She is a…fragile girl, but she…”
“Why did Tibal say what he did about her?”
“There is a man who protects us,” Gaucelis said, adding emphasis on the distasteful word. “Martis was his man.”
“Aah, and because Martis is dead, you fear this man—”
“De Vilapros,” Gaucelis interrupted. “Captain Folquets de Vilapros.”
“This de Vilapros,” Andreas continued. “You fear he will seek restitution for his loss?”
“I do,” Gaucelis said. “We do.”
“And what does this have to do with Constansa?”
“Because she asked me to bring you here,” Jacobi replied. He had come up behind Andreas during their conversation, and having interrupted it now, he walked around until he stood beside both of them.
“By name?” Andreas asked, somewhat skeptical.
“She told me to find the Rose Knights,” Jacobi said. He pointed at the brooch on Andreas’s shirt.
Andreas glanced down at the silver brooch, staring at it as though he had never seen it before. “Perhaps you might start at the beginning,” he said, raising his head.
Gaucelis was taken aback to see something not unlike fear in his eyes. Seized by an impulse, she reached out and touched the knight’s arm. “Come with me,” she said. “Let her tell you.” Ignoring Jacobi’s wide-eyed expression, she led the knight toward the chapel.
The chapel was simple and unadorned—the sort of house of worship that Andreas found comfortable. No hideous pageantry. No profusion of iconography. No ostentatious ornamentation. Just a simple room—quiet and dim—filled with plain benches and a plain wooden altar. A sanctuary where one could commune with God as he or she saw fit.
The young woman, Constansa, was kneeling at the front of chapel, and the headwoman, Gaucelis, indicated he should sit on one of the benches. He did, and she knelt beside Constansa, leaning over to whisper quietly. Constansa gave no sign she had heard the other woman, and Gaucelis rose to her feet. She glanced at Andreas fleetingly and then crossed the altar to a narrow arch set along the back wall. She went through the wooden door, leaving Andreas and Constansa alone, and when the door rattled lightly against the frame, Constansa stirred from her prayers.
She had a plain face—pleasing enough, but not so striking that he would recall it with much clarity in time. Her eyes were dark and still, but there was a restlessness to their motion, as if she were a deer in the brush, hoping that no one would spot her, but ready to flee in an instant. She had a makeshift bandage tied around her left hand.
“Jacobi told you that I asked him to bring you here, didn’t he?” She was soft-spoken, but direct—a quality that Andreas liked.
“Aye, he did,” he said. “And I am curious as to how you know of my order by that name.”
“It is the only name I knew,” Constansa replied. “I told Jacobi, and he seemed to know who I was talking about.”
“And where did this idea come from?” Andreas asked.
“From this,” Gaucelis said, and Andreas looked up to see that the headwoman had returned. She had a sheath of parchment in her hands, and the pages were covered with heavy illustrations. The one on top—the one she was showing him—depicted a line of spears flying before a rising sun across the bottom of the sheet and a heavy rain of dark petals falling from above.
Andreas swallowed heavily. He was glad the others weren’t with him. It’s just a drawing, he told himself, but he couldn’t shake the impact the illustration had had on him. He knew the falling petals represented his order—there was no doubt in his mind—and the spears and the half circle filled him with an enormous sense of dread.
“That is an interesting picture,” he heard himself saying. “But I do not understand what it is supposed to represent.”
Gaucelis set the first illustration down on a nearby bench and showed him another. The same line of spears—though across the top this time—and a portrait of a kneeling man.
“Is that supposed to be me?” he asked, his throat tight.
Constansa sighed. “I do not know,” she said. “Do you think it is?”
Andreas’s response was cut short by the sound of the chapel door opening, and he was happy to look away from the picture. Jacobi was leading several of the Shield-Brethren, who were carrying one of the chests from the wagons. Jacobi indicated where the chest should be put down, and Saluador and Lugo complied. As Jacobi fussed with the lock, the two Shield-Brethren stood nearby.
“Is that you?” Lugo asked, pointing at the picture in Gaucelis’s hand.
“No,” Andreas said quickly—too quickly—and he saw Saluador’s eyes widen s
lightly as the tall man leaped to a conclusion of his own. Saluador sank to one knee and bowed his head in prayer. Lugo stared at the other man for a moment, his face screwed up in confusion, and then he too reached a similar conclusion.
“This isn’t what you think it is,” Andreas said. He stood, intending on shooing the other men out.
Jacobi opened the chest and stood back.
Andreas drew up short, staring at the contents. “What is that?” The chest was filled with neat stacks of pristine sheets. They didn’t have the rough texture of parchment.
“Paper,” Jacobi supplied. “There is a mill in Xàtiva.”
Gaucelis pushed roughly past Andreas and slammed the lid of the chest shut. “How could you?” she scolded Jacobi.
“It’s what she wanted,” Jacobi said with a shrug, as if to say the decision had not been his. He was merely serving someone else, and Andreas shivered at the man’s abasement to the desires of another. His men were listening. Could they be swayed so readily?
“I asked him to bring me the paper, Gaucelis,” Constansa said, her hand on Andreas’s arm. “I don’t want you destroying my pictures anymore. I want them to be shared with everyone.”
“Dear child,” Gaucelis said, her face fighting to hold back tears, “we can’t tell anyone. They won’t understand. They’ll be frightened.”
“They already are,” Constansa said. “But that is because they don’t understand. I want to ease their suffering.”
Tears tracked down Gaucelis’s cheeks. “Not this way.”
“Then what way?” Constansa asked. She held up her left hand. “Am I supposed to hurt myself again? Should I cut my face next time so that you can’t hide it?”
Gaucelis shook her head.
“We can’t be afraid of who we are,” Constansa said. “We can’t be afraid of what we believe.” She looked at Jacobi, who ducked his head and refused to look at her. “Fear is poisonous. It will kill us just as readily.”