The Pope's Assassin

by Tim Severin

  There was little conversation amongst us. Our little column rode in silence, hearing only the jingle and creak of harness and the hoof falls of our mounts in the soft earth. One of our mounted escorts took it in turns to be in the lead, wearing his mail shirt and helmet, a pennon fluttering from his lance, his war bow slung across his back, and his sword at his belt. Next came Kuber, then a second trooper holding the lead rope of the gift stallion. The third man-at-arms had the task of leading the laden mule. Beorthric and I brought up the rear. I was light-headed at the notion that the liberty I had longed for during those months as a captive was now an effortless reality. My luck had turned, or so I thought.

  By the fifth day of our journey, I was beginning to recognize a few landmarks – a cluster of boulders beside the track, a misshapen tree, a ford I remembered crossing on the way to being brought before Kaiam as a captive and suspected spy. At the village where Kunimund had betrayed us, there was the familiar shape of the blacksmith’s workshop and I half expected to lay eyes on Kunimund himself. But the Gepid was nowhere to be seen and, though we shared a meal of hard-boiled eggs and sheep’s milk curds with the village headman, he gave no sign that he had ever met Beorthric or myself before.

  We left the village in the early afternoon. I calculated that another three or four days at our leisurely progress should bring us to the Donau, the river frontier with Carolus’s domain. On the way we would pass the ruins of the Ring some fifteen or twenty miles ahead of us. As best as I could remember, we would first cross an uninhabited stretch of scrubby grassland. It was open countryside criss-crossed by narrow gullies carved out by the small streams that drained into ponds and small lakes.

  Our small party had been ambling along for the best part of two hours when I began to have serious doubts that we would reach the Ring by nightfall and find some sort of shelter. There was no point in mentioning this to Beorthric. I had long since given up any hope of engaging him in any conversation. So I rode quietly along at the rear of our group, turning over in my mind what I would say to the first Frankish patrol we encountered on the great river and looking about me at the wildlife. A pair of buzzards was circling over the plain to our left, and I had seen a number of small birds with bright red patches on their heads that looked like woodpeckers. Oddly, for it was full daylight, I was sure that I kept hearing the hoots of an owl. I was straining my ears trying to detect where the sound was coming from when three deer sprang out of the ground, as if by magic. They had been feeding in the bed of a gully close to the path. They went bounding off, weaving their way between clumps of scrub and willow. Following the direction of their flight, I saw, less than a mile away, a low mound, a man-made earthwork. It was one of the ancient burial tombs we had seen when coming south with Kunimund.

  I urged my horse forward so that I rode knee to knee with Beorthric, and pointed. ‘Not so far to go now.’

  He held up his hand to silence me, and was looking intently towards the spot where the deer had appeared. I waited.

  He gave a low whistle to attract the attention of the trooper leading our little group. The man looked back, and Beorthric pointed off to our right.

  ‘What do you see?’ I asked.

  The trooper had already wheeled his horse around and, lance in hand, was riding back to speak with the Saxon. There was an enquiring look on his face.

  He was twenty yards away from us when an arrow took him in the ribs.

  The trooper was knocked sideways. His chain mail jacket must have stopped the arrowhead penetrating too far, because he swayed momentarily, then, letting drop his lance, grabbed his saddle and managed to stay on his horse. The shaft of the arrow remained, dangling from his body.

  Several more arrows hissed around us. They came from a clump of small trees close to where the deer had been feeding. All passed harmlessly except the one that struck the haunch of the pack mule. The animal threw up its head, ripping the lead rope out of the hand of another trooper, then bolted, running with a peculiar twisted gait.

  Kuber was bellowing a warning to the rest of us. He wrenched his horse’s head around to face the direction of the ambush. He had neither chain mail nor helmet, and was reaching for the sword that hung from his belt.

  The two unwounded troopers were scrambling to put on their helmets and unsling the war bows that they carried on their backs.

  We had been taken completely by surprise.

  Half a dozen mounted men burst out from cover, forty yards to our right. They had been sheltering in a gully and now came charging at us, yelling. Four of them brandished short lances, while the others wielded swords.

  At that moment I realized that I had no weapons and wore no armour.

  Beorthric pulled his scramseax from its sheath. He was very calm.

  ‘Sigwulf, we’re going to have to fall back. Ride for the tomb.’

  I heaved on the reins, trying to turn my mount. But the animal refused to shift. Frustrated and angry, I kicked with both heels and, using the loose ends of the reins as a whip, slashed the animal across the shoulder. It shot forward, luckily behind Beorthric’s mount, just as the first of the charging riders arrived, lance levelled. Beorthric calmly leaned to one side, and made a low, controlled sweep with his scramseax. The blade struck the shaft of the lance, deflecting it upward. As the rider rode past, Beorthric reversed the scramseax and with a sideways blow smashed the hilt of the weapon into the man’s shoulder.

  Yards away, the rest of our party was in difficulty. The trooper with the arrow in his side was under attack from two riders and resisting feebly, trying to ward off their sword cuts as they closed in on him. The trooper who had been leading the stallion, must have taken a lance thrust in the initial charge and been unhorsed. He lay curled on the ground. One of our attackers was already dismounting, sword in hand, about to finish him off.

  Kuber was proving to be their toughest target. He had his horse under firm control and was fighting off two of the attackers. There was a ringing clash of steel on steel as he blocked one man’s sword as it cut downward towards his head. With a turn of his wrist, the tarkan then slid his weapon under his opponent’s guard, and thrust the point into the exposed armpit. His victim was jolted backwards even as Kuber forced his horse sideways, barging into his second opponent’s mount, causing it to stagger.

  ‘Get going!’ Beorthric snapped at me.

  A rider came at me from nowhere and hacked at my head. I ducked and heard the blade slice through the air just inches away. The next moment I was past him and galloping for the burial mound. I heard shouts and the drumming of hooves behind me. I threw a quick glance over my shoulder and saw that the surviving members of our little group were also in full flight. Right behind me was the trooper who had been hit by an arrow. He was doubled over, out of control. I reined in slightly so that his mount drew level and our two horses ran side by side, close enough for me to reach out and grab the bridle of his horse. I clung on as the two animals raced for the burial mound.

  The men who had attacked us were not professional fighting men. They wore no armour, their horses were scrubby and unexceptional, and their marksmanship had been indifferent. The flight of arrows should have done more damage than it did, and they had sprung their ambush too soon.

  I could only suppose that they were common brigands eager to waylay a group of travellers, or an undisciplined band of outlaws operating in the no-man’s-land on the fringes of Avaria.

  The burial mound was much closer now. Formerly, it would have been an imposing monument and dominated its surroundings. Weather and the passage of time had reduced it to a grass-covered heap of earth some fifteen feet high and forty paces across. Yet it still offered some hope of protection if we made a stand against our enemies, with our backs against the slope. Our attackers had been slow to take up the pursuit, and we had enough time to regroup as we reached the base of the mound and pulled up our lathered horses. I dismounted immediately. My mount was going lame, favouring his front offside leg. The injured trooper ne
xt to me toppled sideways out of his saddle and I was just able to catch him and ease his fall to the ground. He huddled there, his face twisted in pain and one hand clutching at the arrow. I watched Kuber dismount and walk across to him. Taking a firm grip on the shaft of the arrow, the tarkan tugged. The shaft snapped. Kuber flung it aside and turned to look back at our enemies. I followed the direction of his gaze and felt a cold wash of fear as I saw why the attack against us was delayed. Our attackers had been waiting for reinforcements to join them. Now there were at least a dozen riders. As I watched they began to organize themselves, spreading out into a line. At any moment they would begin to advance.

  Beorthric came up to me. He was on foot and holding the lead rope of the chestnut stallion. The well-trained animal had not run with the other horses despite the confusion, keeping company with us as we retreated. ‘Take this one and get out of here.’ He thrust the lead rope of the stallion into my hand.

  I hesitated. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’ He gestured over his shoulder towards the enemy. ‘They’re a bunch of amateurs. They’ll lose heart soon enough.’

  ‘Who do you think they are?’

  ‘Too ineffectual to be Avars. They could be any of the subject tribes, Gepids or Slavs, someone with a spirit of rebellion.’

  My reluctance to abandon the others must have shown because Beorthric gave a snort of exasperation. ‘Sigwulf, this is not your fight.’

  Kuber was kneeling by the injured trooper, stuffing some sort of wadding under the man’s mail shirt to stop the bleeding.

  ‘As soon as Kuber and his troopers are able to look after themselves, I’ll slip away.’ Beorthric assured me.

  ‘You should come with me now.’

  The Saxon was brimming with elation, a strange expression in his pale-blue eyes, both confident and vigilant. He was enjoying the fight. ‘If two of us leave at the same time, it will send the wrong message to those clods over there. They’ll think they have us beaten.’ He summoned a dangerous smile. ‘If you go now, they might decide we’re sending you to fetch help.’

  He flicked a finger against the saddlebag containing the warrior flagon. ‘You’ve got what you came for. I’ll meet you at that posting station beyond the river, if not before.’

  I climbed up on the stallion’s back, Beorthric slapped it on its rump, and I rode off at a steady canter. After a hundred yards I twisted round to see that Kuber had helped the wounded Avar to get back on his feet. He still had an arm around the trooper’s shoulder for the man could barely stand.

  The advancing line of attackers saw me leave. One rider broke away and came chasing after me. I touched my heels to my horse, and the stallion’s canter changed smoothly to a powerful gallop. The stallion was fit and fresh, and there was no chance that he would be caught. Very quickly my pursuer gave up the fruitless chase. When I next turned round, he had vanished.

  I slowed the stallion to a steady trot and rode north-west. The afternoon sun gave me my approximate direction towards the great river and safety.

  Try as I might, I could not shake off a heavy sense of unease. Kuber and his men-at-arms with Beorthric’s help might succeed in repelling a second onslaught. But the embassy was too heavily outnumbered for their attackers to be discouraged and give up the fight. They would continue to harass Kuber and his men wherever they retreated, picking them off one by one. In my mind’s eye I could picture the first to go: the wounded trooper. He was too badly hurt to last much longer and would fall back. Beorthric would be next. He had miscalculated, if he thought he could ride away unscathed. I remembered how clumsy he was on horseback. His weapons skill would not save him. He was a big, heavy man, and his horse would tire under his weight. Compared to the Avars who were bred to the saddle, the tall Saxon would be easy meat. Eventually his lighter, faster enemies would isolate and surround him, cut him down.

  I pulled up the stallion.

  It was difficult to define precisely why I could not abandon Beorthric. Partly it was to do with my self-respect. I knew that if I rode away when he was in grave danger, the knowledge would trouble me far into the future. But there was another reason, vague and ill-defined and just as compelling. In some fashion a bond existed between us. The nature of that bond, and how it had arisen, was unclear to me, though it hovered in the back of my mind. It might have come from the long hours we had spent together on the road, or have arisen through mutual respect. At our very first meeting outside Archbishop Arno’s office in Paderborn I had recognized him as a skilled fighter, and later he had acknowledged that I had a quick and subtle mind. Somehow we had succeeded in supporting one another. Nor was I able to forget that secret nod of warning he had given me just before Kaiam’s murder. It had saved me from the ensuing bloodbath. Now was my opportunity to repay that debt.

  Of all the half-formed ideas that ran through my head, the only one that made any sense was that I should find myself some weapons and join the fight. I had trained as a cavalryman with Carolus’s household troops. I knew how to wield lance and sword. Long hours on the practice ground had taught me the tricks of close-quarters combat. The wounded Avar trooper was already lost to the battle. With his sword in my hand, my presence would tip the balance.

  I turned and began to head back towards the burial mound. I had gone little more than a couple of miles from the scene of the fighting and took care to approach from the side away from where I had left the others. When I came close enough, I halted and quietly got down from the saddle. I left the reins dangling. As I had expected, the well-trained animal dropped its head and began to crop the grass, waiting for my return. Keeping low, I scrambled on hands and knees to the crest of the mound and looked down on the far side.

  With an awful, sick sensation, I saw that I had left it too late. The fighting was over. Kuber was kneeling on the trampled ground, his arms bound behind his back. He had been badly knocked about. A deep wound on his head was leaking blood, and his Avar hairstyle had come undone, the long braids hanging to the ground. A few steps away lay the bodies of our three Avar troopers. The corpses had been stripped of their armour.

  I looked around anxiously for Beorthric and was dismayed not to see him. The final stages of the fight had taken place at the foot of the burial mound. There the bushes and undergrowth had been trampled down, the grass flattened. I counted four more bodies laid out in a neat row. The men who had attacked us had paid a heavy price for their victory. Most of the survivors were now occupied in sorting through a bundle of furs that had been dumped on the ground. Someone must have recaptured the runaway pack mule.

  A movement close to where the attackers had tethered their horses caught my attention. Beorthric was standing there, his left arm in a sling. He had only two men guarding him.

  I had seen enough. I slithered back down the slope of the burial mound with a plan of action already clear in my mind.

  The stallion was waiting exactly where I had left him. I mounted up, and rode around the end of the burial mound at a controlled walk. As I emerged within sight of the attackers, I pressed my heels into the stallion’s ribs and the animal surged forward into the charge. I rode straight into the group of tethered horses and crashed right through them. Panicked by the sudden appearance of the snorting stallion, they bolted in all directions. One of the men beside Beorthric was knocked off his feet. The second man I simply rode over. Sweeping up to Beorthric I shouted at him to hang on. He hesitated, then gave a great roar, part triumph, part astonishment. Moments later I was riding away with him clinging onto the stirrup leather with his good arm, bounding along at my side. No one was close enough to stop us, and no one made a move to do so. The men who had been sorting through the furs were gaping at us, too startled to move. We got clear away.

  After another hundred yards I slowed the stallion to a walk. ‘Reach up with your good arm,’ I told the Saxon. He did as he was told. I leaned sideways. ‘Now hold me by the wrist,’ I took a firm grip. ‘Up you come!’ I grunted as
I swayed back upright. The stallion knew exactly what I was doing. I felt his left shoulder droop at just the right moment, then rise. In one scrambling movement the big Saxon was lifted off his feet and able to swing one leg behind the saddle and over the horse’s back.

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ he gasped as he put his arms around my waist and clung on as the stallion moved back into a steady canter.

  ‘Lots of practice with Carolus’s household squadrons,’ I told him. ‘But it helps to have a properly trained horse when you’re hoisting up a great lout of a foot soldier.’

  ‘The rescue was masterly,’ he said. Then, to my astonishment, he burst into laughter, adding, ‘Everything is now back to front.’

  *

  It was not until nightfall that he explained. By then we must have covered half the distance to the frontier. There had never been any sign of pursuit and though the stallion was more than capable of bearing our combined weight, we had been taking turns to ride while the other person walked alongside. The many streams and ponds had provided plenty of water for the horse and ourselves but we were ravenously hungry. The last glow of the sun was a faint pink stain on the western horizon when we came across a suitable place to spend night, a sheltered spot below the slope of a wooded hill. I unsaddled the stallion and made hobbles from its reins just in case it decided to stray. Then I was glad to flop down on the ground, and let my tired muscles relax. I lay on my back, gazing up at the sky, counting the stars as they began to appear. Beorthric was seated on the ground close by, arms clasped around his knees. His expression had turned very sombre. The only sound was the regular tearing of grass as the stallion grazed. It was going to be a cool night. Just as I was about to drop off into an exhausted sleep, I heard Beorthric’s voice, low and serious.