The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  Henri took no notice. Worse, as Guilhem saw, the two fairies perched in the rafters were now listening with ears cocked toward Henri below, no doubt eager to hear more about themselves. What were the little so-and-sos doing here anyway? They were far from their haunts back in Frankish lands. Weren’t they worried about being assaulted by the djinn?

  Probably they are in league, fairies and djinn alike, being fey beings all, he thought sourly.

  “Tell a story about us!” cried one of the fairies, launching himself (or herself; it wasn’t always easy to tell what sex they were, if any at all) into the air. Guilhem, refusing to respond, ignored the little pest. Fortunately, none of the Saracens could see the thing.

  “I will tell of an encounter I had with two wenches,” Guilhem said, raising his voice, hoping to distract the crowd. “Wives of vassals were they.”

  That got the Saracens’ attention, and they settled down somewhat, looking at him with interest.

  “A song I’ll make you, worthy to recall,

  With ample folly and with sense but small,

  Of joy, young-heartedness, and love will I compound it all.”

  He grinned at his audience. “Now, as it happened it was a fine morning and I was on the homeward leg of a walking tour. Beside the road gurgled the rapids and eddies of a river named the Dordogne, of which I am sure you have never heard. But it is a wide and beautiful course of water... though at that place it was young, just sprung from the side of a mountain, and no more than a stream.

  “Soon I heard the sound of horses approaching from around the bend ahead. Brigands? No. Highwaymen wouldn’t choose that time of day or such an open setting for their depredations. Therefore, I maintained a carefree pace.

  “Just before the riders hove into view I marked them by their cheerful chatter as women, and, by the tinkling of bells on the harnesses of their mounts, high born at that.

  “A single glance marked their well-bred palfreys, and their fine clothing. I knew them at once: the ladies Ermessen and Berthaude, wives of two nobles who lived not far from my keep. Their men had marched off to—” He broke off just before saying that his vassals had gone to join the Crusade to free the Holy Land from the Saracens. Hastily he improvised: “To war in a nearby duchy.”

  A flash of memory rushed through his mind. When he’d first heard about the Crusade Guilhem had pondered going, too, but ultimately decided that his affection for the church was not sufficient to allow him to abandon his property and family for an unknown length of time on a perilous journey promising no firm return for his investment of time and money.

  “Why, they’d have me raise an army of three thousand souls,” he had complained to Brother Gabriel over wine. “It would cost me deep in the purse!” He snorted. “And meanwhile all my lands would be unprotected.”

  Brother Gabriel’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Guilhem over the rim of his glass. The worldly monk was not averse to the pleasures of the flesh despite his pious manner. “I daresay the absence of your neighbors will provide you with unexpected opportunities,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Insofar as comforting certain wives about certain husbands’ absences...”

  He banished the memory and said to the other tavern-goers, “Now, the ladies were most fair and beguiling. One was Berthaude, a winsome brunette, with a pale complexion, large eyes, and a somewhat sly manner. ‘Well met, pilgrim,’ she said, and I knew she did not recognize me, travel-stained and footsore as I was.

  “Therefore did I put my tongue in my cheek, withholding a grin. ‘Seek you the shrine of Saint Laumart, pilgrim? It is not far,’ said the other, Ermessen, in a thrilling voice.”

  The Saracens muttered approvingly. Henri, who had previously heard this boastful story from Guilhem, grinned.

  “Younger than Berthaude was she,” Guilhem said hurriedly, “and her husband’s second wife, his first having died in childbirth. Fate had brought both to me. What would I do?” He reached for the bottle of raki, poured out a glassful, and downed it.

  “What did you do?” called one of the French-speaking men. Any hint of threat was gone from his voice.

  Guilhem chuckled. “I played a mute,” he said. “For if they believed I could not speak, they might be willing to have sport with me, their husbands being away... and a mute can tell no tales.

  “So they took me to Castle Beynac, nearby, which belonged to Berthaude’s husband, Count Piers. Perched atop a huge rock, it was in truth little more than a chateau despite its grandiose name, with a tall donjon looking out over a three-story turreted keep beside a small, placid lake. And yet a pretty place was it for an assignation.

  “I continued to play the fool. The ladies bathed me... a pleasant experience.” His audience murmured and chuckled in appreciation. “But now they began to doubt. Was I truly a mute? Could I in truth make no more sounds than babble and turkey-gobbles?

  “They spoke among themselves so I could not hear, and then left the room. I knew not what they were about and was puzzled mightily. Were we not to frolic? But. But! Presently the women returned wearing, I was delighted to see, only their underdresses—but bearing between them a cage in which reposed a large orange tomcat, with bristling whiskers. The cat spat and gave forth a low yowl of displeasure. What they meant to do was drag it down my back to see if I would cry out!

  “But, seeing this, Vorlion, grinning toothily, said—”

  “Who?” called one of the Saracens. “You made no mention of this Vorlion previously.”

  And above, from the rafters, came the cry: “Good Vorlion! Tell more of him!” “Yes, tell more! Vorlion! Vorlion!”

  Guilhem cast a desperate look at Henri. Vorlion was a fairy who had attached himself to Guilhem during his sojourn into the countryside, an audibly flatulent little monstrosity who rode on the brim of his peasant hat, refusing to leave him. Guilhem had spoken of the creature to Henri, his closest friend, but to no other. Now, having gotten carried away with his story, he had let slip the truth of the fairy’s presence.

  Henri, somewhat more befuddled with alcohol than Guilhem, spoke up: “A fairy! Did I not say that my lord, here, is a friend to the fey?”

  “Ah, the fairies,” called one of the Saracens. “Wee sprites, akin to the djinn, are they not? Yes, we would hear more of them.” Others shouted their approval of this suggestion.

  “No,” said Guilhem. “It’s... it’s foolishness.” He waved his hands. “I know nothing of them.”

  “Then who was Vorlion, and from whence did he come?”

  “Curse you!” Guilhem hissed at the dismayed Henri, who knew he had gone too far. To the crowd, he said, lamely, “A... a parrot, I had trained to talk.”

  “Oh, what sort of fools do you infidels take us for?” demanded one of the men. “Was it a fairy or was it not?”

  Guilhem clenched his fists. “If you would listen—”

  Calls of Liar! erupted now from all sides.

  Later, Guilhem could not recall whose fist was first to contact an opponent’s jaw. All he knew was that he and Henri suddenly found themselves fighting for their lives. Though no cowards, the Saracens were hampered somewhat by the robes they wore, where Guilhem and Henri had more freedom of movement. Guilhem grabbed two opponents and knocked their heads together with a sharp crack, head-butted another, then ducked and dove straight at a fourth man, bowling him over into two others. He heard the hiss of a Saracen blade being pulled from its scabbard. There was no room for swordplay inside the crowded tavern, but all the men possessed knives or daggers. Those of the Saracens tended to be wickedly curved, and wielded with cunning and expertise. It was only through Henri’s even greater skills with his main-gauche that the two Europeans battled their way to the door and fled for their lives into Adrianople’s twisting alleyways, unable to restrain their drunken laughter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN WHICH THERE IS A FATEFUL MEETING IN HERACLEA

  Guilhem parried Henri’s sword thrust easily with his own blade, turning it harmlessly aside. He
pressed the attack, perspiration pouring off him. It was cursed hot and humid. Turkey had a terrible climate for fighting. But hot and uncomfortable as he was now, he knew it would be far worse once he and his men were encased in their armor.

  He lifted his sword to call for a pause. “I can’t see a blasted thing,” he growled, wiping his arm across his forehead.

  Henri dropped the point of his weapon, panting. “It’s the heat,” he said. “It saps one, it does.” He lifted the blade once more and took a fighting stance.

  “I hate this country.” Guilhem waved Henri off. “A few moments more, I pray you,” he said, and sagged against the bole of a nearby tree. He dropped his shield and reached for the skin of water hanging from a branch. “I hate the climate, I hate the food, and I especially hate the people.”

  “The Saracens? We all hate them.” Henri tossed his shield to one side. He grabbed the skin as Guilhem handed it to him and drank greedily. Here and there nearby other pairs of men were likewise engaging each other. Smoke from the cook fires dotting the main body of the camp drifted through the trees. It was early morning; before long the day would grow too hot for this sort of swordplay.

  “In truth I don’t hate the men we are fighting, those Seljuks,” Guilhem said, shaking his head. “They’re valiant warriors, stouthearted and courageous. A man can respect that, their religion aside. It’s the others, the peasants and the merchants and all. Always trying to cheat you, selling you half-spoiled food.” He spat to one side. “Learned their scholars may be, but the rest of them aren’t worth a beggar’s bottom.”

  Henri eyed him, a half smile on his dark face. “Cast blame where you wish, my lord, but well I know you didn’t want to come here in the first place.”

  Guilhem didn’t bother to deny it. “What we won’t do for a woman,” was all he said.

  “Ah, but Philippa is not any woman,” Henri replied, grinning. “‘Any woman’ is one you seek only to bed. I’ve been through much of that with you. Much. Phillipa is your wife. Do I wish she was mine!”

  The knight’s impertinence sparked Guilhem’s temper. “Your tongue will get you in trouble one day, Henri,” he said, pushing himself away from the tree. “Have at you!”

  Once more they took up their shields, crossed swords in salute and resumed their practice. Guilhem, ignoring the sweat trickling down inside his leather jerkin, pressed his comrade in arms with renewed determination. Henri was a perceptive man. It made him a good soldier, one able to distract opponents by taunting them with highly personal remarks. The problem with the tactic was that Henri often used it on allies as well, especially when he was in his cups. He wasn’t drunk now, but he was nonetheless deploying his wit at Guilhem’s expense.

  Adding to the Duke’s annoyance was the fact that his young wife’s ambitions for land and influence had led her to make some decisions on her own concerning the disbursement of Guilhem’s funds. Yes, he had had to leave some authority in her hands while he was away, but from her letters it had become clear to him she was overstepping her bounds. He knew that Philippa had originally been interested primarily in his title, his looks, and his reputation as a lover (which he had been careful to promote through his songs and poems). None of that bothered him. Allegiances and marriages, after all, were made between people who wanted something from each other. That was normal, and expected.

  He wasn’t willing to admit that perhaps his conscience was pricking him, as well.

  Fortunately, he was for the time being spared further reflection on that subject by the appearance of a tall figure striding toward them. “Hoy!”

  Guilhem and Henri paused. “The Lady Itha,” Henri said.

  “I know who it is,” said Guilhem wearily.

  “You don’t sound particularly glad to see her.” Humor sparkled in Henri’s voice but Guilhem, sighing, ignored it.

  Itha of Austria, consort of King Leopold II, was not only beautiful, but had proved herself more than capable in the field. She was the only female commander, a fact that did not endear her to most of the soldiers, who grumbled at a woman’s presence on the battlefield. She had, however, brought her own army: more than three thousand warriors, welcome additions to the French and Bavarian forces. Her men, well acquainted with her determination and expertise, didn’t carp. In fact, the surest way to get on the bad side of any Austrian man-at-arms was to make disparaging remarks about Itha in his hearing.

  “Duke Guilhem!” she called out. “Tis time to parley. Our presence is required.” Without waiting to see if he would heed her, she turned and strode back toward the camp.

  “All right, Henri, we will resume this later,” Guilhem said. He quickly cleaned his sword and returned it to its scabbard before following Itha. Henri saw him off with an ironic salute.

  Knowing Itha’s destination, he took his time making his way through the camp. Many of the men he passed hailed him. He was well liked among the troops; due less, he suspected, to his bravery and swordsmanship than to his skills playing the lute and singing bawdy songs of his own devise.

  Among the other commanders—Hugh of Vermandois and Welf I, Duke of Bavaria— Guilhem was accorded less respect. He knew why. More than once he had been seen apparently arguing with the thin air, gesticulating like a madman. It was the stinking fairies, of course. They were as persistent as mosquitoes and even more infuriating. He had long since come to curse the day he rescued one from his falcon.

  It was in no benevolent mood, therefore, that he threw back the flap of the tent in which the commanders sat around a small table covered with maps, discussing strategy. Itha ignored his entrance but Hugh and Welf both turned toward him. Hugh, squat and dark-haired, scowled. Welf was Hugh’s opposite: tall, blond, hale, like Guilhem himself. But Welf’s ready grin masked a propensity for sadistically drawing out an enemy’s suffering on the battlefield. Guilhem didn’t like the Frenchman but he hated Welf as he had hated few men in his life.

  Still, Welf mattered little to him in the larger scheme of things. Their common goal was to defeat the Saracens, but their position here on the very shores of the Black Sea in the midst of enemy territory in September, 1101, grew more perilous and uncertain every day.

  Apparently, Guilhem noted, he had walked in on a dispute concerning the positioning of forces. Without bothering to acknowledge him, Hugh of Vermandois turned back to the others and said, “We can’t stay here. We’ll be overrun by these heathens if we do.” His own contingent of men was small, much smaller than Guilhem’s, but he always spoke and acted as if he had the superior force.

  “I say we harry them on their flanks,” said Welf. Despite his dislike of the Bavarian, Guilhem was inclined to listen to him in these meetings because of his prowess as a leader. Of them all Welf had the most experience in battle. “What say you, Duke Guilhem?”

  Hugh snorted. “Yes, ask the man who lost nearly an entire patrol not three days past.”

  Guilhem ground his teeth and scowled, but remained silent. Unfortunately, Hugh’s gibe had truth in it. Three days past, Guilhem and six men left camp before dawn on a mission to reconnoiter the Saracen positions. It was their bad luck to run into a small band of Saracen scouts engaged in a similar mission. The two groups clashed and Guilhem’s had the worst of it.

  He and his surviving men staggered back into camp bleeding and disheveled. Guilhem had lost three of the six soldiers he went out with, and the remaining men were wounded. So was he; but he disdained treatment before reporting to the other field commanders.

  They had been unsympathetic.

  “You knew the Saracens were out there,” said Itha as she idly cleaned her nails with her dagger. She glanced at him through narrowed eyes. “Yet you chose to risk clashing with them.”

  The young duke flared. “How else are we to learn where they are? Or the strength of their troops? Shall we employ a witch to scry for us? Or shall we consider the comet that has lately appeared in the skies to be a good omen?” He gestured at Hugh. “Ask him. Four years ago, in the First C
rusade, he learned his army was being shadowed by Turkish scouts, so he sent out his own and found the Turkmen waiting in ambush. It was his good fortune he was able to avoid it.”

  Hugh drummed his fingers on the table. “True enough, I confess it,” he said. “But I didn’t venture forth without first notifying my commander.”

  Itha exchanged a look with Welf, who shrugged and made a dismissive gesture. “All this is beside the point,” she said. “And that is, there are wiser tactics than attempting a daylight scouting party with so many men.”

  “Aye,” said Welf, nodding. “I would have sent out two men at the most, and after sunset. Had you asked, Guilhem, we would have advised this.” He raised a hand to cut off Guilhem’s expostulation. “Fear not; we have no wish to be surprised again by the Muslims. But as Itha says, there are ways, and there are ways.”

  “Yet you, my young duke, never ask the opinion of more seasoned soldiers,” said Itha, staring coldly at Guilhem. “You assume you know better.”

  What she said was true and he knew it, but his pride wouldn’t let him admit that. It didn’t help that she was a better tactician and more experienced in battle than he was. That young duke had been a sharp dig. At bottom, she was a woman, and he simply could not tolerate taking military advice from a female. Without a word, he had turned and stalked away.

  The memory of that confrontation of three days previous still rankled as he took his place now in the tent among his peers. “On their flanks, eh?” he said to Welf. “What’s wrong with a straight-on charge?”

  Welf sneered. “We’ve learned better. It’s true that the Saracens can’t withstand our armored forces. We plow right through their ranks. But consider: while we hold tight columns, their cavalry out-maneuvers us. They don’t wear heavy armor as do we, and their horses are smaller and more nimble than ours, that are bred to carry the weight of a fully clad knight.”

  “Pah! They are undisciplined, a rabble,” Guilhem said. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. “They ride in loose formation, like savages.”