by A. L. Sirois
Guilhem opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say.
Oriabel said, “Reading the future is not always a pleasant task. Much of what I learn I would prefer not to know. Go get your horse, I pray you, and let her feed.”
The duke trudged back to Felice, led her to the grass, and stood watching while the two horses browsed on what was left. By the time he and Oriabel had finished a meagre supper of bread and apples, eaten in silence, and prepared their bedrolls, daylight had all but failed.
Then, feeling foolish and somewhat depressed, he bedded down for the night a few feet away from the witch, who, swaddled in her rags and blankets, looked like an old bundle of discarded trash. She had refused to bring the heavy bearskin along, citing its weight.
The next morning dawned still, sunny, and cold. They rose to find themselves covered with a dusting of snow that had fallen during the night. Guilhem and Oriabel said nothing, though Guilhem found himself in no good mood. He knew better than to share his irritation, but Rámon, who had spent the night wrapped like an untidy package in the witch’s blankets, cursed the weather and the cold.
“This is no fit place for a bird of my background. I am chilled. I hate this place!”
He complained without pause while Oriabel and Guilhem ate another couple of apples each and readied the horses. At last Guilhem grew weary of Rámon’s ceaseless litany of his miseries and turned angrily toward the bird, who was sitting on the pommel of Oriabel’s saddle with his feathers fluffed out. “If you don’t be quiet I will rip your wings off.”
Rámon flapped his wings and cried, “Mama! Mama! Do you hear how he speaks to me? Turn him into a toad! Remove his eyesight!”
“Do you be quiet, Rámon,” Oriabel said, cinching Sull’s pack. “He’s right. You grumble too much.”
Guilhem said nothing, but he could not prevent half a smile from blooming on his face. So the bird called her “mama”? He sighed. I have allied myself with a lunatic, and her even more insane bird. What will become of me?
He remained so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize he had been smelling smoke until after the odor had been in his nostrils for several minutes.
A strange chill settled over him, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the air, and his flesh prickled up in tiny bumps. When they arrived at the village a short time later they saw the smoking remains of the inn, and the chill that had settled in Guilhem’s bones burrowed more deeply into them.
He eyed the witch, who gave no hint of reaction at the sight of the charred ruins.
As they continued through the small village, she said only, “The next stop will be safe.”
“I am glad to hear you say this,” Guilhem said. “You’re sure, now? No burning inns?”
“You mock me. We will find warm beds and good food there.”
Guilhem still had difficulty believing she could see such things in advance, but he knew that the ways of magic were mysterious to the uninitiated. It seemed impossible that the movements of the stars in their courses could reveal the future. To him, the stars were of use only for telling you where you were; and flocks of birds were good only for food—if you could bring one down.
“We will not reach it until after dark,” she said. “But it is of no moment.” She held up her wineskin, which sloshed. “We have wine to warm us as we go.”
Guilhem gritted his teeth. “After dark? Last night you insisted that we make camp well before the sun set!”
“That was last night.” Her words were slightly slurred. “We faced danger. It was best for us to be nowhere near that place for reasons I explained. The matter need be of no further concern to us.” The witch continued riding, without so much as a glance in his direction. “Come, we have many leagues ahead of us this day.”
CHAPTER NINE
IN WHICH ORIABEL TAKES STEPS TO ENSURE GUILHEM’S COOPERATION
True to Oriabel’s prediction, the hôtel in the next village provided adequate accommodations. It was a rather grand town house, comfortable and warm, as Guilhem noted with satisfaction upon entering the establishment. The only downside to their stay there was that the place was almost fully booked, as they learned when they went into the tavern to register for the night.
“There are not two rooms to be had,” said the clerk at the desk, looking sidelong at the grubby Oriabel, and the glowering bird perched on her shoulder. “Consequently, you must share one.”
“Is there no other housing?” asked the duke, dismayed at the prospect of sleeping on the same mattress as the witch. Her personal hygiene was notably poor, even as far as Guilhem, who had shared many a close-packed camp with unwashed soldiers, was concerned, and she belched loudly in her sleep, as he had learned on the previous night. He’d been forced twice to move his bedroll some distance from her.
The clerk appeared unconcerned. He shrugged, spreading both hands. “Perhaps in the stables?” he said. Guilhem looked with eyebrows raised questioningly at Oriabel, who returned the look with a stony glare.
He sighed. “We will take the single room.”
The clerk leered at him so that Guilhem had to restrain himself from drawing his sword on the spot to swipe the man’s insolent head from his shoulders. “Second floor, to the right, all the way to the end, under the eaves. The chamber is small but clean.”
That it was clean was debatable, but that it was small was not: in fact, was so small that he and the witch were nearly pressed together on the straw mattress. After a surprisingly good meal in the tavern, Guilhem declared his intention to retire early.
Oriabel opted to stay. “The wine is of a better quality than that I brought with me,” she said. “Plus, I will see if I can learn anything about conditions on the trail ahead.”
Guilhem, too disgusted with her and unwilling to be seen overmuch in her company lest any incorrect, salacious conclusions be drawn about their relationship, went up to their room, hoping to be asleep before Oriabel eventually drank her fill and stumbled up the stairs and into bed. He lay fully clothed on the mattress, keeping as near the edge as he could manage. The mattress was so close to the room’s wall that there was little danger of his falling off.
He did wake briefly when Oriabel, cursing, blundered into the door as she entered the room, but fell back into slumber almost at once despite her belching and drunken muttering.
* * *
The next day on the trail she was for the most part silent. Guilhem tried to engage her in conversation but was rebuffed with a snarl. The veteran of many a hangover, he recognized the condition in Oriabel and kept to himself, but with silent amusement. Occasionally he saw her take a surreptitious swig from her wineskin.
By mid-afternoon, as they were passing through a seldom-traveled portion of the way to Bourges, she began slumping sideways in her saddle. Guilhem sneered. She’d fallen asleep again. He watched with interest for a while, curious as to whether she’d fall off the horse, but every time she seemed about to do so, Rámon tugged on a lock of her hair. She snapped awake, and righted herself, mumbling something Guilhem couldn’t catch. Presently she began sagging once more, with the same result. This happened three or four more times. Guilhem hoped that sooner or later the bird would be too late, and she’d slide to the ground.
His attention was entirely taken by this pathetic performance. He was surprised, therefore, when a voice ahead called, “Halt!”
Instantly alert, he saw four armed brigands sitting astride horses directly in the middle of the trail, two with pikes at the ready while the other two gripped swords.
Angry at himself for not paying closer heed to his surroundings, he drew his own blade.
One of the thieves laughed. “There are four of us and only one of you. How do you think you will fare against us?”
“An interesting question,” said Guilhem, smiling. “I have lately returned from the Holy Land, where my blade tasted the blood of many a Saracen. It has grown thirsty in the interim. Come, then! Let us put the question to
the test, and pit your skills against mine.”
“Ours,” said Oriabel in a husky voice. She drew her sword, and waved it unsteadily.
The robbers laughed. “Here is a pretty pass!” said one. “An old woman who thinks she can match swords with us.”
Oriabel’s bloodshot eyes went wide. “Old?” she shrieked. “Old, say you?”
All four of the men were now laughing. Oriabel kicked Sull’s ribs and the horse surged forward. She swung her blade at the nearest of the men, who lifted his pike almost carelessly to block it—but somehow her sword flicked up, knocking his weapon aside, thus disarming him, then wounding his hand grievously on the backswing. The man cursed as his blood poured forth. One of his companions aimed a vicious cut at her, but she ducked under it, bringing her under his guard so that he could not block the left-handed thrust of her dagger into his ribs. He collapsed in his saddle, his horse moving to one side as his nerveless hands dropped its reins. It blundered into one of the other animals.
In less than five seconds she had taken out two of their foes.
Guilhem stared open-mouthed along with the two remaining robbers as Oriabel wheeled Sull to one side, slamming into one of the other pike man and throwing him off balance. His weapon went flying.
That left only one man. Guilhem jumped from his horse and advanced on him, sword ready. “And now,” he purred. “we see that the odds are considerably evened. En garde, sir!”
The man stared back and forth between Guilhem and Oriabel, then yanked his mount’s reins to the side. His mount wheeled and galloped off along a barely noticeable trail leading into the woods, followed by the man with the bleeding hand and the disarmed pike man. The dead man’s horse stood calmly to one side.
Guilhem gazed in frank admiration at the glowering witch. “Your talent astonishes me, madam,” he said. “Who taught you?”
“No one,” she said in a surly tone. “It was a simple matter of computation, I tell you. No sooner did I see by the augers that we would be set upon, then did I look more closely at the men who would be ranged against us, and the moves each, per the stars, was most likely to make in the attack.” She shrugged, and set about cleaning her blade. “Once one knows what stratagems are to come, it is easy enough to deflect them. I take no great pride in it.”
“If you knew we’d be attacked, why didn’t you warn me of it?”
“You needed to understand the value of my scrying,” she said. “I tell you true, had I not known what to expect, I would have been cut to ribbons.”
“So there are limits to what you can do.”
“Of course. I am the same as everyone else. One’s actions are only as good as one’s knowledge. Surely as a soldier you know this. It is simply a matter of strategy and tactics, is it not?”
Guilhem could make no reply. Rámon, who had flown up into a tree as soon as the fight began, now fluttered down and resumed his seat on her shoulder.
“Come,” said the witch. “Let us see if our deceased adversary left anything of worth in his saddle bags.”
Aside from a skin of water and a few pennies, however, there was nothing. They took the water and the pennies and slapped the horse on its flank. It trotted into the woods along the same scant trail taken by its fellows.
Guilhem, gazing after it, said, “Shall we follow, and engage the survivors in their lair?”
“No. Let us be on our way. We can reach Bourges before nightfall, and I would prefer not to sleep outside again. It grows cold.”
Guilhem shook Felice’s reins, and the horse began moving.
Guilhem had said little to Oriabel that day. He was beginning to believe that including her on this quest had been a bad idea no matter how dexterous she had proved to be with a blade. But there seemed to be no way to be shut of her.
Their lodging in Bourges was much more to Guilhem’s liking because he was not obliged to share a room with Oriabel. He lay on his bed pondering his ill luck in having opted to take her along. True, Oriabel was good in a fight, and had those peculiar abilities allowing her to foretell aspects of the future, but she was a drunkard, hence unreliable. And Guilhem did not care to associate with unreliable companions.
He fell asleep while puzzling over methods of removing himself from her company.
When he woke in the morning, he had the grain of an idea.
After they left Bourges, he pondered it while riding. Hung over or not, Oriabel rarely let a day go by without imbibing wine. She replenished her supply from villages and towns they passed, always purchasing at least one bottle to empty into her wineskin, and a second one in case she wanted more after the first bottle’s contents were gone. She didn’t always begin on the second, but when she did, that night she always fell into a sodden slumber so deep that nothing could rouse her.
I’ll wait until she over-indulges again. In fact, I’ll encourage her! No, I can’t do that... she might grow suspicious. I’ll simply have to be patient, bide my time. Sooner or later her taste for wine will undo her. Auxerre was about two days’ travel ahead of them. Guilhem was certain that Oriabel would almost certainly seek oblivion in drink before they arrived.
Though the trail had grown wide enough to allow them to proceed side by side, they exchanged few words. This was just as well, as far as he was concerned, for it gave him ample opportunity to turn his plan over in his mind.
After she fell unconscious from the effects of alcohol, he would untether Felice and slip away through the woods, striking out in a more southerly direction toward Burgundy, bypassing Auxerre altogether. It would add some days to his travel, but it would be worth it to be rid of her. He would also be sacrificing Sull, her horse; but again, it was a small price to pay. And he’d be sure to take Sull with him if he could.
True, he would forgo Oriabel’s magical expertise, which might come in handy when dealing with Mojmir, but surely there would be other purveyors of the hidden arts with whom he could confer before confronting the sorcerer. Perhaps I can get some useful assistance from my fairy friends, he thought with distaste. Yes, and perhaps the moon will fall out of the sky.
But even if the witch drank herself into a stupor, he was left with one small problem that he could not resolve: what to do about her blasted parrot. He could think of no way to silence the creature that didn’t involve killing it; and something told him if were he to do that, his own life would be forfeit as soon as Oriabel discovered his deed. Her skill with a blade was at least the equal of his, as much as it pained him to admit it, even to himself.
No, Rámon would have to be dealt with in some other way.
Then there was the question of her augury. If Oriabel truly could divine future events, or portions of them, how was he to know that she had not foreseen his intent written out in the stars or through the interactions of alchemical compounds, and was silently laughing at him as he laid futile plans?
So vexed was he by these concerns that he didn’t realize the extent of her drinking until she slumped forward in her saddle, with her wineskin dangling from her hand so that it would have slipped from her grasp had its leather thongs not been tied around her wrist.
The parrot yanked on her hair and she recovered herself, muttering something incomprehensible at it. She emptied the skin down her throat, and poured the contents of the day’s second bottle into it, spilling a fair amount on herself and her saddle. Guilhem looked on with mixed anticipation and disgust.
As the day wore on two things became clear: one, a wind storm had sprung up, bidding fair to continue for hours at great strength. The trees to all sides tossed and murmured, and occasional crashes in the woods beyond the trail testified to old branches torn loose and sent tumbling to the ground. The gusts came from dead ahead, out of the northeast, forcing them to lean closer to their mounts. They made slow headway against the force of the wind.
The second thing that Guilhem noticed was that Oriabel was indeed drinking herself into insensibility. When they stopped to pitch camp that evening she didn’t bother with fo
od. Long before Guilhem was ready for sleep she had already passed out in a sodden heap and was snoring loudly. Muttering to himself to cover his elation, he dragged his bedroll some distance away into the woods as he generally did when she was drunk, to be farther away from her noisy respiration, which not even the ceaseless moaning of the wind could fully drown out.
The storm had a propitious effect in that Rámon, rather than sleep on a branch as he customarily did, sought shelter in the witch’s frowzy clothing, burrowing in close to her as she lay in her bedroll.
Guilhem could scarce credit his good fortune. Any noise he might make slipping away from the campsite would surely be covered by the wind and the creaking of storm-tossed trees.
At last night fell. The moon would not rise for some hours yet. Guilhem fidgeted for a time, then got slowly to his feet. Neither the witch nor Rámon gave any indication of noticing his movements. Still fully dressed, he packed his gear silently, as any seasoned soldier could do, and crept away from the camp. Stars twinkled between the wind-tossed branches. His eyes were accustomed to the light so he had no trouble moving quietly amid the trees.
The foul Rámon, snuggled up deep within his mistress’s garments, made no outcry. Emboldened by the covering sound of the fierce wind, Guilhem undid Sull’s tether and walked both him and Felice away from the camp about a mile through the woods before taking to the saddle. He rode through the storm with elation blowing through him as strongly as the near gale-force wind.
Despite his lack of sleep he felt strengthened and replenished by having left the witch behind. He visualized the territory in his mind. The duchy of Burgundy lay some leagues to the south east. He should be able to find his way to the nearest town of size, Vézelay, within a day or so. Perhaps there he might be able to enlist aid against Mojmir.
He’d never been to Vézelay, though he knew of it. The Benedictine monastery there was alleged to house a reliquary containing some bones of Mary Magdalene, stolen by a monk from the southern town of Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume. Pope Stephen IX himself had confirmed the authenticity of the relics in 1058. Guilhem looked forward to offering a prayer of thanks to them. From what he had heard, many pilgrims came to Vézelay to offer their own prayers. Doubtless among their ranks he would find men to recruit for the assault on Mojmir’s new stronghold, wherever it was.