Harry’s audacity silenced the room.
Romulfus spoke first. “What is it then, storyteller?” Such as Harry were tolerated as sources of amusement, but certainly not respected.
Harry took a deep breath. “I’ll bet fifty gold solidi that I can take White’s position and at least draw.”
Terrence shoved through the crowd, hissing in English, “Are you daft? We don’t have that much money. Debtors here become slaves. Say you were joking.”
“Quit your foreign gabble.” Romulfus fumed at the temerity of a mere jongleur. This was a warrior’s game. “Are you prepared to pay if you lose?”
“Of course.” Harry took the challenge as acceptance. He claimed the chair Sigismund had vacated. Smiling bravely at Terrence, Harry advanced a pawn.
The game settled into a contest of position and maneuver—not, Harry had observed, the local style of play. Carefully, he shepherded forward a cluster of pawns. Romulfus seethed with impatience, downing beer after beer in frustration, as White’s pawns and King maneuvered in a self-protecting block. Only now did the warrior glimpse what Harry had seen: The one way to prevent one of Harry’s pawns from crossing the board was to sacrifice Black’s Minister. The unequal trade meant a draw in the game and loss of the wager; declining the trade would allow the pawn, upon reaching the final rank of the board, to be promoted into a new White Minister.
With near parity in pieces Harry felt certain White would win.
Romulfus stood, growling. He flung a sack of coins onto the board, scattering the chessmen. “Bah, I tire of this game.” He stormed into the night with his cronies in tow.
Sigismund and his backers clapped Harry on the back and plied him with beer. Not too many drinks, however, to keep Harry from tripling his new stake over the course of the evening.
NEAR LIMOGES, AQUITAINIA, 730
Bertha mindlessly worked her broom, pushing the nonexistent dust across the stone floor to the doorway. She was, for these times, a mature woman: twenty-three years old. Her hair was a dark blond, almost brown; her eyes were crystal blue. Only her too-strong jaw had denied her beauty and a husband. That hardly mattered now.
There were two more rooms to sweep, then Bertha would start cooking for the garrison. That chore, at least, she did not mind: The food that she too ate would be as good as she could make it. After cleaning up from dinner, she could hide in her own tiny room, there to collapse into the fitful sleep of exhaustion. Alone.
A night untroubled by these devils was the best Bertha could expect in life now. She had been abducted by Saracen raiders and kept here as a slave, wherever here was. Her only clue to her location was the warmth. She did not think she had been prisoner long enough for winter to have passed, yet it was mild as long as the sun was out. South, somewhere, then, judging from the stories her father had told her. She had never left her village until the attack. She wondered if she would ever see it again.
Water bubbled in the iron cauldron as she prepared the evening meal. The first day here, she had prepared simple Frankish fare; one savage beating had taught her that not even that reminder of home would be allowed. She now threw handfuls of white grains—rice, were they called?—into the water.
The drumming of hooves and calls of greeting heralded the arrival of more men. She added rice to the pot, then stepped outside to get more meat from the smokehouse.
“Come here, little one.”
Bertha froze. She knew that voice all to well. She knew it from waking horrors and sleeping nightmares. Slowly she turned toward the man who had spoken.
Too slowly, apparently, for the hulking brute back from a raid. He took two steps forward and backhanded her across the face. “Gamal wasted all the fine women we had taken. You shall have to satisfy all of us tonight.” He raised an arm again, threateningly, to cut off her sniffling.
She stood, her limbs aquiver with fear, dread, and loathing. She had only a moment in which to study the jagged scar across his jaw, the cruel eyes, and the evil, gap-toothed smile before he ripped open her simple dress. Knocking her down onto the hard courtyard, he took her violently to the echoing cheers of the garrison.
NEAR ORLEANS, 730
Stronger men than Bertchramm would have quailed at the sights in the crossroads clearing. Several of his men, their faces ashen, ran back into the woods; retching noises followed. The warlord resisted the urge to join them.
Body parts littered the clearing. Some monster had assembled the pieces into cruel little statues: Here a head grew straight from the bloody stump of a leg, there a limbless torso lay mounded over with severed fingers and toes. Rage filled the warrior, hatred consumed him. Carrion was all that remained of people stolen from his village.
He prodded his skittish horse forward with a squeeze of his heels. Lupus growled in dismay, but silently padded after. At the far edge of the clearing, Bertchramm dismounted. When he stepped inside the primitive hut, the dog refused to follow.
“Magnulfus!” Bertchramm’s grim stoicism deserted him. Facing him from atop a cracked pottery ewer was the accusing head of his brother. Magnulfus did not stare, exactly, for his eyes had been gouged out. Dried blood filled his mouth, lay caked thickly down his chin. Into his head was deeply carved the crescent moon. Bertchramm knew who made that mark: Saracens.
The bastards who killed Magnulfus were the same ones who had raided the village months earlier. The same ones who had taken Magnulfus’ only daughter, his niece. Magnulfus had sworn to save Bertha if he could and to avenge her in any case.
Bertchramm lovingly picked up the bloody remnant of his brother and cradled it in his arms. “By your wounds and God’s wounds, I swear that I will avenge you.”
Leaving two warriors to bury the dead, Bertchramm and the war party pressed on.
ON THE METZ-REIMS ROAD, FRANCIA, 730
The straight, one-edged scramasax clanged against Harry’s own sword, once, twice, three times. He felt the jolts all the way to his shoulder. His fingers grasping the hilt tingled, dangerously numb. He fell back under the vicious assault, parrying clumsily. Somewhere behind him, he remembered, was a large boulder. He was trapped. He lowered his blade and charged.
The Frank easily swept aside the feeble attack. With an understated elegance too quick for Harry to fully appreciate, the warrior slid his point through Harry’s defense and pinked him in the right biceps. Sweat burned in the fresh scratch.
“Better.” Sigismund wiped his blade on a handful of leaves and returned it to its scabbard. Siggie was the one warrior in the group escorting the merchants who approached Harry’s height. “Soon you’ll last long enough not to embarrass whoever kills you.”
“It’s a start. Again tomorrow after dinner?”
Sigismund snorted. “Anything rather than sit, eh? I saw how you two sit your horses.”
Terrence, who had recovered from his own earlier practice, grumbled under his breath—in English—about people too obtuse to invent stirrups. He bore his own scratches from the hotheaded but likeable Frank. He switched into his increasingly fluent Frankish. “I suppose you expect a story now.”
Sigismund shrugged. “It can wait. Harry paid for tonight’s lesson by teaching me some new chess tricks. I think I’ll go win some money.” The warrior wandered off toward the campfire, humming tunelessly.
Now that he was no longer being chased around the clearing, Harry began to feel the twilight chill. He pulled his flannel shirt back on over his undershirt, then sat cautiously on the boulder he had just been so desperate to avoid.
“A denarus for your thoughts.”
Harry pondered. “Keep your denarus. Get me some Ben Gay. His arm twinged with every button he manipulated.
Terrence sighed. “You think too small. How about a hot-water bottle? An electric heating pad? A warm bath?
“Chocolate bars, mattresses, and cold beer.”
“Two out of three.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a Brit. How can you drink it warm?”
“How can you drink it cold?”
“And toilet paper.”
“Oh God, yes,” Terrence said. “You win.” Laughter and good-natured cursing wafted their way from the now-roaring campfire, around which had gathered their companions on the road west. “Let’s see what’s for dinner.”
The road fare was what they had come to expect—and loathe. Coarse bread, always. Grilled game, usually prepared with lots of onion and garlic. Dried vegetables. They washed everything down with bad wine. While the meal was prepared, Harry won another profitable game of chess. He played on his own set—Romulfus had refused to reclaim his board and pieces.
With only their cloaks to wrap around themselves as bedding, no one was especially eager for sleep. Terrence told his nightly story, another installment from the wildly popular retelling of Gulliver’s Travels. He was up to the Houyhnhnms, intelligent horses who domesticated wild people. The very notion kept the Franks hooting with laughter, and they bellowed like children at every whinnylike repetition of the gentle creatures’ names.
Terrence finished, and a merchant who had joined the travelers at the last town hollered his approval louder than anyone. When the cheers finally died down, the newcomer rose to his feet. “A good tale, stranger. I look forward to hearing more of it.
“I am Lothar. My family has long prided itself on its skill in storytelling. If you do not mind the competition, I will also relate a history.”
With a smile at the shouts of encouragement from the company, Lothar began. “Men of Francia all know of our great ruler. Do you know that his family is destined to rule? Do you know that luck rides always with his family?”
Harry glanced at Terrence, who shrugged. Historian that he was, Terrence had no idea where this was going.
“Everyone knows that Neustria and Austrasia were not ruled always by one man. That union resulted from the great victory won by our leader’s father, Pippin of Herstal, on the field of battle at Tertry. But Pippin was not born in the palace. Over many years, through battles and strife, the Pippinids fought on.” By the dancing light and shadow from the campfire, Lothar studied the rapt faces of the crowd. “And in all of those years, the Pippinids never doubted.
“Do you know why?”
The merchant held his audience in the palm of his hand. “I will tell you why. None of you grew up in the town of Metz through which you so recently passed. Pippin of whom we speak was not the first of his line. Pippin, like all men, had a father, and he, too, had a father. And so it was that Pippin’s grandfather was also named Pippin. And that Pippin married a daughter of Bishop Arnulf of Metz.
“Who, you ask? Bishop Arnulf? Yes, you are right, he who became Saint Arnulf. The Pippinids descend also from Saint Arnulf. And the line of Arnulf is destined to rule.”
Somewhere deep in the woods, a wolf howled. Resin crackled and popped in the campfire. No man made a sound.
Finally, Lothar continued. “Know then that Bishop Arnulf chose to test his destiny. One day, beside the great river Seine, Arnulf plucked his seal ring from his finger. Arnulf called out to all that he would cast the ring into the river, ‘for if it comes back to me, then it shall be a sign that I shall rule over men.’ And hurl it into the swirling, flowing waters he did.
“Men said that Arnulf was mad, for who would so cast off his seal ring? Years passed, and the ring, of course, was not seen. Through it all, however, Arnulf kept faith.
“One evening, perhaps on a crisp, clear night such as this, Arnulf sat down to dinner. As on so many nights before and since, a fine river fish had been prepared for his meal. His servant sliced open the fish and, in front of the whole household, out rolled the seal ring so long ago thrown into the river.
“And so, God had given Arnulf the sign he sought. In our day, as in Arnulf’s, it is clear that the descendants of Arnulf shall rule men.”
After a moment of silence, the traveling company shouted out their approval. By popular acclamation, Lothar won tonight’s storytelling. Terrence shrugged and bought the first round of congratulatory beer. Wasn’t it obvious that old Arnulf had slipped into the kitchen to tuck a duplicate ring into supper?
Still, professional jealousy was unbecoming. “A fine tale, Lothar, and one that I shall remember. I have one question, though. If this ring is such good fortune, what happened to it?”
Lothar stared in disbelief. “Surely everyone knows that, just as everyone knows about the luck of the Arnulfings. The applause was for my telling of the tale, not for any novelty in it.”
For neither the first nor the last time in these surroundings, Terrence answered, “I am a stranger here.”
Lothar studied the jongleur’s face. Finding no mockery there, he relented. “Pippin of Herstal, the victor at Tertry, left behind three grandsons as his heirs. Plectrude, his widow, was to rule as regent until the children came of age. But Pippin and Plectrude had had a son before their marriage. Their bastard son had outlasted the issue of their marriage, and he raised an army to fight both his mother and the invading Frisians.
“Surely you now know the answer to your question.”
Terrence’s reference collection was many centuries inaccessible; he could only shake his head. He could not keep straight the Franks’ unending dynastic battles.
“Pippin’s surviving son was a great warrior and a brilliant leader. He now holds, without rival, the palaces in both Neustria and Austrasia.”
“The king of Francia?” Harry guessed.
“Bah.” Lothar spat in disgust. “The kings of Francia are worthless do-nothings. Everyone of the line of Merovechus has been useless since King Dagobert, in Arnulf’s own day. Certainly not the king. I speak of Karl, of course, the major domus (mayor of the palace). The ring of good fortune sits proudly upon the finger of Karl, Pippin’s son.”
And with the mention of Karl, the weight of the ages returned squarely to Harry’s and Terrence’s weary shoulders. For the current mayor of the palace, he whom the French would someday claim as Karl Martel, Charles the Hammer, was the victor of the onrushing battle at Tours.
Or he was supposed to be . . . .
* * * *
To their surprise, Harry and Terrence were still with the merchant company when it arrived at Reims. No one in the primitive agricultural settlements along the way reacted to Terrence’s description of Faisel. No one admitted to knowledge of anything out of the ordinary since the first earthquake.
They resigned themselves to the simplistic Plan B: Head for Tours. The immediate question was when. During the arduous trip from Metz, they came to value the wisdom of Gregory’s advice that they travel within a larger group.
No one was more pleased than Terrence when, just before nightfall, an actual town came into sight. “Who the hell ever thought to domesticate horses? My rear end is petrified.”
Harry laughed. “You’ll have time here to rest. Fredegar and his boys”—the chief merchants—“won’t be going anywhere for a while. They’ve got a wagon full of Italian bronze bowls left to move, and several sets of millstones. About all that they expect to sell quickly are the Greek olive oil and swords.”
The last-mentioned items were of exceptional quality—not an unusual emphasis in a martial society. Short days ago, they had watched in fascination as a Metz swordsmith crafted a scramasax from bars of several different irons and steels. His pattern-welding technique gave the weapons incredible flexibility—they could be bent almost double, then spring back perfectly straight—just like in some Errol Flynn swashbuckler. The Frankish scabbards were lovingly decorated in exquisite gold-and-garnet cloisonné work. While the two friends hadn’t scrimped on their own weapons purchases, their scabbard selections were far more utilitarian.
“Let ’em take a few days,” Terrence grumbled. “Even sleeping on a heap of straw will be an imp
rovement.”
Harry laughed again. “Fine. Maybe I can find some suckers while you rest. Our new friends won’t bet on chess anymore. I’m almost reduced to introducing ticktacktoe.”
The group split in Reims. A few went to check out the town market despite the fading light; on impulse, Terrence joined them, hoping to earn a few tips with his stories. Harry went with several others to the monastery to arrange lodging. Traveling with the merchants, it turned out, had an unexpected fringe benefit: eligibility for the fireplace-equipped main guest quarters.
The market here flourished in the happy confluence of Roman roads from six separate directions; hosting the royal palace didn’t hurt, either. Many merchants were already in residence; the roly-poly local abbot introduced Harry and his companions around. Another group had come just that morning from Soissons, a short way up the road that ran northwest, apparently all the way to what only Harry and Terrence considered the English Channel.
“Care for a game?”
Sigebald, leader of the newly arrived merchants, had just completed a chess match and was looking for another opponent. The merchant’s leather board was badly scuffed; it had seen much use. Harry told himself not to be overconfident. “Certainly.”
As usual, Harry won quickly. Centuries of chess lore far outweighed his limited experience with this era’s version of the game. Versions. Chess had only recently been introduced to Western Europe by the invading Arabs and, he had discovered, the European game was still evolving. Almost everyone in Fredegar’s troupe had a preferred hometown version.
As he did with every new challenger, Harry had carefully reviewed his opponent’s set of chess rules for regional quirks. Would Harry mind using Septimanian rules? They sped up the game. “No problem.” At Harry’s urging, the merchant discussed his travels as they played. Septimania, it seemed, lay to the southwest: what Harry thought of as the French Riviera.
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