Italian Time Travel 02 - Time Enough for Love

by Morgan O'Neill

  Otto grinned. “Really? How providential. Then you shall ride with me and show us this route of yours. We will see if luck serves us, and if Berengar likes our surprise.”

  Ranulf bowed to the king.

  Otto faced Liutprand. “I want you to ride with Father Warinus to Bianello. Advise them of our plans. They must stand watch for any of Berengar’s men who try to escape.” He momentarily ignored how the two men glared at each other, turning instead to one of his captains, standing nearby. “Provide an escort for Father Warinus and Liutprand of Pavia, for I would have them protected on their journey. Ten horsemen should suffice. They will leave immediately. We, on the other hand, will depart Reggio at nightfall. We have some time, it seems, if Berengar is bent on laying siege. The men and beasts are weary, and rest will do them good. We shall make our move on Berengar’s encampment at dawn tomorrow.”

  The captain nodded crisply. “Sire, we await your command to leave.”

  Otto looked into his captain’s eyes and discerned the same weariness he felt, even though they both masked their exhaustion with firm countenances. “Tell the ten they may take a respite in Bianello,” he went on, “and afterward, if God wills our victory, they may escort their charges to Canossa.”

  The captain nodded again, and Otto detected a hint of appreciation in his gaze.

  Now, as for the two troublemakers. Otto paused, looking at each man in turn. “Father… Liutprand, we can ill afford any bickering between you. I do not want Berengar forewarned as to our arrival. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” they replied as one, glancing at each other.

  “Good,” Otto said, satisfied as he turned back to his captain. “Go tell your men.”

  “My lord.” The man bowed and left.

  Otto’s gaze returned to the four remaining. “Stavo, Ranulf, you shall leave with me this eve.”

  They nodded and bowed.

  Otto watched their departure. “Liutprand,” he said, “I would speak to the priest alone. Wait for him by your horse.”

  “Sire.”

  As soon as Liutprand was out of earshot, Otto indicated Warinus’s injured arm. “Father, was that the result of the queen’s rescue?”

  “Yes, my son.”

  “Then I thank you for your service. Ever am I in your debt. I would also have you know that Liutprand has served the queen well these many months. I have full confidence in his loyalty, and I am also in his debt.”

  Warinus hesitated. “Yes, I understand.”

  Otto nodded. “Good. Now, what news have you of Queen Adelaide? How fares my lady?”

  “She is well, now she knows her daughter is safe with Pope Agapetus. Brother Felix delivered the news from Rome.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Also, the queen bade me tell you,” Father Warinus smiled, “that she is anxious to see you, for you owe her a dance.”

  Surprised, Otto looked into the priest’s twinkling eyes.

  “I shall leave you to your thoughts, my son,” Warinus said, before strolling away.

  Otto stood there, remembering Adelaide’s wedding day and how he couldn’t bring himself to attend the festivities, let alone dance with her, for it would have been too painful, much too painful.

  “Sire?” a voice broke into his thoughts. He turned and found his servant, Henry, holding a tray with food and drink.

  Otto hunkered down by the fire, Henry in attendance. As the king tore a piece of bread in two, his thoughts shifted to the preparations for war, the thousand things that needed to be done before marching on Berengar.

  He chewed the bread, which tasted flat, then watched as clouds scudded in front of the sun. Despite the fire, Otto felt chilled to his marrow. The vague aching of his knee joints reminded him he was nearly forty. He took a swig of ale. Would Adelaide think him old now? She was young, still so young.

  A ray of sun broke through, warming him where he crouched. His mind drifted, and he saw an image of beauty, a girl bathed in light, kneeling in prayer.

  The vision lifted his spirits as nothing else could. I am as yet the man she met four years past. She will not find me wanting – in any way.

  He smiled and finished his ale. Now, mere hours separated him from his goal, from his heart, from his life’s blood. Adelaide.

  *

  It was time. Standing beside the tranquil waters of the lake, Otto’s massive charger tossed his head several times and pawed at the dirt. The beast was as ready for this fight as Otto.

  Otto removed a glove and swiped at his perspiring face. The lake sat perched on the valley’s flank, and he could look across and up to see Canossa, the last of the night’s stars twinkling above. He could also see tendrils of smoke rising from Berengar’s campfires, not far distant, by the flight of a peregrine. And he, Otto of Germany, would be the peregrine this morn, the swiftest, the most accurate, the most intelligent and lethal of the birds of prey.

  He replaced his glove and raised his arm, then started slowly down the gentle slope toward the valley, his men following quietly behind.

  A short time later, Otto could actually hear the stray noises of a sleeping camp, for Berengar’s men were still not alerted, even yet.

  Ah, luck is indeed with us!

  Once again, Otto raised his hand, paused but a moment, then brought it down swiftly. “Yah!”

  They thundered into camp with war cries, catching Berengar’s troop completely off-guard. Shrieking like women, the enemy ran before Otto, terrified, many dying without weapons, or even clothing.

  Otto slashed, left, right, right, looking, always looking for the brute. Searching for Berengar, the man who had captured Adelaide – he felled someone with one stroke, clipping him at the shoulder, nearly taking off his head – searching for the man who had brutalized and humiliated Adelaide – he thrust again, and a man’s entrails spilled forth – searching for the man who had stolen her crown, killed her husband, terrorized her child, and threatened her life.

  He would kill Berengar for his outrages!

  A blade flashed near Otto’s head, and he ducked away before realizing it was one of his own men, chasing down a half-naked soldier, who stumbled away, screaming.

  “Berengar, where are you?” Otto bellowed over the din. He spun his charger in every direction, looking, desperately searching. Nothing. Men running. Dead men. Nothing.

  He spun again at the yell welling up from the other end of the encampment. His men were chasing someone. Who?

  As the sky lightened, Otto galloped to join them and saw bands of disheveled men, only a few bearing their griffin-crested tunics, some atop their frenzied horses, others running pell-mell.

  He caught sight of the back of the lead horseman, a great hulk of a man – it was Berengar, fleeing for his life.

  “Coward!” Otto shouted, urging his horse forward. “You coward!”

  *

  Alberto leapt onto his horse and gathered the reins. “Open the gates!” he yelled.

  Together, he and his men stormed out, charging into the fray. From across the field of battle, he spotted King Otto. Tall in his saddle, blond hair and beard showing beneath his helmet, he slashed at their foes without mercy.

  At the far end of the valley, Alberto noticed Berengar on horseback, making his escape. Acting fast, he pointed his sword. “Berengar must not escape, men! Run! Head him off!”

  He drove his horse to a gallop, leaping over bodies as they went. No one resisted their advance and the gap narrowed quickly. Suddenly, Otto was galloping alongside. Alberto grinned and raised his sword in salute and greeting. Otto did the same and they struck blades, the clang of metal on metal ringing out.

  But Canossa’s men and horses were fresher, and Otto couldn’t keep pace.

  Alberto refocused on his quarry. One hundred paces. Fifty. Berengar’s men were screaming, dropping any weapons they held, making no attempt to stand and fight. Some even stopped and fell to their knees, suing for mercy.

  Finally, only two continued to flee, pushing thei
r horses mercilessly. Berengar and a slight young man. His son? Adalbert? They were only two lengths ahead, then one. “Surrender, else you die!” Alberto forced his mount between them.

  He leaned out, grabbed the younger man’s reins, and pulled hard. The horse’s head jerked back, the beast toppling, rolling, with Adalbert somewhere beneath.

  Then Alberto pulled his feet out of his stirrups at full gallop, crouched in his saddle, and pushed with his good leg, thrusting himself off his horse and onto Berengar’s, seizing him by the shoulders.

  Berengar cried out, cursing as they fell together, hit the ground, and tumbled wildly to a stop.

  Alberto rose and drew his sword, but Berengar was lying still, stunned.

  He thrust his sword tip against Berengar’s throat. “You will die if you move,” he warned, breathing heavily. He saw the merest slit open between his enemy’s eyelids and knew he was awake, aware.

  In a haze of dust, Otto galloped up with his men and dismounted. Adalbert was bound, brought over, and shoved to his knees beside his father.

  “Men, take that bastard’s weapons and bind him,” Alberto ordered, scowling at Berengar.

  “A nice bit of horsemanship, Lord Alberto,” Otto said, removing his gloves, “and impeccable timing.”

  “King Otto,” Alberto withdrew his sword from Berengar’s throat, pointed it toward the ground, and bowed. “It is my great pleasure to welcome you to my lands.”

  Otto acknowledged Alberto’s welcome with a nod, then turned to Berengar. “Are we to keep the prisoner,” the king’s face darkened perceptively, “or may I have his head now, for the multitude of crimes he has committed against his queen?”

  Berengar’s wide eyes flitted between the two as sweat poured off his forehead.

  “I would see him dispatched this minute,” Alberto replied, “but we should leave his fate to Queen Adelaide.”

  “My lords, please,” Berengar said as he struggled to his knees. “A misunderstanding is all. She accused me of poisoning King Lothaire! I had to defend my honor––”

  “Silence!” Otto shouted, taking his sword and pushing the edge against Berengar’s jaw. “If I hear one more word issue from your foul mouth, I will no longer attempt to still my wrath.”

  “Bow before King Otto, Berengar,” Alberto commanded. “For your transgressions against King Lothaire, your queen, and all the realm of Northern Italy, it has been decreed that you shall be adjudged, your fate rendered. Now, bow before this king, for he is worthy of your tribute and deference.”

  Berengar only glared. “Fucking German,” he muttered.

  Furious at the refusal to comply, Alberto looked over at Otto and noticed the king’s knuckles grow white across the hilt of his sword.

  Stepping behind the captive, Alberto booted Berengar between the shoulder blades, sending him sprawling face first in the dirt. “Ipsi obligati sunt et ceciderunt nos vero surreximus et erecti sumus,” Alberto said. “Apologize for your insolence, else you shall soon find yourself without a tongue and unable to beg for your miserable life.”

  For the briefest moment, there was utter silence, then Berengar mumbled in halting, angry words, “Sire, please accept my… sincere… apologies. I and all that I command stand ready at your orders.”

  Alberto’s lips twitched slightly at the corners, and he glanced up to catch Otto’s reaction. He was surprised yet delighted to see Otto press his boot against Berengar’s neck.

  “You bastard.” The king glowered. “Queen Adelaide will pass judgment upon you. Until then, be forewarned, if you ever do less than honor and serve her with your every breath,” he pressed further, “for the rest of your days, be sure I will consider it a personal affront, and I shall hound you, and see you delivered into the chasms of hell, whence you sprang.”

  Otto released Berengar, who started coughing violently. The king calmly turned to Alberto. “I do not speak Latin. What did your words mean?”

  Alberto smiled. “‘They are bound, and have fallen; but we are risen, and are set upright.’ It comes from Scripture.”

  “Ah.” Otto clapped Alberto on the back. “Good, then! Formalities have been dispatched, friend. Let us see to our men and the clearing of the field of battle.”

  *

  The break of dawn. Screams rising on the wind, the battle raging. The horizon tinged blood red.

  Shivering, Gwen stood on Canossa’s walls with Adelaide, watching the fight. The field was a long way off and partially shrouded by mist, and she wished she had a pair of binoculars. Where was Alberto? Where?

  After Berengar had surrounded Canossa, all nonessential persons – the old, the sick, women, and children – had been moved up to the keep for safety. Alberto sent a note, explaining he was so busy preparing for the siege, he wouldn’t have the opportunity to see her any time soon. Then, at dawn, they’d all heard the call, and stood by helplessly as the men poured out of the gates and into the battle.

  So now, Gwen stood at the wall, gazing down at a teeming, surging mass of thousands, feeling sick and helpless, wishing she was with him, smack-dab in the midst of it. At least then, she’d know his fate.

  “Look!” Adelaide cried out, pointing. “What is happening over there? Look at that group. I see no movement. Is someone capitulating?”

  Gwen strained to see through the haze, struggled to understand exactly what was going on, and who was involved.

  The fog thinned, and she saw what seemed to be three or four figures within the ring of horses and men. Mist wafted in again, blocking Gwen’s view. An image of Alberto kneeling in defeat seized her mind, making her tremble. What would Berengar do to him? Behead him?

  Shaking with anger and fear, Gwen gripped her knife. “If Berengar rides into Canossa triumphant, I swear I will kill that bastard myself.” She was barely aware of Adelaide’s tight grasp on her arm.

  “Otto stands there!” the queen cried out. “See his hair, his golden hair? And Berengar is on the ground. He is defeated!” Jumping with delight, Adelaide threw her arms around Gwen’s neck. “Otto – at last – will be here soon.”

  Gwen looked hard, hoping the queen was right, yet still fearful. If anything, the haze seemed worse than before, and it dawned on her Adelaide was seeing more with her heart than with her eyes.

  “Gwendolyn,” Adelaide said, letting her go. “I am so happy. Now I must tell you something Alberto said to me.”

  Gwen stiffened.

  Adelaide smiled. “Lord Alberto told me this in confidence. He said he prayed Otto would arrive within the fortnight, and the king would help him make swift work of Berengar. Now that it has happened – praise God – I believe I am free to tell you what else your man confided to me.”

  Gwen held her breath.

  Shiny-eyed, beaming with joy, Adelaide went on, “Tomorrow we will host a feast of celebration, for Berengar has been defeated at last. And Alberto said, should victory be ours and peace be at hand, that before the feast…” She stopped and gave Gwen a startled look. “Oh, uh, never mind, but he vowed to me that he loves you deeply, and, and,” she stammered, “he loves you more than any in the world!”

  Suddenly, a great cheer went up from the melee below, and the women turned to see why.

  The wind came up, clearing the air. Swords were being waved, the sun glinting off their shafts, and banners snapped in the breeze, their vivid colors those of Germany and Canossa.

  Adelaide was right. Victory was theirs!

  Relieved and elated, the women embraced. But even as they celebrated, a part of Gwen worried. Tomorrow. He’ll ask me to marry him again. Tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  Otto sat atop his charger, gazing at the closed gates and white walls of Canossa, brilliant in the morning sun.

  Adelaide.

  He smiled. She was there, he knew, somewhere within those walls. As badly as he’d wanted to rush to her side as soon as the battle had been won, he’d forced himself to see to the business at hand: sending Berengar and the other prisoners away north
for future sentencing, then following decorum by passing the night encamped outdoors with his men, waiting until he was officially invited within the gates of Canossa.

  At their meeting in the alpine pass, Liutprand intimated Otto’s presence was desired by Adelaide for more than political purposes, breaking from the rigors of formal etiquette to suggest she harbored feelings for him. To dare speak so openly without his queen’s consent could have cost Liutprand his life, and he’d been in her service long enough to know better. Adelaide certainly had given him leave to do so.

  And then, there was the message delivered by the priest.

  She loves me. I know it. Otto’s heart raced as he recalled the blue of her eyes.

  A horn sounded from over the battlements, the gates opened, and Otto leaned forward in anticipation.

  Working as ambassador between the two camps, Liutprand rode out of the castle gates dressed in formal regalia, crusted in gems and gold. “Sire,” he called out with great pomp, “our Most Gracious Queen, Adelaide of Italy, and Alberto Uzzo, lord of Canossa, send their greetings and bid you and your men welcome and congratulations on your hard won victory over our mutual enemy, Berengar, margrave of Ivrea. Further, they ask that you honor them with your presence at the church of St. Nicholas, as soon as you may.”

  “The honor is mine,” Otto replied. “Please, lead the way.”

  As he and his horsemen approached the gates, citizens poured out to welcome their rescuers. Applause, cheers, ribbons, and flowers filled the air as they rode into Canossa. The streets within were lined with people, some in tears, all smiling, laughing.

  Ahead of him, a second set of walls rose up. He passed beneath the gates, then saw the church where Father Warinus waited. Lord Alberto stood a few paces away, a tall, beautiful woman at his side.

  But where was Adelaide? Otto dismounted and strode up the steps, the cheers around him growing. He turned and grinned to the people, accepting their welcome, then took the last few steps two at a time and clasped hands with Alberto Uzzo.

  “Welcome, King Otto,” Alberto said, smiling. “Welcome! This is the lady Gwendolyn Godwyn. You know Father Warinus, of course. Please, come. Your presence is greatly anticipated within.”