by Harold Lamb
"No. I will come back. And you, girl-you will wait here?"
Maera looked up at him curiously. "I will be here. But you will never come up again."
As he jumped the stone wall, sliding down by the mountain stream, it seemed to Rorik the Yngling that this girl with her blue eyes and her cowbells had managed to put a spell upon him. There might, after all, be a power of magic in these mountains ...
Maera, running back from her lookout, flitting through the timber where no path ran, hurried to take her message to the pikemen of the Bern canton assembling at the stone church where the tolling bell summoned them from their land. Her father, waiting among the captains, the blue steel of his pike by his head, breathed deep at sight of her safe.
"Still they stay down in the valley," Maera cried. "Only one dunderhead of a spy came peering up into the wald."
"Yes," said her father, "yes, they are careful. If their scouts have not gone up into the forest, they will come along the valley, this way, to the head of the pass. Now that the sun is down, they will not venture where their scouts have not explored."
As Maera made her way back to watch the cattle, she passed the bands of Swiss moving along the mountain trails where they could not be seen in the darkness, to where the church bell tolled.
The echo of the bell comforted Maera. In that gray church atop the pass she had been christened, to drive out the devil in her. There, sometime, she would walk in her bride's veil. She felt that the voice of the bell was speaking to her, telling her she was not alone on the mountain. She prayed that it would drive Rorik and all his fellows away.
"Mark ye well," said the Genoese, "he is a noble Yngling." And he nudged Weiphart, who was turning the spit at the fire.
"Ach so," muttered Weiphart, blinking into the smoke. "From the land of Jonsson's dale. Like a baron he is, indeed. Will his nobility have white wine with the fowl?"
"It is not like beer," said Rorik the Yngling, "but I will have it."
He chewed the flesh from a chicken's back, tossed away the shell of bones, and wiped his hands politely on the straw where he sat before taking the wine jug.
Rorik had followed his nose among the fires of the gewaltige Haufen, the main guard, to the smell of fat fowls sizzling by this fire. A good camp, Rorik thought, where the sentries challenged sharp, and the horse lines were quiet. Never had he seen so many great horses together, fit for drawing the heaviest plows. And here the men had good steel shirts, well oiled and cared for. How kindly they greeted him!
"Almost you were too late, Rorik, my sir," said Weiphart, pouring wine into his own steel cap. "Before daylight we advance up. Yes, already have the high sirs given orders."
"Good," nodded Rorik the Yngling. "Good! Then you will have me with you in the battle."
Weiphart and the Genoese breathed hard over their meat. "You will win this battle for us?" asked the Italian crossbowman anxiously.
"I do not say that," replied Rorik modestly, "but no man could stand foot to foot with me in Jonsson's dale."
Conrad the Schwarzreiter looked up at him. "Have you ever," he snarled, "stood in the line of a battle?"
Rorik shook his head. "The messenger of the emperor said in Jonsson's dale that his majesty called, for men broad of shoulder and long of leg. To me he gave a silver thaler. I walked to Cologne, where they said the army was up the river. Pfut, at the river they said it was here, in the mountains of the Swiss. Eight gold florins they will pay me for a battle."
"Eight-gold!" grunted Weiphart.
Rorik the Yngling nodded. He remembered the amount very well. And he had calculated what he could buy with the gold. "Eight they said, and eight it is."
"Dane gold," said Conrad.
Conrad thought that he had never seen a recruit with such broad shoulders and so little wit. "This one," he nodded at Weiphart, "is doppelsold- ner-frontline-pay man. For an open attack he gets one gold piece and for an assault on fortification, one and a half pieces."
They were all veterans of long campaigns from Spain to Bohemia-the Genoese being in a high-paid class, with the best of the new steel crossbows. They had horses and body armor, while Rorik seemed to have lugged along only the heavy two-handed sword.
"Eight it will be," he said, "for me."
"For using that woodchopper?" Weiphart reached over and gripped the handle of the Dane's long sword.
"Yes," said Rorik.
With a grin Weiphart tried to raise the point off the ground. Using one arm, by straining he could raise it; taking both hands he swung it once in the air, and it sagged down.
"Great Lord of heaven," grunted the doppelsoldner, "no one can cut with it."
It seemed to Rorik that this German was disparaging his sword. He took the handle himself, gripping with both hands. He planted his feet and the muscles of his long body tensed. His arms shot up, and the fivefoot blade slashed the air over the soldiers' heads, whistling.
At the edge of the firelight two men stopped to look. One wore a cloak with an eagle embroidered on the shoulder, and a silver chain shone under the other's beard. Conrad, who noticed everything, sprang up when he saw them.
"If you have not found one, my sirs," his clipped words came, "I offer, with gladness, Conrad, captain in the Thuringen riders."
"We have not decided," the cloaked man said, watching Rorik. "Who is your Hercules?"
The two were staring at Rorik the Yngling as if at a new breed of war horse, marking his stand and his points, as he sheathed the two-handed sword.
"My sirs," said Conrad, stiff, "it is a Dane from the farmlands who fancies himself the best of us."
"He's the tallest, certainly," observed the officer with the armiger's chain. "Too tall, eh, Strube?"
"A lighthouse has its uses. It can easily be seen at all times."
"But he has as much wit, my sir," Conrad grated, "as your Livonian mare. Less."
"That also has its use." The official of the eagle walked around Rorik, studying him. Suddenly he looked up into his eyes. "So you are a mighty man-at-arms, Dane?"
"True enough," agreed Rorik.
"Would you like to be given armor fit for a noble. Or even-an emperor? From helm to spurs, eh?"
"Well enough," Rorik smiled, pleased, "if it is for the battle."
"It is for the battle."
He of the eagle glanced once at the armiger, who nodded. Then between them they conducted Rorik the Yngling away from the fire, through the lines of the Black Riders to a pavilion that glowed with candles. Young squires who were oiling saddles and cleaning leather sprang up at sight of them. And here, where swords and armor were stacked, the armiger took charge of Rorik.
Not once did he look him in the face. First he tried a hauberk of fine linked steel on the giant Dane. It gleamed as with silver. The boys fitted mail to his legs and tried low boots on his feet until a pair was found to fit. They fastened shoulder pieces etched with gold up against his neck-they clasped a cloak over his shoulders. They even combed out his long hair while he admired his gleaming limbs. The steel mesh, being too small for him, gripped his muscles tight.
"With the padding out, it will do," decided the armiger, and the one named Strube nodded.
They studied the effect and seemed satisfied. Strube hung a gold chain around Rorik's neck, while the armorer fetched a shield with two eagles, black, painted on it, and a half-helm with tiny silver figures and an eagle spreading its wings for a crest. "My sir," said the armorer carefully, "I will bear your shield, of course, but you must take the war helm on your arm. So."
With pleasure Rorik contemplated it. The boys were fastening a belt over his hips.
"You understand," pointed out the one called Strube, "that this is the armor of majesty." He gestured at the pavilion. "You wear now the insignia of empire."
Rorik nodded, hardly understanding, but well content at this kindness.
They laid out some swords for him to look over, asking him to take the one he fancied. Suddenly Rorik stopped, shaking his head. If
it was a question of swords, he wanted none but his own. For the first time the two officers looked ill-pleased. Strube said it would never do to carry such a thing-the armorer could not hang it over a horse's side. Rorik explained that he shouldered it.
"Oh, strap it on his back," cried Strube, "and take him along. God's thunder-we have no more time to waste."
When they hung the two-handed sword along his back, the armorer signed to him to hurry and went before him to a pavilion entrance where a knight stood with drawn sword by the standard pole. Within the pavilion, voices hummed with long words-the night advance to surprise the Swiss-the Schwarzreiter maneuver-flanks refused-holding back the charge-
Making nothing of this, Rorik watched the sentry who moved only his eyes. A voice rose over the others: "Have they the mock king?"
Heinrich barked, "Here at command."
Then Heinrich pulled Rorik down to a knee, whispering "Altesse." A tall man, muffled in a robe, stepped out, yawning. And Rorik knew that this was the emperor, who slipped a ring from his finger and pressed it into Rorik's hand.
"Faith," said a drowsy voice, "you have found one as tall as the standard itself, Heinrich."
"At command!"
And the emperor went back to his officers.
Ring in hand, Rorik walked away with the armorer. Beyond the stir of the men-at-arms, the calling of orders by the horse lines, he heard the echo of a distant bell. When the wind blew, the chime came clearly, and he thought of that cowbell. But this was a great, chiming bell. Restlessly, Rorik stirred. "Heinrich, I would like a horse."
"In two hours, my sir-when we advance."
"No, not in two hours-now, Heinrich."
"Why now?"
"To see the girl-the little Maera."
Heinrich grunted. This was not the time, he pointed out, to think about a girl. She would keep well enough, until afterward-when Rorik could do what he pleased. Didn't Rorik understand that now he wore the arms of majesty? He would carry them into the battle, wouldn't he? He would get his eight florins, wouldn't he? Wasn't he content?
And Rorik had to say he was content.
When the armorer hurried off to his duties, he suggested that Rorik drink some wine and stay within sight of the great pavilions. He told off an esquire-at-arms to follow the Dane and see that he did not stray.
When Rorik thought of wine, he thought of his companions at the fire, and he walked over to show himself to them. When men passed him, carrying a torch, they stared at the immense figure holding the crested helm, and they saluted.
Only Conrad sat awake by the embers, still drinking. He lowered the jug when the Dane stepped into the embers' glow, with the small squire behind him. The hilt and wide handguard of the huge sword seemed like a cross behind his bare head.
"Eyes of God," breathed Conrad. "They have done it."
Pleased by the effect on Conrad, Rorik sat down in the straw, examining the gold ring. The ring had a flat jewel that shone, and on the jewel were traced letters that meant nothing to him because he could not read. But when Conrad inspected the ring, he interpreted the letters. Gloria.
"Is that a sign?" asked Rorik, curiously.
"A kind of sign," said Conrad, pondering, "to many men. Do you know what they have made of you?"
Rorik shook his head. Truly, something in this puzzled him.
"They have made you the mock king."
"How, the mock king?"
The words sounded both pleasant and ominous to the Dane. Giving him the jug, Conrad explained, low-voiced. In an hour Rorik would be mounted on a high horse and placed at the head of the gewaltige Haufen. With the half-helm on his head, he would appear to be the emperor himself to all those who were not close to him, or in on the secret. During the fighting, the enemy would drive at the one who seemed to be emperor, to kill him. Probably they would reach him and kill him. But the real emperor, in plain dress, would be directing the battle elsewhere, unharmed.
"Seven to one," said Conrad softly, "you will turn up your toes this morning."
Rorik thought about that.
The eyes of the Schwarzreiter searched beyond the fire glow, where the squire, seeing Rorik seated, loitered carelessly. Groups of men were in motion already, toward the head of the valley, although they carried no torches and no trumpets had sounded. He knew the step of the Italian mercenaries. He listened to the movement at his own horse lines, where the sergeants called and cursed. The Black Riders would go up with the advance, with the Genoese covering them. His troop mates would be calling for him in a few minutes.
"Don't let them make a fool of you, Sir Rorik," he whispered, straining his ears. "What's the sense of becoming chopped meat-with your face bashed in, belike?"
"Mine?"
"Yours. Look-I know the horses of our troop. We can edge over to the lines now, and get two of the best. We can rein down the valley. Before full light we can be four leagues away. Safe enough. We can pass this ring and stuff to the usurers, and live like lords. We can pick over the girls, Rorik."
"Where?"
"Take our choice-Basle, Munich, Paris-"
Reaching out, Rorik took back his ring, while Conrad still breathed words. Rorik had no wish to go to Paris. He wanted to stay here in the valley. Conrad changed his tone:
"Rorik my sir, you've never felt your bones broken in as I have. The Swiss poleaxes can cut the head from a horse-"
He checked at a quick step near him. A voice called, "Thuringen troop in the saddle, Conrad."
The Black Rider got up, with his gun. "At once!" The step went on. "Quick, Rorik-we can get away."
Rorik shook his head. For an instant Conrad stared at him, then swung off toward the horses. Steel clanked as men swung themselves into the saddle; troop commanders called as they led off their men. Rorik did not want to run off from this. They had made him like a king. He would be the first in the battle. And if he left them, where would he get his eight florins? Conrad, with all his cleverness, had not thought of that.
With the sun full on the valley, Rorik the Yngling was riding up in majesty, with the battle standard swaying in the wind behind him, and Heinrich carrying his shield beside him and the squire leading another horse. Rorik was riding on a great bay charger, his sword strapped fast to him, and the helm on his head agleam with silver.
Ranks of men-at-arms paced beside him, their spears rising like a forest of young, slender trees. Thousands of riders moved up the valley, toward the pass where they could see the spire of a church.
It seemed to Rorik that these marching ranks were fine, and surely he was the first of them. He could see nothing of the real emperor, although he heard the fanfare of trumpets blowing commands. Heinrich, he noticed, listened closely to the notes of the trumpets, but watched the narrowing fringe of pines on either side.
"Tell us, Heinrich," he said, "what to do."
"Nothing," muttered the armorer, "but what you are doing-sit in the saddle."
This suited Rorik, but he had another question to ask: "Heinrich, why do we go up this valley?"
"By command."
Rorik nodded. "But for what?"
"To break the infantry of the Swiss cantons."
The armorer answered with half his mind, because the other half was listening to a faint popping and crackling somewhere ahead. So, the Swiss were making their stand in front of the pass.
For a while Rorik thought about it. "But why is there war with the Swiss?"
In the mountains, Heinrich explained, the Swiss refused to accept the sovereignty of the new Reich. They were, he said, commoners having no king. They had no generals. They had only infantry. They called them selves free men of the cantons. They were stubborn, meeting together like a mob, refusing allegiance to the German emperor whose sovereignty in this new plan of the Holy Roman Empire would dominate from Frankfurt over the continent, from sea to sea.
"They rolled down rocks on Maximilian's array of knights," Heinrich grunted. "They broke back the lancers of His Grace of Burgundy, when
those dismounted to fight on foot. But no infantry can stand against the cavalry of the Reich."
Rorik was looking up the mountainside, where a rock summit jutted beneath a snow peak. Barely he could make out the patch of Maera's potato field.
"Is that the battle," he asked, lifting his steel headgear to let the air cool his skull, "going on ahead of us, where the noise is?"
Laughing, Heinrich explained that was only their advance, skirmishing with the Swiss, to bring the Swiss into action. Undoubtedly the Swiss would charge with their main onset from the screen of pines here, on one flank. So thought the sir commanders of the Reich's army. And then the Swiss would be charged by all the horse of the gewaltige Haufen, held back in readiness for just such a maneuver-
"But still, Heinrich, I do not see any fighting."
It was noon and Rorik was tired, before he saw it, while the hot sun made him sweat in his steel mesh and the apple orchards around him smelled fragrant with the heat. Stone walls hemmed in the peasants' fields here, and the heavy German chargers labored over plowed land.
Through these trees Rorik could watch a line of Swiss pikemen pressing down the valley with the sun flickering on the steel of their pikeheads. Behind them another brown line carried long axes, coming on slowly, keeping step without trumpets, climbing over the stones. Those lines seemed small in the face of the German regiments now crowding into the narrowing valley.
"Why," muttered Heinrich, "why, they come here-they make no maneuver."
In front of the brown ranks, the Schwarzreiter wheeled in troops, snapping off their pistols when they were close to the Swiss. Bands of Italian crossbowmen sifted back through the trees, fast.
"Bad ground," Heinrich observed. "But now comes our charge-ah, so!"
Suddenly-hearing a call from the trumpets-he caught the rein of Rorik's horse, leading it to a knoll where the figure of the mock king could be seen above the apple trees. Past that knoll the German cavalry surged, with lances down, sweeping up the disordered Italians, forcing the Black Riders off to the flanks.
Through the orchards the packed ranks of horsemen edged around the trees, plunging over the low stone fences. The horses, tired and heavily weighted, slowed in the plowed land.