The fire was warm, and the wine had a fine body. Our glasses were filled once more, and my mind began to work, thinking thoughts of which I should be ashamed, and I should be ashamed that I was not ashamed.
The thought of the honey, the maire, and the poor defrauded peasants aroused my ire, but thoughts of honey brought thoughts of bees. Now bees were something we had upon the moors at home, and I understood them well.
“The maire is a skinflint you say? A lover of money?”
“Aye, he would cheat his own mother, and willingly, if he could have a coin by doing it.”
“He must have a store-place at the cour. Does he keep what he has in the house with him, or a separate place?”
“You think to steal it? You’d have no chance. The storehouse is in his own home, his bed hard by, and the table where he eats sits at the storehouse door. He has ears like a cat. You’d have no chance. You may be sure Jacques has thought of it, he’s that desperate.”
“The cour now? Is it the large building by the stream?”
It was, indeed. Mine is a conniving sort of mind, and the men who shared my meal had been honest, hardworking folk. By Allah, I thought—and then realized I must stop thinking of Allah, as this was the wrong land for it—I would lend them a hand.
“Tell Jacques,” I said, “to move his hives into the willows across the stream, and move them tonight, under cover of darkness. If what I plan can be made to work, he shall have his honey back.”
Leaving the host to ponder on the sense of that, I returned to my horses and rode along the road to the cour.
At the door I pounded angrily. Suddenly it opened, revealing the maire, furious. Much of what he had stolen from the serfs he had been putting behind his belt, which thrust out before him.
“Here, here! What is this? Go away from here!”
“What? You would send away a traveler with a gold coin? I want but a meal and lodging, and I could not stomach that vile inn.” I took a bright new gold coin from my pocket. “Put me up, good sir, and this gold coin shall be yours.”
He looked from my rough clothing to my fine horses and took the coin from my fingers. He trusted me not at all, but the gold insured his hospitality. “Come in, then,” he said.
Lucky it was that I had appetite, for I ate a second meal and drank a better wine.
“My tongue has a taste for sweet,” I said. “Do you have sweet grass? Or honey?”
“I have honey, but it is hard to come by.”
“But the gold coin? When did you have such a coin for a night’s lodging?”
He opened the door behind him, and there was the storehouse, a fine long room with louvered windows. He went to one of five large jars, at least a hundred pounds of honey, and dipped a taste for me.
“You are free with your coins,” he said, staring at me from his mean, pig eyes.
Refilling my glass from his bottle, I shrugged. “It is nothing. If others knew what I know, all would have gold. Look you—” From my shirt I took a leathern wallet and shook several coins upon the table, all bright, new, and shining. “This I have, but it is time for more. Gold is nothing for we who know, and blessed be the Good Lord we are so few!”
He stared at me as I swept the gold into my purse and returned it to my shirt. I gulped another glass of wine and stared wisely into the glass. “I have been serving in the wars in Andalusia, fighting the Moor. Ah, those Moors! They are the ones who understand gold!”
My glass was empty, and I filled it again. “Bright, is it not? Bright, bright new gold!” I winked at him. “If I had a place, a place to work for a few days, you and I might share a pretty thing.”
“Of what are you speaking?”
“Why, the Moors, and what one taught me to keep my knife from his throat.
“He was there among those bottles and tables, working at God knows what, when I surprised him. As I would with any other Moor I intended to have his heart out. Then he showed me a piece of gold, bright, new gold.”
“Gold?”
“Gold. What is now needed is a quiet place in which to work. This”—I touched the wallet in my shirt—“is all I have, and I shall need more when I come to Paris. I need a place”—I gestured—“a quiet place such as this, and we would share, fifty-fifty.”
Oh, he took the bait! He gulped it down so quickly I had to think rapidly to keep ahead of him. There was a room where I could work. He would get the necessary equipment. “One thing, there are plants I need which must be gathered in the dark of the moon. If I make haste—”
It was quite dark, yet I remembered the plants needed were growing beside the road. When one has such training as mine, one cultivates habits of attention. When riding I was ever aware of what herbs grew along the way, and many grow along the ditches of Europe that are important medicinally.
The one in which I was now interested was sometimes called the corn rose. The season was late, but the seeds would be there, and I had seen a few wilted blossoms. When spring is late the flowering will be late, but wild poppy grows along the roads where it is convenient.
When I returned, two glasses of wine had been poured, and the bottle remained on the table. Had there been time I would have made a syrup, but there was none. I moved toward the table, then I paused. Why bother? The maire was out and the storehouse near.
Swiftly, I opened the door, and although the room was dark, I knew where the honey jars were. Quickly, I uncovered each of them and opened the louvered windows a bit. Returning to the main room, I gathered my sword and gear.
The maire hustled back into the room, and from the expression on his features I knew he had been up to no good. “Where have you been?” I demanded. “Up to some deviltry, no doubt.”
“No, no!” he protested. “Household business, nothing more.”
He stared at me and the bundle I had brought back from the ditches. “You found what you wanted? May I see?”
“You may not. I no longer trust you.”
We argued, and I became angrier; finally I said, “I do not trust you or this house! Come with me to the inn. If after two days all goes well, we will begin to make gold; otherwise, I shall have nothing to do with you.”
He protested, argued, and I remained adamant. Finally, still protesting, he went to the inn with me. As we entered, I glanced at the host, and he nodded, ever so slightly.
I would be delaying my trip, but not for long. I must keep the old man from his house for two days, perhaps a bit less or a bit more.
“You locked your house?”
“Naturally! There are thieves about.” He gestured at the shabby men tolerated by the innkeeper. “Such as these.”
“If they are here, they cannot be stealing.”
“Give them a chance, and they will steal.”
“The honey tasted very good,” I said. “Do you keep bees?”
“They do, and what is theirs is mine. It is part of what they owe.”
“And you send it on to the lord of the estate?”
He shot me a suspicious glance. “I do.”
“You have taken their honey, but if they now get more, will you take that, too?”
He chuckled. “It is impossible! If they can get more honey this season, they can keep it, and sell it at the fair if they wish.”
The next day was dull, for the maire was a narrow, bigoted, unhealthy man who thought of little but squeezing the peasants and no doubt robbing his lord. Despite his restlessness I kept him at the inn or in the fields, always with the peasants in sight.
“We must watch them,” I insisted. “They might steal something you could not steal in turn.”
“What was that?” His sharp little eyes stared.
“I said they might steal as much as they feel they earn,” I replied.
They did not steal, for we observed them carefully, and
I, who am a curious man, did some other watching. Things, I decided, were going well.
At a table in the inn I said, “Today the peasants stole nothing. Do you agree? They did not leave the fields?”
“They did not!” The maire’s face was smug with satisfaction.
“Bear witness,” I said to my host, “the maire states the peasants stole nothing, that they did not leave the field.”
The innkeeper was puzzled, but the maire was staring suspiciously. I, being a sometimes evil and conniving man, enjoyed it all very much.
“The gold? When do we begin with the gold?”
“Soon,” I said, “I had to be sure the peasants were busy and not watching us. What we do must be done in secret.”
It was dark before the maire returned to his home on the second day, and I was well pleased with myself and the inimitable ways of nature.
Jacques came wearily to the inn, accompanied by Paul. “Wine! A flagon for my friends, the sellers of honey!”
“You jest. What honey have we to sell?”
“Tomorrow,” I said, “look to your hives. You will find them filled with honey.”
They did not call me a liar, for the wine was on the table, and I ordered another leg of mutton. This time I cut a slice for each, and a thick slice for each of those at home. “Now fall to. When you look to your hives tomorrow you must be skeptics indeed if you think you have no honey.”
Suddenly, there was a tremendous clamor outside, and the maire burst into the room, accompanied by two of the watch. “Seize them!” He pointed at Jacques and Paul. “They are thieves! They have stolen my honey!”
“Hold!” I lifted a hand and, rising to my feet, stood taller than either of the watch. “Your honey is gone?”
“All of it! Every bit!”
“But we have watched the peasants for two full days. Did you not say this day that they had stolen nothing? Did they ever leave the fields? I, too, watched closely, and not until nightfall did they go to their homes or leave their work.”
“He said they had stolen nothing,” my host said, “that they had not left the fields.”
The men of the watch looked to the maire who did not know what to say.
Leaning across the table and putting on my sternest expression, I said, “This is a plot to defraud the lord. By claiming the honey stolen you could keep it all yourself, depriving your master of his just share.” Turning to the men of the watch, I said, “See to it the maire delivers three large jars of honey to his lord, even if he must buy them himself.”
Gathering my cloak about me, and picking up my gear, I said, “I shall go now, but I shall speak of this matter. It demands investigation. It seems all matters here need investigation.”
“No!” the maire protested. “I will deliver the honey to my lord.”
“See that you do, and see that you steal no more from those who work for him.” I leaned across the table. “Think you, my fat friend. You know they did not steal the honey, then is not the hand of God in this? Or a spirit, perhaps? Be wary, my friend. The good man Jacques and good man Paul are men to treat with care.”
Stepping outside, I drew the door shut after me and started for my horses.
The maire rushed after me. “But the gold?” he protested.
Drawing my cloak about me, I said, “A man who will cheat poor peasants and attempt to defraud his master is no man to have for a partner.
“Moreover”—I almost accidentally held out my hand—“I shall ride to your lord to report this…unless it pays me to take another route.”
His fat jowls quivered with agitation. “There would be trouble! Much trouble!” He leaned toward me, putting a purse in my hand. “Take another route! Oh, please, take another way!”
A short distance down the road I drew up before a peasant’s hut. Leaning from the saddle, I rapped loudly. A frightened woman opened the door, and I gave her the purse.
“This is for Jacques to share with the others,” I said. “Tell him it is from Kerbouchard, the man who commands bees!”
With that I rode into the night, reflecting on the habits of bees. Busy creatures they are, avid in their search for sweets, flying into every bush, every crevice…every window.
Busy creatures, indeed, but no fools. They gather nectar from flowers to make honey, but even a bee will not gather nectar if there is ready-made honey at hand.
30
THE FRANCE TO which I returned was vastly different from Islamic Spain, and I learned to take no part in discussions, yet it went sore against me. We Bretons are inclined to silence, but, nonetheless, Celts have a love for argument. It was hard to be silent, but usually I was.
The universal lack of cleanliness, as well as the overbearing pride and ignorance of both nobles and churchmen, astonished me.
For all their effect on the Western world, the Greek thinkers, except for Aristotle, might never have lived. Of Muslim and Jewish thinkers and scientists nothing at all was known, and the practice of medicine was frightening.
During time past I had become accustomed to the easy give-and-take discussion in Córdoba, to the hot, lazy baths, and lighted, paved streets. Everywhere in Córdoba, Toledo, Seville, and Málaga there was wit, poetry, excited discussion of ideas.
Yet even in France I found a growing curiosity, a willingness to listen and a desire for learning among the young.
Here and there in the monasteries scholars such as Peter Abelard were thinking, writing, talking. They were few, and often in trouble, but their number was growing.
At long last, a month after our leave-taking in Brittany, I rejoined the caravan.
They were at Cambrai. Difficulties had arisen at Bruges and Lille, and those fairs had been avoided. Business had been good, and I returned to find our silk sold but for a few bolts and our money invested in the cloth of Flanders. We turned southeast to Châlons-sur-Marne, and six weeks later went on to St. Denis, near Paris.
It was at St. Denis that Safia said, suddenly, “Mathurin, I shall leave you here.”
She had been quiet since my return, and I knew she had problems she did not confide in me, nor did I question her. As long ago as Montauban she had received a message from her old associates, and now she would resume where she had left off.
“I shall miss you.”
Her eyes held mine. “Do you still wish to find your father?”
“More than anything.”
Her eyelids seemed to flutter a little, and I knew she knew more than she cared to tell me. “It would be better if you did not think of him again.”
“He is dead?”
“No, but he is beyond your reach. I fear for your life if you persist.”
“I have no choice.”
She was silent. We were in a small grove on the banks of the Seine. Tomorrow we would ride into Paris and say our good-byes there. We had been good friends, with mutual admiration and respect. She was a shrewd, intelligent woman, one of a network extending through the Islamic world, and there were several such, working for different ideals, different causes, and there was war between them, a war unseen, untalked of, but a vicious, deadly war nonetheless.
Finally, she asked, “Have you ever heard of the Old Man of the Mountain?”
“Of the Assassins? Yes, I know of them.”
“He has a fortress high in the mountains, beyond the Caspian Sea. There are several castles, as a matter of fact, but only one concerns you. It is the fortress of Alamut.”
“My father is there?”
“He is a slave there, and, Mathurin, nobody—and I mean nobody—enters that castle unless he is one of the Assassins.”
“You are sure he is there?”
“Our spies are everywhere. This word has now come to me. All I know is that as of three months ago, he was still well and strong.”
“But a slave?”
For such a man to become a slave seemed impossible. His fierce strength, his sharp intellect, his indomitable way—I could think of no man less suited to slavery than he.
Of the Assassins I knew only what was generally believed. They were a Persian sect, a branch of the Ismaili, who in turn were a branch of the Shi’a, one of the great divisions among the followers of Mohammed.
A young Persian Shi’ite, Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah, joined the sect in 1071 and became the first Grand Master of the Assassins, the first “Old Man of the Mountain.” He turned murder into a political weapon, making himself feared throughout the Islamic world and even in Christian Europe.
From the stronghold of Alamut, Assassins were sent out, doped with hashish to kill enemies of the Old Man of the Mountains or to attack caravans and bring their goods to him. From his fortress he sent orders to kings and sultans, and more than one, under threat of assassination, complied with the wishes of the Old Man.
There was a legend to the effect that Hasan-ibn-al-Sabbah, Omar Khayyam, and Nizam-al-Mulk, as young students, had entered into a pact. All studied with the same master; all were talented, and it seemed certain that at least one of the three would rise to power. It was agreed among them that whoever won success would share equally with the other two.
Nizam-al-Mulk became vizier of the mighty Seljuk empire, and Omar, the scholar, mathematician, and poet, chose a pension that would provide support while he pursued his studies. Hasan, on the other hand, insisted upon a position at court where he soon became rival to Nizam-al-Mulk himself.
Finally, outwitted and disgraced, he fled from the empire and established himself at Alamut, from which point he directed the assassination of Nizam-al-Mulk.
A story was told of the Garden of Alamut, a secret valley in the mountains nearby where all manner of delicious fruits, gorgeous flowers, and shading trees were grown. There were fountains that flowed with wine or milk, and all about were beautiful, sensuous women.
Youths from desert tribes were invited to Alamut, drugged and transported into this interior valley. For a few days they lived as they had never lived upon the harsh and infertile desert.
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 23