Poule chuckled. “Most of us would rather wait it out and get paid for sitting outside the walls. You are right in that, brother monk.”
Acquel glanced down the grey stone walkway that snaked its way east towards the lower end of Livorna. The late afternoon sun at his back illuminated the rough-hewn stone in a strange reddish hue, long shadows falling across the crenelated walls. It would look very different very soon, hundreds of men, hunkered along the walkway as arrows and missiles rained upon them and they, in turn, loosing their arrows back upon the enemy. A lone figure was approaching them along the cobbled walkway. A woman.
She was clothed in a russet cloak, her hair flying loose in the steady breeze that blew in from the south. Red hair. She walked slowly, as if lost in thought. As she drew closer Acquel looked at her face. His heart nearly stopped, breath taken from him in an instant of recognition. It was Timandra Pandarus. She had paused now, some ten feet from him. Looking straight at him. He had never seen a ghost before yet here she was, standing before him when he had seen her slain one year ago. She wore no expression—did not even give a sign that she saw him—but her eyes took him in nonetheless. It was her—standing before him—her shade, looking wistful and pensive but somehow not really there at all. She seemed to have no depth and her body cast no shadow upon the wall.
“Timandra!” he said, starting to move towards her. Tears filled his eyes and he reached out, longing to touch her. Poule and Volpe exchanged a worried look.
“Brother Acquel? Are you well?” the old monk laid a hand on his arm. “What do you see?”
“She’s there. Right there. Do you not see her?”
“Who?” Volpe’s worry heightened as he saw the tears streaming down the young man’s face.
“It is Timandra.” Acquel gripped the monk’s arm. “Can you not see her? She has come back to me.” But as he looked again, she was gone.
Poule swallowed hard. “You saw the Widow?” His hand described a blessing, two fingers to his forehead and then his breast. “Why has she come back?”
Acquel wiped his sleeve across his face. “She is not at rest if her spirit walks among us.”
Volpe put a fatherly arm about Acquel. “Come, let us away,” he said quietly. “We shall go back to the Ara. I would hear more of this woman.” He guided Acquel, still half-dazed, towards the worn tower steps.
Poule stared at the spot Acquel had pointed to. His back felt a chill. He had known the fiery and comely sutler’s widow very well, far longer than Acquel, and he had grieved mightily when told the news months gone by. But talk of ghosts before a battle was never a good thing, and far worse if it be one come to call. He blessed himself again, said a quick prayer for the restless soul of Timandra Pandarus, and followed the monks down the winding stair.
“DID YOU LOVE her?” Brother Volpe sat shoulder to shoulder with Acquel, his hands hugging a cup of wine.
Acquel didn’t reply, his head hanging and his cup already dry. “Did you break your vow?” Volpe asked.
“No, I did not,” replied Acquel quietly.
“Then that saddens me even more, my brother.” They had sat for an hour in Acquel’s chamber as he had told the story of Timandra Pandarus and his journey with the Black Rose to Palestro and Perusia. Of how she had helped him, guided him, and in the end sacrificed her life to save him. “You bear a burden of guilt that is not yours to carry. It is not your fault she died. It was her own free will that guided her to aid you. Perhaps she was herself guided by the Saint.”
“I was her confessor. And I loved her despite that.”
“And the woman redeemed sin by saving you. Allowing you to spread the word of the lost texts. This is as the Lord and Elded intended. You may grieve her loss but you are guiltless in this.”
“Am I? I lie awake thinking of each step I took. How I might have revealed the Saint’s secrets without getting her killed. Or if I’d been faster, better skilled, maybe killing Captain Flauros before he killed her.”
“She confessed to you her sin of murdering her husband knowing you loved her and she you?”
Acquel nodded. “But that happened by circumstance. She would have told me eventually, though. I see now she tried to tell me from almost the very beginning.”
Volpe frowned. “What circumstance?”
Acquel turned and faced the old monk. “Something that happened in the wood west of here when I returned to the Ara. When she abandoned the Black Rose to follow and join me.”
“What happened?”
Acquel hunched and stared into his empty cup. “I am loathe to speak of it.”
“But you wish to. That is clear.”
“Timandra and I slept rough that night, the first night after she had found me on the road to Livorna. We were a short distance into the trees. Something found us where we lay near our fire: a mantichora.”
Volpe drew back slightly. “That you’re alive to tell me is a wonder in itself. Such creatures are rare.”
“I was terrified.” Acquel gave Volpe a half-hearted smile. “But Timandra was brave. Told the thing she would take its eyes out before she was eaten. It spoke to us. It sensed I was a greyrobe—even sensed Elded’s amulet. And it said that Timandra smelt of another’s blood. It called her a she-killer. Said we were both too foul to bother eating. It took our mount instead.” He swallowed hard as the memory washed over him.
Volpe grasped Acquel’s arm. “What else did it say? A telling?”
“A telling? You mean a foreshadowing?”
“Do you not know the mantichora is a creature that has great power? The power to see beyond the present, to look deep into the past. They are ageless, among the first denizens of Valdur.”
“It spoke of change. Something that was sleeping but that now awakens.”
Volpe lifted his cup and drained it. “We must needs find this creature and speak with it.”
Acquel stood up. “Are you mad? Even if we found it out in the forest it would tear us to pieces. It was evil. Rank.”
Volpe refilled his cup, spilling the wine on the table. “The absence of good does not always signify the presence of evil. Remember that. And we need all the allies we can get if we are to deal with what stalks us. A mantichora’s knowledge could help us. Maybe save us.”
Acquel pushed back his bench and stood. “You want to go on a hunt into the forest to find this thing? When the enemy is practically at the gates? Are you drunk again?”
“Sit down,” Volpe growled. “This war will not be won by steel and shot alone, no matter what I said up on the battlements. We need other weapons. And we two are the only ones that can obtain them.”
“I think you’re mad.”
Volpe glared at him. “Sit your arse down, brother.”
Acquel took a breath, shaking his head in frustration, but resumed his place. Volpe grabbed Acquel’s cup and refilled it from the jug. “Brother Acquel, my friend, I do believe you saw the ghost of your Timandra, and I think it was no accident. She wanted you to tell me what you just have.” His eyes bored into Acquel. “Things do not happen without a reason. And you must learn to see what others do not.”
Seventeen
STRYKAR OPENED HIS eyes. Lying on his stomach, his cheek was pressed to trampled grass and mud smelling distinctly of piss. His head throbbed and as he tried to move he realised his hands were bound behind him. He had been stripped of his armour and as his eyes focussed he saw he was in just his quilted arming jacket, shirt and hose. He looked down and saw that his boots were still on his feet. Not a bad sign. Those were usually the first things to go.
He was in a makeshift paddock of sorts; a paddock for prisoners. Three other men had been incarcerated with him: one looking dead, two others sitting forlornly against a fence. Strykar looked about him, his vision swirling. An encampment. Milvornan cavalry. He was either in their camp or with the Blue Boar. If the latter that was decidedly bad, but he was alive.
“Saints above! He’s come around. That’s twenty soldi you owe me, fool.
Told you he was strong as an ox!”
Strykar struggled to his knees as the guards came for him. Laughing, they hauled him up onto unsteady feet. One slapped his cheek and then poured into his mouth what he quickly realized was acqua vitalis, the fiery liquid burning his parched throat but reviving him. “Come on then. You have an audience with some people of quality. Been waiting for you to wake up.” They half dragged him out of the paddock to face a bearded soldier, corpulent and pock-faced, a chain of office around his neck. The master of the stocks looked at Strykar and shook his head with either admiration or wonderment.
“Almost left you for dead with the others, you know that? Some old sergeant of yours made us pull you out of the muck. Said who you was before he coughed up his guts and died. My my! To think what a ransom we would have lost leaving you out there for dead with the rest of ’em.”
Strykar managed to find his voice, rough as it was. “Not much of a fair fight though, was it?”
The gaoler laughed. “Nearly shit myself just watching what happened to your lot.” He motioned for the guards to move him along and he was pushed along towards the forest of tents and poles. They guided him to a camp within the camp, roped and guarded, the tallest striped tent at the centre. Led through, Strykar found himself standing before the commander of the Company of the Blue Boar: Coronel Lupo Aretini, whom he had but glimpsed once before. A handful of other officers came out of the tent as well as a few noblemen. Aretini looked Strykar up and down and pursed his lips in disgust.
“Cut his bonds.”
The gaoler slid his knife between Strykar’s wrists and snapped the rope. Strykar pushed back his shoulders and stared hard at Aretini. His captor then motioned for a cup to be brought over.
“Here. Have a drink.”
Strykar took the cup and put it to his lips. It was water. The sweetest he had tasted.
A nobleman, a young man of the sort that Strykar knew well—vain, pompous, and probably of dubious mettle—moved forward, a smile on his face. “So this is a Coronel of the infamous Black Rose. Brought very low indeed from the look of it.”
Strykar lowered the cup. “I’ve known better days, I confess.”
Aretini chuckled. “He deserves your respect, Messere Claudio. He was taken at the van—the very front of it. Where were you this afternoon? The baggage train?”
“Unfair, very unfair my Coronel. I saw a fair share of the fight.” The nobleman’s hurt looked unfeigned.
Aretini turned to him. “Weren’t you ordered to shovel-out the griffon’s pen?” The assembled captains roared with amusement and Claudio swore and wandered back into the tent.
“Who has put poor Claudio into a rage?” It was Messere Lazaro who had emerged from the pavilion, a large leg of roast chicken in his hand. He saw the dishevelled soldier in front of him and waved the drumstick towards Strykar. “Ah, he’s decided to re-join the living.”
Aretini turned to the knight. “And you’re still interested in paying his ransom?”
“I am indeed. Paying what this knight of Maresto is worth. Have you changed your price?”
Aretini smiled then turned to Strykar. “No. Same price, Messerre Lazaro. Ten soldi.”
“Fair as fair can be, Coronel.” Lazaro threw the drumstick to the ground, wiped his fingers on his leather doublet, and reached for his purse. The captains roared their amusement to see the transaction done. A few small pieces of silver for a Coronel of the Black Rose. Even through his throbbing pain and fatigue, Strykar felt his face flush with rage. “Send back those beasts that the witch has summoned. We’ll finish what we started.”
Aretini chuckled and exchanged glances with his men. “You have nothing to finish it with. Your army is fled. As fast as their little legs could take them back across the Taro. So fast we couldn’t catch them up. Not even with the griffons.” The chorus of guffaws rang out across the enclosure. “And you insult the Lady della Rovera? The canoness has the blessing of God—she’s delivered us the Hand of Ursula. By Elded’s balls, she’s brought back the royal beasts of Valdur!”
“She will deliver you all to Hell,” replied Strykar, his voice rasping. “Yet that is where you all belong—butchers of Caglia.”
Standing beside his commander, Captain Janus swore and slowly pulled his long slim rondel dagger from his belt. “I’ll pay you twelve soldi now, Coronel, just for the pleasure of gutting him here.”
Aretini raised his hand. “Nay, let him speak. I’m intrigued. Caglia?”
Strykar took a step closer to Aretini but the master-of-the-stocks behind him grabbed the skirt of his arming doublet and jerked him back. Strykar elbowed the man but quickly had both his arms seized from behind. “Aye, Caglia! How many villagers did you slaughter that day for your sport? Their houses set afire with them still inside.”
Aretini snarled. “You’re as hypocritical as any canting blackrobe, Messere Julianus. Worse, I think.” He turned to his assembled captains and to the Torinian knights—Claudio had now returned from his sulk to join Lazaro— and gestured to Strykar. “A lecture in morals from one aventura to another? Have you ever heard of such boldness?” Aretini shook his head slowly. “Caglia... Have not heard that place mentioned for a few years.” He stepped in close to Strykar. “We had twenty of our men murdered by townsmen after Caglia had surrendered and opened their gates. And were we supposed to have rewarded that? The law of war is clear. We punished those responsible. The butchers were those who murdered my men after their lives had been spared.”
Strykar did not shy away. He leaned in even closer. “Children too? Don’t tell me of the law of war.”
Aretini reached up and pinched Strykar’s cheek. “We’ll have to find a black robe that fits you somewhere in camp.” He stepped back and shook his head again. “If we’re going to play a game of remembrance... I have one for you. Cast your addled mind back to... Pernato.”
“Hah!” exclaimed Lazaro. “Let us see how his memory serves him there.”
Aretini took a few steps to the blackwood field table and refilled his wine goblet. “Yes, Pernato. Little garrison town on the border. Not far from here I recall. Seven years ago the Black Rose set upon it as the Torinian soldiers were changing deployments. The garrison was smaller than usual and your company found that out.”
Strykar’s gaze followed Aretini as he ambled among his men, sipping his wine. He did remember the place, an event he had long forgotten. He managed to stutter a reply. “I was not there. But that town lies inside Maresto, always has.”
“Debatable point, sir, but we will leave that. Wherever it may lie upon the map the Black Rose swept it clean. Over a thousand dead I recall. Soldiers, townsmen. Women. Children. And I was there.”
Strykar remembered. Dully, through his pounding head, he remembered the tales that came back with those squadrons which had been at Pernato. Muttered stories told by men ashamed of what had spiralled out of control. Other stories told more loudly by braggarts with a smile on their lips. And he knew then that Aretini had him, hoisted by his own sanctimonious outburst. He poured the last drops of his cup into his mouth.
“I see that you do remember,” said Aretini nodding. “A man who does not recognize his nature is a fool—and is seen to be a fool by others. And you, my lord, are a beaten fool.” He snatched the cup away from Strykar. “Bind him again. Lazaro can then take away his prize.”
Strykar flinched as the ropes went taut about his wrists with a firm jerk. “She will be your undoing, Aretini, and the whole of your company’s as well. That is an honest warning from one aventura to another. She’s not what she appears and Ursino is bewitched.”
Aretini gave a short, derisive chuckle. “And now a lecture from a Maresto heretic who blindly follows the usurpers of Livorna and their fish tales! Take him away please, Messere Lazaro, before I change my mind and let Janus here cut him a new mouth from ear to ear.”
Lazaro motioned to his men-at-arms, who were still grinning at the sport before them. “Take him! I may end up doing th
e deed myself before we reach Livorna, if the fellow doesn’t keep quiet!”
Strykar was manhandled through the makeshift, rutted passageway between the tents of the encampment and across a field to a second camp which flew the personal banners of half a dozen knights of Torinia. He felt one of his guards grab a handful of his sweaty hair and jerk him to the left, towards the baggage train. Near a wagon and a stack of casks there was an iron stake and chain pounded into the ground, awaiting his arrival. He was thrown down into the mud and felt the pinch of a shackle about his leg. One of the guards stood over him, reached into his codpiece and breeches and pulled out their manhood. A stream of piss covered Strykar’s boots, ripped hose, and stained canvas doublet as he bore the insult, his eyes never once leaving his tormentors. The blonde-haired soldier, a beardless youth of no more than twenty, laughed as he shook the last drops from his member and tucked himself back in.
“Always wanted to water the Roses, proper-like.”
BY THE AFTERNOON of the second day, Strykar felt for the first time that he just might not make it. His anger had reduced to a smoulder and the pain now had taken over his mind. He had been pulled at the back of Lazaro’s baggage cart, trudging to keep up as a grinning boy sitting on the bundles of armour lobbed hazelnuts at him from time to time, aiming for his forehead. His left shoulder and bicep was a throbbing, swollen agony. He had had worse wounds as a younger man, but he was no longer young. Somewhere on the road to Livorna—he had lost focus—they pulled up for another night, the entire army making camp on vast fields on the side of the wide track that led westwards. The tents went up and Strykar’s now familiar iron spike went down, down into the ground. A man-at-arms threw him a goatskin of water and later came back with half a loaf of black bread and a half-eaten roasted fowl, covered in black ash.
The Witch of Torinia Page 20