by David Noel
She pulled up sharply and looked down into the dark forests below her. What was this? Something completely unexpected had turned up, something that she could use to her advantage. Below her were Viking longboats that were exploring much further down the rivers of the East Mark than anyone would ever suspect. Most of the crews were asleep so she looked into their dreams. Most were dumb brutes focused only on killing and plunder but there were two who could be very useful to her. Their aspirations were much greater and the loot and slaves that they had collected so far on this raid had been very disappointing to them. Two Danes by themselves would not have been very valuable to the Black but these two had some very special pets that could be extremely useful.
She took a few moments to stir up their dreams. Their greed, bloodlust, and arrogance made them extremely easy to manipulate. In their dreams they became kings, surrounded by gold and slaves, blessed by Odin and striking terror into their enemies. Their names would live on for a thousand years as the greatest warriors who had ever lived. All they would have to do to claim these promises was to strike off to the southeast with their special pets and join up with some warriors on horseback.
The Black knew that she would have to find a suitable Hungarian warlord to ensnare with similar dreams but that would be easy to do, there were dozens of them. With only the tiniest amount of effort she was putting together a raiding party that would be more than just a little distraction for Sir Gerard and his family. This would be a very nice opening act to her grand tale of revenge. She would need to keep Sir Gerard and Lady Evelyn as off balance as possible if she was to draw her enemy out of the castle, and the key lay in the hopes, dreams, and fears of the knight’s daughters.
Chapter 8
“It is said that ‘fools rush in where angels fear to tread,’ this is true so try to avoid traveling with fools whenever possible. If everyone avoids traveling with you then you must be honest and ask yourself, ‘Am I the fool that no one wants to travel with?’”
The Centurion Guide to Practical Advice – Chapter 3: Proverb 11
The trip through northern Italy went by surprisingly quickly for Brendan. He would never have admitted it out loud, but he actually enjoyed the company of Father Cardic and Sir Gerard, even though the former insisted that he do at least half of the chores. Both men were studies in contrasts. The knight was both noble in his bearing and yet humble beyond description, patient and gentle and yet terribly dangerous to those who would do evil. The priest was devout and unwavering, but he could also be profane when the horse balked or when he dropped something on his toe. He had no problem braining you with his staff and then bandaging up the wound that he himself had inflicted. They were comfortable traveling in silence, in talking about the nature of God, in joking about taking care of one’s business without a proper outhouse. There was an openness and trust that Brendan had not seen since he lost his family. And the best part was that neither man was a fool. Brendan was very bright himself and not easily impressed by the intelligence of others, but in the case of these two he could listen to their witty, fascinating conversation all night.
The young thief even found that he could share most of the truth about his own past with the two old warriors. There were a lot of things that he had done in the last six years in order to survive that he was not proud of, but it was his surprising talent as a thief that he found most embarrassing to discuss. The priest, in particular, was very good at drawing the details out of him and the knight always looked like he had guessed the truth before Brendan had actually admitted to it. Traveling in their presence Brendan realized just how cynical he had become, but he also felt that cynicism softening bit by bit.
"You will have to stop thieving, of course," Sir Gerard had told him after he had finally finished divulging most of his life story, "but do not be ashamed of your talents and skills, God gave you your talents and he always has a use for your skills.”
“Though I suspect that he will put them to work in a very different way than you did," the priest added sagely.
After they had crossed over the Alps they entered Frankish lands and it could not have happened soon enough for Brendan. The Alps were beautiful in a cold, harsh, distant way but they were hard on people and animals and the young man found that he preferred the countryside of Francia far more. Every day they traveled he felt as if he was a day closer to home.
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Brendan saw the cart beside the road before the others even though he was on foot since his eyes were better than either Father Cardic’s or Sir Gerard’s. There were two peasants beside it, a man and a woman, and they seemed to be arguing with each other. They both stopped their furious debate as the travelers came up and looked at them with embarrassment. As they drew closer Brendan could see a dead body in the back of the cart.
"What is this?" asked the priest walking over to take a closer look at what was inside the cart. Brendan followed but he could already smell the faint odor of decay. The girl had already been dead for a couple of days and was starting to decompose.
"It is our daughter," replied the man. "I am going to take her to the Vouivre." It was clear from the look on the woman's face that she wanted to say something but held back in the presence of the men.
"What is the Vouivre?" Asked Brendan, mangling the pronunciation.
"V-wee-vra” corrected the farmer. “The Vouivre is a magical creature with the purest of hearts who is said to be part human and part dragon. She can heal with her breath and even restore life if the dead person is brought to her quickly enough.”
"But she is guarded by her brother the Wyvern and he is as evil as she is good!" Burst out the woman. "He is more dragon than man and tortures his victims before he kills them."
"And you don't want your husband to risk his life trying to take your daughter to the Vouivre?" asked Sir Gerard.
"No, my Lord, we are agreed, she is our only daughter and she is worth the risk.” The farmer said firmly. “The problem is that my wife insists on coming with me and I have told her that she must stay here and remain safe. She is being very stubborn today," the husband explained, shooting her a stern, reproving look.
"Will you stay here if we accompany your husband to see the Vouivre?"
"Oh yes, my Lord," the woman nodded her head excitedly; "I just could not bear the thought of my man facing the Wyvern alone."
"Your courage is to be commended," said Sir Gerard warmly, "We will travel with your husband and do our best to make sure that both he and your daughter come back to you."
Sir Gerard turned to Brendan, "Do you wish to wait out here with the Goodwife or do you wish to accompany us into the woods?"
Brendan was not yet a trained warrior and he knew that the knight would accept either answer without qualm, but he felt the need to step up and begin proving his worth immediately. "I'll come," he said simply. The knight nodded.
"Father Cardic, would you remain here with the Goodwife while we seek out the Vouivre? I would hate for us to return successfully only to find that she had been set upon by wolves or robbers."
"Oh! I'll be fine," she said, trying to sound reassuring. She waved a sickle around, "I can defend myself well enough with this."
"Then perhaps it would be best for me to stay and protect the wolves and the robbers from you," said the priest, shooting a wink at Brendan and the knight.
"Where there are wolves in danger, Father Cardic will be there to protect them," said Brendan with a straight face and Sir Gerard stifled a chuckle.
"And robbers, let us not forget that he has now chosen to become a Defender of Robbers," added the knight. Brendan couldn’t help but laugh while the priest did his best to look saintly.
Both peasants looked confused by these comments but said nothing.
"My lord need not be bothered to travel with a poor farmer such as myself," the man objected, but even a blind beggar could see that he was hoping for the company.
"No bother," replied the knight graciously. "Lead the way."
>
The peasant nodded in thanks and began to lead the donkey towards the woods. Sir Gerard rode beside the farmer and directed Brendan to follow beside the cart. As they entered the shade of the woods, the former thief looked up at the knight who seemed to be sitting relaxed in the saddle but whose sharp eyes were flicking left and right checking out every shadow. Brendan noticed that Sir Gerard's hand seemed to be draped nonchalantly over the saddle horn, but it was, in fact, only inches from the hilt of his sword. He was battle ready but trying to project a calm and controlled exterior to reassure the frightened, grieving farmer.
"Brendan, are you experienced with any weapons?" The knight asked as if he were simply making small talk.
"I am pretty fair with knives and daggers, my Lord. I have my knives with me, but I lost my dagger in Venice, I'm afraid."
Sir Gerard pulled out a wicked looking dagger with a darkly burnished blade that was over 18 inches long and handed it to Brendan. "You may keep this to take its place. It is called a long seax and it is made of altum steel. Centurion smiths are able to forge many levels of steel. What most Franks, Norse, or Vikings would call steel, we call mollis or ‘soft’ steel. They use it for armor and weapons, we use it for pots and pans. Centurions make a much superior steel that we call durum or ‘hard’ steel that is used for most of our weapons and armor. Above this is a special steel that we call altum or ‘high’ steel which we use for only our most important weapons and armor. Altum is a special alloy forged by a secret process using secret ingredients known only to Centurion smiths and it is one of our most closely guarded secrets. It is much stronger, harder, and sharper than any other steel known to man, and it never rusts or corrodes or loses its edge. Carry it well, it was my father's."
Brendan took the weapon and its scabbard gingerly; it was practically a short sword and a good six inches longer than any other dagger he had ever used. But then, he reflected, this was the dagger of a warrior, not a thief or a villager.
"Thank you, my lord," he said as he tucked it into his belt.
They came to a place where the path split into three and the peasant stopped.
"I do not know which way to go, my lord," he said in a hushed voice. "They say that the Vouivre lives at the end of one of these paths but that they are enchanted and move around so that no one knows which path she is on from one day to the next."
"And the longer we spend looking for her, the more likely we are to be found by the Wyvern," muttered Brendan.
"I have found that the best way to deal with your fears is to face them, not to try to avoid them," said the knight. "When you face them you can defeat them and move on, when you try to run away from them they have a habit of chasing you down from behind when you are least prepared to deal with them."
Brendan stopped short and looked hard at Sir Gerard. "Are you saying that we should go looking for the Wyvern?"
"No, that could take all day and we might not ever find him. I am saying that avoiding the Wyvern should not be our focus. We are here to find the Vouivre. If we don't run into the Wyvern then that is good, if we do run into the Wyvern then we will face him and defeat him and that is good too."
"And if the Wyvern defeats us and kills us, I suppose that’s good as well?" Asked Brendan in a sarcastic tone that he instantly regretted.
The Iron Knight looked at him in amusement. "Of course it’s good! If he kills us, then it will mean that our earthly trials are over and that we are beginning our heavenly adventures with Christ." Brendan found himself laughing and even the farmer smiled at this response. "Now, if the good farmer has no information as to which path we should take, then let us pray for direction."
The farmer dutifully bowed his head while Sir Gerard made a brief prayer for guidance. Brendan still struggled with the idea of a God who cared enough to actually answer prayers, so he kept his head up and his eye open. He wasn’t sure if the Wyvern or the Vouivre really existed, but he was not about to get himself killed by pretending that the woods were a safe place. Wolves and wild boars were also dangerous, and he knew that they lived in forests.
That was when he saw a large rabbit come out of the woods, look at him, and then bounce down the left path. A rabbit as a sign? Really? Brendan had seen too many charlatans turn every conceivable event, from a splashing fish to spilled wine, into a sign from God so that they could manipulate others, heck, he had done it a few times himself. At this point, however, any of the paths could be the one and the path on the left was as good as any. He shrugged and turned to the others.
"I saw a rabbit appear out of the underbrush and then head down the left path. Maybe that’s the way that we should go."
"That was the path that the Lord directed me too as well," said the knight.
"And me as well, my Lord," chimed in the peasant.
"You saw the rabbit too?" Brendan asked in surprise. He had thought the other men had closed their eyes during their prayer.
"No, I heard the voice of the Lord telling me to go to the left," answered the knight.
"I saw a vision of an angel on the left path beckoning me to follow him," said the farmer.
Brendan was instantly suspicious, "Why didn't God speak to me or give me a vision?"
"Are you open to such things or would you have doubted the message?" Asked Sir Gerard. When the young man said nothing the knight continued, "You cannot doubt the rabbit or which path he ran down, you can only question what it means. Either it is random and meaningless, or it was God giving you only as much as you can accept."
Brendan digested this idea for a moment. It was true that with his skeptical nature he would have dismissed either a voice speaking to him or a vision in his head. He probably would have convinced himself that either one was the result of an overactive imagination in a very strange situation. On the other hand, Sir Gerard's “voice of God” or the farmer's vision of an angel sounded too easy. If God spoke so clearly then why did everyone hear such conflicting messages? He was about to say this when the knight cut him off with a hand gesture.
"Before you would speak again, let me ask you this, do you have any rational reason why we should take one of the other two paths?" Again, Brendan said nothing, he had no reason whatsoever to suggest a different path. As far as he was concerned, the choice was basically a random one. His only real objection was to their method of choosing. Brendan shook his head “no”.
With this, the knight gently spurred his horse forward and started down the left path. Brendan bit his lip and kept his mouth closed. He had plenty of sarcastic things he could have responded with, but nothing with any substance. He respected Sir Gerard too much and this was his one chance to escape the dark underworld of thievery, he was not about to throw it away. When you’re drowning you don’t reject the rope thrown to you just because you don’t understand the motives of the one who threw it.
The farmer followed the knight, leading his donkey and cart while Brendan brought up the rear. The path narrowed briefly before opening up and becoming a wide and easy path that the cart could navigate without difficulty. Brendan found himself breathing a bit easier with that extra space. The Iron Knight seemed to be truly made of iron showing not even the slightest fear. The peasant, for his part, kept his courage up with frequent glances at the body of his daughter, reminding himself that she was worth the risk. Brendan fought his own fear by convincing himself that the Wyvern and the Vouivre were nothing more than old wives’ tales. He kept his eyes sharp looking for wolves and wild boar instead.
For more than an hour they hiked deeper and deeper into the woods. The forest on each side of them became increasingly impenetrable though the path itself stayed broad and open. Faintly at first, and then growing louder as they moved forward, came the sound of running water. The thick forest made it hard to judge how far away the sound was or even how large it might be, it could be a mighty river far off or a tiny brook around the next turn in the path, there was no telling. Ten more minutes of walking showed them that the truth was somewhere in betwe
en.
The party came to a clearing with a large stream; on the other side of the stream was a cave opening. On the near side of the stream was a beautiful pavilion with a tall, beautiful woman who seemed to be expecting them. She was beautiful by any earthly standard, but there was an other-worldly quality about her that made her seem more than real. Her hair was black and full, her eyes were a shade of violet that Brendan had never seen before, and her lips were a blood red that matched the large ruby that was set in the middle of her forehead. Her skin was flawless and had just a shade more color than was normally seen in women in this part of Europe. Brendan realized with a start that she wore no clothing. Her figure was striking and yet he had not even noticed her nakedness at first. There was a purity to her beauty that made it seem almost as if she were completely clothed even though she was wearing nothing. Then she stretched out her large green scaly wings and flicked her dragon's tail and the spell was broken. She was still incredibly beautiful but, in the way that a marble statue is beautiful, not in the way that a living woman is beautiful. Brendan shook his head and rubbed his eyes, but the wings and tail remained.
"You have brought me a loved one to help," she said in a lilting voice that seemed to dance through the air. Unfortunately, her obvious fangs ruined the effect of her captivating voice. Brendan glanced at the knight and the peasant, Sir Gerard seemed unaffected by her, but the peasant was mesmerized by her beauty.
"Indeed," responded the knight, gesturing to the dead body within the cart. "Is it too late to help her?"
"My power is limited by God’s will, not by time, despite what the legends say about me. I can only try." The Vouivre walked over to the cart and whispered a prayer in a language that Brendan didn’t recognize. She gently lifted the young woman's body as if she was a small child and cradled her in her arms. She quietly sang a hymn of praise to God as if she were singing a lullaby to a sleeping infant, then blew on her face. "Wake up child!" She called and the girl's eyes fluttered and then came open. Brendan felt as if he had been struck by lightning when the girl awoke, and his knees almost buckled. The whole scene was so unreal that the young man had trouble believing any of it. Part of him was sure that he was dreaming but part of him insisted that what was happening right before his eyes was absolute truth. He had smelled the putrefaction of the girl’s corpse and now she was alive.