by Derek Murphy
He asked her, "What is my title?"
She gasped for a moment, taken aback at the revelation that he didn’t remember exactly who he was, but nonetheless said, "My Lord, you are Mayor of the Palaces of Austrasia and Neustria, Duke and Prince of the Franks."
"And, where are we?"
"In Poitiers."
"What year is it?"
The tears rolled down her cheeks and her hands clenched into fists on his knees as she choked out, "732. My Lord, what does this mean? Do you not remember me? Or, who you are?"
Touched by the strength of her emotional display, he lifted her to sit beside him and draped an arm over her shoulders as he chucked her under the chin.
"I remember who I am. I’ve just been a bit confused. How did I get this knock on the head that put me on my back?"
"One of your men let his horse get away from him and it trampled you just yesterday. It could not have happened at a worse time! The Saracens are encamped in front of us with a great army. Your supporters are prepared to give battle with them according to your plan, but without you, they will be lost and leaderless!"
Charles digested that statement for a moment while his mind raced. If they were in Poitiers and it was 732, then this was the Battle of Tours-Poitiers. What was it he had read about Charles Martel? For, that was who he had to be, given the titles she had recited for him. He achieved great success by doing that which was least expected, when it was least expected. Well then, since he was trapped in this dream, he would just have to do something that Charles Martel had already done.
Sighing, he said, "Thank you. You’ve made my mind a lot clearer just by answering my questions. Would you bring that man back that was in here a little bit ago?"
The worried look she gave him plainly said that she doubted his memory since he couldn’t remember one of his lieutenants, but she rose, going to the door and whispering to someone outside. When the man returned, he brought several others with him and when they would have made introductions, he shushed them all.
"It’s plain that I don’t remember everyone. But there is a plan of battle?" At various nods, he asked, "When was it to start?"
The man who had been in the tent earlier said, "In two days’ time, my Lord. We have waited for six days for the levies to arrive. They are here, but must rest before battle."
Charles nodded, his hand going to his chin and encountering a beard. How had he missed that earlier? Stroking it, he thought a few moments. He knew that Martel had a standing, well-trained army and that the levies would be used to harass the enemy. He said, "Tomorrow. We attack tomorrow."
One of the men, a huge redhead with scars on his face, said, "My Lord! The men and horses are tired from the journey here! Another day will see them ready for battle."
"Another day will see the enemy that much more ready for battle also. We have few cavalry and will fight in a phalanx. We attack tomorrow."
Another man asked, "Will my Lord lead as always?"
"I will. Put me on my horse and at the head of the army. From there, follow the plan. Nothing else needs to be done."
Charles wasn’t so sure of what he was saying, but since this was a dream and he was likely in a coma somewhere, it didn’t matter. If he died in a dream, did that mean he would die in life? He didn’t know, and didn’t care. He was tired and wanted to get some sleep.
At their puzzled and alarmed glances, he said, "You are dismissed. Send Lady Margarethe back in. Wake me an hour before dawn."
As they filed out, he sank down on the cot and closed his eyes, wishing someone would come with the food he had requested. In moments, the fold of the tent was swept aside and several boys, the one he had spoken to earlier, carried in a small table and several large trays of food. A flagon of beer was placed in his hand and he tipped it up as they moved the table before him and put the trays on it. A platter of roughly sliced beef took centerplace and he stabbed at it with the dagger that hung at his belt. Before the boys were out of the tent, he was stuffing his mouth with the food as though he hadn’t eaten in weeks. The doorway was disturbed again as Margarethe entered, followed by several of the same boys who carried another cot between them. Once they had it placed beside his, they departed in a hurry, their eyes round as they looked over their shoulders at the pair.
Hacking a flat loaf of bread in two, he gestured for the girl to join him and smiled as she took half the loaf and began piling meat and stewed vegetables on it. A head of cheese sat on one of the trays and she cut several slices from it, handing him one as she took another. He wondered where she was going to put all of it; she was as short and slim as Peggy. While they ate, they talked.
"Will you be successful tomorrow?"
He paused between bites and washed his food down with a swig from the flagon of beer.
"Yes. I know what they will do. An attack won’t be necessary. I had to order one to give the men confidence. They’ve been watching the enemy’s army get bigger and bigger for the past six days without moving against them. They’re intimidated. I want them to believe that they will win."
Charles felt her eyes on him as they ate and he stopped to look at her, finding her staring with some perplexity in her gaze. He had supposed that women in the middle ages all went around with downcast eyes, thinking about the religious embroidery they were working on or that sort of thing. It was refreshing to find that Lady Margarethe didn’t fit the mold he had built in his mind.
She said, "You are different. You’ve changed. Did the accident bring you closer to God?"
He shook his head, still chewing at the tough meat and gulped a little more beer. As he sat the flagon down, she reached for it and poured a little into a small cup. Draining the cup quickly, she sighed and fixed him with her steady gaze.
"I don’t think you want the same things that you wanted yesterday."
Shrugging, he asked, "What makes you say that?"
"Yesterday, you were ready to send me away. The priest had been working at you; trying to make you see that what we have is immoral. Did the accident cause you to forget?"
Leaning back, he frowned a little and said, "Life is too short to worry about priests and what they think."
Boldly, she said, "Swanhild wants you to take one of those brainless, little creatures from the court as a mistress. She fears that I will occupy too much of your time; take you from her."
Their eyes locked and he said, "I prefer women with minds that can think and say what they believe."
Her demeanor changed; growing warmer as she leaned toward him and said, "I thought that you wanted me because I was a novelty for you. Are you sure that you feel that way?"
The name of the boy who had helped him dress came to him and he lifted his head, calling out, "Dagobert!"
The teenager scurried through the fold of the tent, standing expectantly before him with a look of adoration on his face. Charles reflected that hero-worship hadn’t changed over the centuries and smiled at the boy.
"I don’t want to be disturbed until morning. Not unless we are under attack."
The boy dipped a knee and backed toward the doorway when Charles waved him away and turned his attention back to Margarethe.
She came to him, her lips lifted for a kiss, and he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek.
"We will only sleep in each other’s arms tonight. My head is still sore. But we will talk more than anything."
She nodded and let his arm gather her into his side. Taking a bit of cheese between her fingers, she held it up for him and said, "You always surprise me. I think the accident did change you.
* * *
Glancing along the line of the phalanx, Charles saw the bodies piled up here and there and knew that it was pride and discipline that had kept his men from breaking. Those things and the knowledge that his eyes were on them. He stood among the men with the trees scattered all over the slope below them and among them. It was the slope and the trees that had broken the painfully slow charges the enemy had made against them. A few o
f them had broken into the square in an effort to get to him, but his men had cut them down speedily and it had been some while since any had broken through.
Dagobert had brought him a new helmet when he awakened him and Charles had been pleased to see that it was thick, reinforced steel; a much better piece than the one that had barely saved his life the day before. With the mail he wore over the padded jacket, he felt protected and safe, though the enemy had gotten close enough for sword-strokes. Not that Charles had used his sword much, relying instead on the great hammer he swung in his right hand. The shield had taken some getting used to, but after smashing it into a Saracen’s face that afternoon, he felt that he had learned how to use it effectively.
He looked off across the field to see if his auxiliaries had gotten to the Saracens’ baggage train and thought that he could see a few men and women running from it. That would mean that they were releasing the slaves the enemy had made of the local inhabitants. Smiling grimly, he knew that the enemy would begin falling back to their rear soon and the battle would be effectively over.
As the rear ranks of the enemy cavalry began to turn back, he thought, "There it is! Now is the most crucial time." If his men broke and pursued the enemy, they could be cut off and destroyed piecemeal. He had to avoid that at all costs or the victory would be turned into a defeat.
A group of his men took a step forward and he roared, "Stand fast!"
At the sound of his voice, he saw them stop in place and a few turned sheepish looks to him in consternation at having almost broken their discipline. As the minutes stretched into an hour, two hours, and more, he knew that the victory was complete. The auxiliaries were pursuing the enemy, harassing them as they carried off as much of their loot as they could, often leaving piles of it in favor of a safe retreat. Without the discipline of the standing army, they weren’t much good for anything but what they were doing and he knew that Martel had known that going into this battle. Charles hadn’t changed anything in the battle plan and knew it had been the right thing to do. Martel had been a military genius in that time and place and there was no way to improve on his arrangements.
The hours dragged on into a full day and evening was upon them when he gave the order to retire; dispatching small groups of men to prowl the battlefield as a security force against a surprise attack. As he returned to his tent, he got a good look at it and saw that it wasn’t anything fancy at all; merely a well-worn pavilion thrown up as a shelter against the cold of the season. It bothered him that his men didn’t have tents, but from the look of the enemy’s baggage train, that lack would be rectified in short order.
Thrusting the fold of the tent aside, he stepped through, followed by Dagobert who set about removing his armor for him. Margarethe stood to one side with a pan of steaming water and sponges to wash the blood, dirt and grime from him. He sighed as the mail-shirt was lifted from him and felt the pressure points it had left on his shoulders, even with the padded jacket, begin to relax. Once the jacket and tunic were off of him, he peeled the linen undershirt stickily from his chest and shoulders and sighed as the sweat-soaked thing fell to the rug beneath his feet. In seconds, Margarethe was running the warm, wet sponge over his shoulders and back, clucking at the impressions his gear had left on his skin.
When she was finished, he turned to the table and found a meal much like that of last night set before him. Digging in with gusto, he passed over the wine and reached instead for the flagon of beer. Margarethe sat beside him once more, feeding him tidbits from the platters when his own hands were occupied with other foods. He had never been so hungry, or thirsty. He guessed that with all the sweat, he had lost at least ten pounds that day and was tired unto death.
At last, he was finished eating and moved to the cot, reclining with a sigh and was followed by Margarethe. Dagobert had exited the tent while he ate after Margarethe had whispered something to him. Charles was sure she had ordered that they not be disturbed, and he was pleased that she had; he had plans for her this evening.
Closing his eyes as he relaxed, he thought, "But first, a nap."
* * *
A rocking motion woke him and he attempted to lift a hand to his face, feeling it dragged back down by a gentle hand. Opening his eyes, he saw the lighted interior of an ambulance with two shadowy forms above him. As his vision cleared, he saw that one wore the uniform of an EMT and the other sobbed as she threw herself on his chest. His hand lifted to the back of her head and he stroked her hair as she sobbed against him.
She lifted her head and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Peggy.
"Vickie and I were on the way back to her place when we saw your pickup and trailer piled up in those trees. God! It took forever for the ambulance to get here!"
The EMT was working at stopping the bleeding from head wound and he muzzily asked, "What happened? I know I hit the trees, but where did the horse go to?"
Peggy kissed the back of his hand with tears streaming down her face as the EMT said, "I don’t know. There wasn’t any sign of a horse when we got here. We found a bloody horseshoe in the seat of the pickup; I guess you had one behind the seat and the force of the impact threw it up and it hit your head."
Pausing in his work to reach behind him, the EMT held up a horseshoe and Charles knew he had never seen it before and certainly didn’t shape it. It was easily twice the size of any shoe he had ever seen.
"It’s a big mother, ain’t it? Big as it is, it could have killed you."
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Wild Weasel Wilson and the Banshee Chicken
A bunch of us was settin’ on the bench outside the feed store when this beat-up, ol’ GMC pickup with a homemade camper in the bed come a’wheelin’ up and parked with a grindin’ o’ gears an’ a throwin’ o’ gravel. Seems to me like there was a squealin’ o’ the brakes too, but I could be wrong about that; I been chunked in the head too much by too many broncs and got a tin-ear that rings all the time.
Anyway, this long ol’ boy steps out of the truck and I ain’t never seed no cowboy like him. Most is tall and gangly, or short and chunky, or short and scrawny, but they’s few of ‘em that’s tall and built with muscles on top o’ muscles like this’n was. His work shirt had the sleeves rolled up on his arms and the material was so tight it looked like if he twitched it would split. As it was, the chest hair peekin’ out of his shirt threatened to pop the buttons. That wasn’t nuthin’ compared to the jeans he wore; they hugged his hips and legs an’ I doubt if you could’a got a dollar bill between him an’ them. Even more surprisin’ was the bulge at the crotch; it looked like he had a rattler bunched up there and it was a wigglin’!
They was a sign hand-painted on the side of the camper that said, "Wild Wesley Wilson" on it, only someone had crossed out Wesley and writ in Weasel. It made me think of the movin’ bulge in his jeans and that kinda made me shy back when he walked up on the sidewalk.
He stopped in front of us and looked us up and down like he was sizin’ us up and he rolled a cigarette and took his time lightin’ it up.
Blowin’ smoke out the side of his mouth, he grinned a little lopsided at us and said, "I’m Wes Wilson. Been ridin’ the rodeo circuit out New Mexico way the past few years. Give it up to chase everything that’s weird and wild. Kilt me a Bigfoot, a couple of vampires and a few zombies but I heard tell you folks got somethin’ out this way that nobody ever saw before. Lookin’ for a man to drive the truck for me when I go huntin’ it up. I’ll pay eight dollars a hour and a bonus of fifty bucks when we catch it. Any o’ you fellers up for huntin’ the Banshee Chicken?"
Well, you coulda heard a pin drop if it wasn’t for the stompin’ and a trottin’ noises that bunch made makin’ their getaway. As it was, I tripped over the spit-bucket Ol’ Man James kept in front of the store ‘cause he got tired of us gobbin’ on the sidewalk, an’ when I got my feet back under me, I was a’standin’ nose to chest-hair with Wilson and just looked up at him.
Clappin’ me on the
back, he said, "I knew there was a real man in this bunch. Git your ropes and gear and throw ‘em in the camper there. I gotta go inside and do some business with the proprietor of this here place."
He stepped around me and not wantin’ to look like a coward in front of the boys what was hidin’ at the corner of the buildin’, I walked over to my ol’ Ford and hauled my saddle and rope out of the back and carried ‘em over to the camper. Openin’ the door at the back, I slung my stuff inside and couldn’t resist lookin’ the stuff over what was inside. They was a size forty Bigfoot foot stuffed and mounted a’hangin’ on one side an’ a chupacabra head a’grinnin’ from the other an’ a monkey paw danglin’ from the light fixture on the ceilin’. They was other stuff here and there that I shuddered to think about how he come by ‘em, but the worst one was a mummified gypsy woman a’settin’ at the back. It didn’t bother me so much until she winked at me an’ I like to pissed my pants there ‘n’ then! I could still hear her a’cacklin’ after I slammed the door and run back to the door of the feed store.
Inside, Wes was talkin’ to Ol’ Man James, who claimed he was Jesse’s great-grandson, but wasn’t, and they was a’wranglin’ over what Wes was gonna get paid for riddin’ us of the Banshee Chicken.
Holdin’ up a piece of paper, Wes said, "In this here letter you wrote me, you said you’d pay ten-thousand dollars if she was kilt! I’m a’tellin’ you that I’ll take five-thousand to capture her. Now, what the Hell’s wrong with that deal?"
Ol’ Man James run his finger up under his hat and rubbed the dandruff around some and said, "Well, they ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, but I cain’t unnerstan’ what in thee Hail you want with her alive!"
Duckin’ his head to one side, Wes said, "That there’s my business, Mr. James! I gotta use for her, that’s all."