The Fatal Tree

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Giles had followed this exchange. “What did he say?” he asked after Petar had passed beyond earshot.

  “He said he expects the emperor to accept Simeon’s conditions.”

  “And then?”

  “The sun will rise tomorrow.”

  Giles frowned. “What did he mean by that?”

  “I suppose we shall have to wait and see.”

  Waiting was just what they did. Three days and nights the Bulgar war host remained camped within sight of the city walls. At first Haven was glad for a chance to rest; to remain in one place two days together seemed a luxury. She and Giles spent time relaxing in their little skin tent or wandering around the camp and pitching in to help with some of the domestic chores, which always attracted a bevy of Bulgar children, drawn as if by magic to Haven’s russet hair and pale skin and Giles’ imposing stature and booming laugh. Eventually these simple pleasures began to pall. Boredom set in—and frustration at being so close to that glittering, majestic city and yet not allowed any nearer. Occasionally a rider would appear with a message from the king, and rumours would race through the camp only to die for lack of information. On the fourth day around midday, the gates opened and a procession emerged in which the khan, surrounded by priests and musicians, was seen riding in a chair carried by Nubian slaves. The soldiers accompanying him were those of the emperor; his own were not among the entourage.

  People came running to greet their khan and hear what he had to say. There was much pushing and shoving for prime places near the front. The soldiers enforced a rough order, and as soon as everyone had quieted sufficiently, Simeon climbed onto the seat of his chair. Raising his hands, he shouted, “It has pleased God and the Blessed Saints to grant us the victory we have so ardently pursued. The emperor of the Byzantines has recognised our sovereignty and the right of our peoples to live in peace on their own lands.”

  The khan paused to allow his words to be translated into the tribal dialects of his people, for unlike himself, few of his subjects spoke Latin. Haven also interpreted for Giles, who nodded appreciatively. “Petar was right, then,” he observed. “The king got everything he wanted.”

  Khan Simeon was speaking again. “Tomorrow, in celebration of the treaty that has been agreed to, a feast has been declared. Today will be spent in prayer and preparation for tomorrow’s festivities.” He paused and, allowing himself a broad grin, declared, “This is a great day in the history of our people. I invite you all to enter into the triumph your blood and sacrifice have made possible.”

  There was more after that—about the arrangements for the celebration—but Giles was anxious to know what had been said. “There’s going to be a feast to celebrate the victory,” Haven told him. “We are to spend the day getting ready.”

  “I believe I am ready now,” Giles said. He puffed out his cheeks and blurted, “Solemn truth, my lady, I fairly ache to see that city. To have stood here and watched it from afar these four days has chafed me raw.”

  “Patience, Mr. Standfast,” Haven cooed, patting him on the arm. “Your ordeal is soon at an end.”

  A few hours later the first wagons began arriving from the city—a long line of mule-driven carts and wains, each piled high with goods and supplies: bulky bundles of firewood and baskets of charcoal, enormous cauldrons, iron tripods, spits, and other cooking paraphernalia; sacks of flour and baskets, bags, and hampers of raw foodstuffs for the feast, as well as teams of cooks, bakers, and kitchen helpers. A space was cleared in the centre of the camp for a great canopy to serve as a makeshift kitchen, and numerous fire rings were established. Carts loaded with beer in wooden barrels and wine in enormous amphorae were next; other wagons trundled in with long, trough-like containers and jars of fresh water. These were distributed around the camp—not for drinking, but for bathing—so that everyone could wash and make themselves presentable for the celebration. Lastly, a mixed herd of oxen, goats, and sheep were driven up to hastily erected pens on the outskirts of the encampment; the animals would soon be slaughtered to provide meat for the feast.

  The imperial cooks and bakers set to work at once. Under the captivated gaze of the Bulgar children, they built ovens, dug fire pits, and erected tripods and spits for roasting. Meanwhile, the khan’s priests drifted through the camp ringing bells to call the people to a special mass of thanksgiving and deliverance. Haven and Giles, along with most everyone else, made their way to the field just outside the last rank of tents where an altar had been erected.

  These outdoor church services were much the normal routine for an army pursuing a nomadic campaign, and Haven had taken to them almost immediately. Although she could not understand much of what was said or sung—the liturgy and readings were all in Greek—she found the chanting utterly compelling. The way the voices of the priests rose and fell in cadence, intertwining and blending, lifted her heart, sometimes leaving her breathless with a sort of yearning for something that she could almost touch. At these times, she could feel herself straining toward it, but, ever elusive, transcendence remained just beyond her grasp. Although she did not catch the thing she pursued, the effort always left her content and strangely comforted—as if attainment, though denied, had nevertheless been rewarded.

  This day, however, with the sun bearing down and the smoke from the cooking fires wafting across the field into their faces, the service remained stubbornly earthbound, and so too her soul. When at last it finished, she and Giles made their way back to the centre of the camp where they paused to observe the cooks and bakers and their helpers toiling away. “All very well they work so,” Giles said. “But the feast is to be here tomorrow, not in the city.”

  “So it would appear,” agreed Haven, taking in the almost-frenzied activity of the cooks. “Poor Giles, I would pray otherwise for your sake.”

  “It is of no matter,” he muttered, disappointment darkening his tone. “I have seen cities before.”

  They started back to their tents and were met on the way by one of the khan’s yellow-robed body servants. “Come with me,” he ordered.

  Haven knew better than to ask why, so she and Giles merely fell into step behind the man as he led them to the king’s tent. “Wait here,” he said, disappearing behind the door flap, only to reappear a moment later bearing two cloth bundles: one white, one red. “Your festive garments,” he said, passing the white bundle to Giles. The red one he handed to Haven, saying, “You will wear them for the celebration.”

  Haven thanked him and asked, “Are we to join the khan?”

  “You are to be included in the khan’s retinue.” The servant looked them up and down, then said, “Clean yourselves and return here when you are properly dressed.”

  The servant retreated into the tent once more, and Giles, eyebrows raised, looked a question at Haven. “He says we are to dress for the celebration in these clothes,” she explained, indicating the bundles. “For some reason we are expected to put them on now.”

  They retired to their respective tents where they stripped, washed, and dressed themselves in their festive clothes. Giles’ robe was fine linen, much better quality than the wool one he wore most days; Haven’s was silk and also finely made. Both garments had wide, richly embroidered belts of contrasting colour, and both came with new shoes made of felt embroidered with tiny beads. Arrayed in their festive robes, they returned to the khan’s tent to see what was expected of them.

  By the time they reached the tent, the chief advisor was waiting for them with a sour look on his face. He made quick work of examining them, adjusted their belts, and then pronounced them ready.

  “For what purpose are we ready, Petar?”

  “You are ready to proceed to the feast,” he replied. “Wait here.”

  “But the feast is not until tomorrow,” Haven pointed out, keeping her tone light. “Do you mean for us to stand here all day?”

  “Tomorrow for the people,” he told her. Just then, the tent flap opened and out stepped the khan’s hulking bodyguard, now encased in
newly burnished mail and carrying a long pike tied with streaming pennants. The warrior greeted Petar with a grunt and moved aside as Khan Simeon emerged from the tent behind him.

  The khan, resplendent in silk and satin, fairly glittered in the noonday sun. He wore a simple tunic and trousers—the clothing favoured by Bulgar horsemen—but of spotless purple, belted with a wide, handsome sash made of cloth of gold. Over his tunic he wore a sleeveless coat woven with so many golden threads that he glistened like water as he moved. On his head he wore a circlet embellished with rubies and pearls, and on his feet were boots of soft black leather studded with black pearls and tiny beads of gold. In his hand he carried a slender rod topped by a wrought-iron eagle with spread wings. Behind him came his body servants, dressed in bright orange tunics with tall-crowned rimless hats of red felt. Taking up positions around the khan, the servants raised a canopy of blue silk, the poles of which were long spears decorated with pennants.

  As soon as the canopy was stretched above his head, Khan Simeon struck the ground with the end of the iron rod and the procession started off. At a gesture from Petar, Haven and Giles fell into step behind the chief advisor. They moved through the camp; people came running to watch their triumphant king pass by, cheering him on his way. At the camp’s edge, a division of warriors on horseback fell into line, bringing up the rear, and drummers joined the train. The great thumping beat of their drums stifled all other sound, so that it seemed as if their king came striding into the city on peals of thunder.

  “I believe we are to see the city after all,” surmised Giles, leaning close to make himself heard over the rolling boom of the drums.

  Haven took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I should not be surprised if we see the emperor himself!”

  CHAPTER 6

  In Which the Wheels of Justice Grind

  Rudolf, King of Bohemia and Hungary, Archduke of Austria and King of the Romans, tapped his long fingers impatiently on the arms of his favourite throne and waited for the battle to commence. The first of the multitude of irritations he would combat that day was just now coming his way over the polished floor of his audience chamber. This particular annoyance took the form of his Minister for Domestic Affairs, an effete, bloodless noodle of a man with a manner so self-effacing as to render him all but invisible.

  “Well? What have we today, Knoblauch? Eh? What is that paper you have in your hand?” Rudolf frowned a truly regal frown of displeasure. He had been kept waiting for nearly five minutes! At this rate, he could not hope to finish his appointments until midafternoon. “Speak, man! We beg you.”

  “Sire,” replied Herr Knoblauch, pausing to offer a low, courtly bow, “it has come to the attention of the ministry that there is a man in gaol claiming to be a friend of this court.”

  “Is that so?” demanded the emperor. “If we had our way, half the court should be locked up without delay!”

  “Indeed, my great king,” intoned the minister smoothly. “This man is demanding to be released in your name.”

  “The infernal impudence!” snapped Rudolf. “Who is this bold fellow?”

  The minister glanced at the scrap of paper in his hand. “He appears to be a foreigner, sire—an English gentleman by the name of Burleigh, Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, entitled as the Earl of Sutherland, or some such place.”

  “A nobleman?”

  “So it would appear. Do you know him, Majesty?”

  “Burleigh? Burleigh?” Rudolf rummaged around in his memory. “We cannot place the scoundrel.”

  The diffident courtier consulted his brief once more and said, “Lord High Alchemist Bazalgette’s name was mentioned in some regard, I believe.”

  “Bazalgette!” cried Rudolf. “Why are you standing there? Summon Bazalgette at once, and let us get to the bottom of this affair before it devours the whole day!”

  “At once, Majesty.” Knoblauch bowed and beat a rapid retreat.

  The emperor endured another interval of waiting while the chief alchemist was summoned from his sanctum and brought to the audience chamber. In a rush of dark green velvet, Balthazar Bazalgette swept into the room, his tall blue hat askew and his golden sash half knotted in his hurry to obey the summons. At the foot of the throne, he stopped and bowed, then stood blinking and breathless. “I am sorry if I have kept you waiting, my great king.”

  “Yes, yes.” Rudolf waved aside the apology. “See here! What do you know of a man named Burleigh—a foreigner, by all accounts, who has got himself locked up by the magistrate?”

  “This is the first I have heard of the matter, sire,” replied Bazalgette. “But the man himself is known to me, yes. May I learn the nature of your inquiry?”

  The emperor flicked a finger at his minister, who had followed the alchemist into the room. “Tell him, Knoblauch.”

  “This man Burleigh has been arrested and imprisoned in the Rathaus gaol,” answered the minister. “He is demanding release in the name of the emperor.”

  Bazalgette’s notoriously bushy eyebrows bristled and bunched with concern. “And the substance of his crime, Herr Knoblauch?” he asked.

  “Affray, I believe, and causing grievous bodily harm.” The minister examined his paper, adding, “Through assault and battery.”

  “Upon my word,” gasped the alchemist. “That is most upsetting.”

  “This villain is known to you?” said the emperor.

  “He is, yes, Highness. By your leave, sire, I might venture to suggest that he is known to Your Majesty as well. You met him once or twice when he came to court on business.”

  Rudolf’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What business?”

  Bazalgette blinked innocently at his unhappy patron and friend. “Why, the little devices, sire.” He held up his ink-stained fingers to describe a roughly oval shape. “Made of brass . . . the size of a swan’s egg . . .” At the emperor’s deepening frown, his voice trailed off. “. . . for use in astral travel?”

  “Astral travel?” roared the King of the Romans. “We know nothing of this astral travel.” He turned his gaze on his minister. “Do we, Knoblauch?”

  “No, sire,” the minister assured him smugly. “We do not know a thing about it whatsoever.”

  “B-but, sire,” sputtered Bazalgette. “It was with your express approval that we made the devices for Lord Burleigh’s experiments. Shadow Lamps, I believe they are called—or so I am informed.”

  “Shadow Lamps,” huffed Rudolf. “Ridiculous name.”

  “To be sure, Majesty. At all events, we were positively assured that this project had Your Majesty’s highest endorsement and unbridled enthusiasm.”

  “Ah! Who assured you of this?”

  “Well, he did,” confessed Bazalgette meekly, beginning to see the error of his ways. “The earl told me in no uncertain terms that Your Highness wished to keep the venture a strict and confidential secret, lest others steal a march on us, so to speak.” He thrust out his hands imploringly. “We were confident of your full and unreserved support in this . . . as in so many other things.”

  “He lied to you, Bazalgette. Lied!” shouted the emperor, his voice ringing through the hall and down the corridor. “The rascal lied!”

  The Lord High Alchemist hung his head. “I see it now. We were most callously used and betrayed by a base villain.” He brightened again almost at once. “Locked up, you say?” he asked, turning to the minister. “For assault and battery?”

  “And affray,” added Knoblauch. “Do not forget affray.”

  “To be sure. May I enquire whom Burleigh has assaulted and battered?”

  The minister consulted his paper for a moment, his lips moving silently. “A cruel and vicious attack was made upon a worthy citizen by the name of Engelbert Stiffelbeam.”

  “We do not believe we know the man, do we?” wondered Rudolf.

  “I fear I must beg Your Majesty’s pardon once again,” said Bazalgette, “but I rather believe this man is known to you—very well known indeed. He is the baker who owns t
he Grand Imperial Kaffeehaus in the Old Square. You granted him a royal warrant for the supply of strudel to the royal table.”

  “The baker with the divine pastries!” cried Rudolf. “Why must everyone speak in riddles? Of course! We know Stiffelbeam and his strudel, and set great store by his kaffee. Why, the man is a very angel of the oven.”

  “Oh, he is, sire. He is, indeed,” agreed Bazalgette warmly.

  “Herr Knoblauch, we must have some of Stiffelbeam’s Grand Imperial strudel at the soonest opportunity. See to it.”

  The minister bowed low. “It shall be done, sire.”

  “Was he hurt, Majesty? The baker, I mean—was he badly hurt in the assault?” asked Bazalgette. “It would be a very great shame if injury prevented him from fulfilling his baking duties.”

  Rudolf II looked to his minister, who, in anticipation of the question, was already referring to his brief. “The extent of Stiffelbeam’s injuries is not specified, sire.” He read a little more. “Still, I can tell you that Herr Arnostovi—a Jew of some prominence and good repute in the city—caught Burleigh in the act and raised the alarum.” He read a little more, then added, “The earl and his men were caught at the lower gate trying to flee the city in order to escape their crimes.”

  “Men?” wondered the emperor. “There were men involved?”

  “Yes, sire. It appears Lord Burleigh had four men with him.”

  “A gang of cutthroats, no doubt,” muttered the emperor. Indignant now, he drew himself up in his throne. “See here! We will not tolerate this outrage! We have been lied to, and the sovereignty of our court has been violated, our goodwill traduced—”

  “Our trust betrayed,” offered Bazalgette helpfully.

  “—and our imperial trust betrayed by a malicious and deceitful criminal,” continued Rudolf, his voice booming as he hit his stride. “A heinous offence has been committed against a valued and worshipful member of our community and a friend of this court. This barbarous act will not stand.” He thrust a long finger into the air. “This crime will be punished.”