The Black Rood (15 page)

I had no difficulty finding him. For, as I made my way along the narrow track between the houses of the town, I heard a commotion of angry voices as I entered the bare earth expanse which served as the market square for the settlement. A well stood in the center of the square, and around it the stalls and wagons of the area's merchants and farmers.

Hurrying into the square, I saw a number of people gathered beside the well; they were shouting at something which was taking place before them. I hurried closer and heard the riffling smack of the lash on flesh, and the groan that followed. Pushing through the crowd, I stepped into the ring and said in a loud voice. “Unless you wish to suck your supper through broken teeth the rest of your life, I urge you to put down that strap.”

The thug hesitated in mid-stroke and turned slowly. Roupen lay at his feet, cowering, red welts on his arms where he had covered his head. The crowd fell silent as I stepped forward. Intent only on stopping the beating, I had no wish to fight, nor any weapon with which to back up my rash challenge.

“You,” the ruffian said, recognizing me at once. Though it had been dark on the road that night, I knew him, too. The thief, so cheerful before, was angry now, and all the more dangerous for it. “Step closer,” he said, “and I will give you
some of what your Jew is having. And then we will discuss the cattle I am missing.”

I made no move. “Let him go,” I said. “You can have no quarrel with him. He has done nothing to you.”

Someone from the crowd hollered, “He's a stinking Jew! He stole a gold ring and tried to sell it.”

“He is not a Jew,” I told the crowd. “He is a Christian. What is more, he is the son of Leo, Prince of Armenia, whose ring he wears—the very man this town must answer to if you harm his son and heir.” I paused to allow them to consider this, then added, “Prince Leo commands ten thousand soldiers, while you have none…unless you count this brute I see before me.”

A murmur of uncertainty rippled through the crowd—no longer so enthusiastic in their support of the beating as they were only moments before. One or two of the more timid among them crept away quietly.

“And who are you,” demanded the thief, “to concern yourself with him?”

“I am his protector,” I replied. Ignoring the thug, I moved to Roupen's side and bent over him. “Can you stand, my lord?” Still cowering, he nodded. “Very well, let us be about our business.”

The rogue attacked in the same instant. I expected he would strike me then, and I was ready. He charged from the blind side, arms outstretched to seize me in a crushing embrace; I remained crouching and let him come on. At the last instant, I lowered my shoulder and slammed into him with all my weight. I caught him under the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. He fell, sprawling backward onto the hard-packed dirt.

Not caring to prolong the ordeal, I leapt on him in the same instant, placing my knee on his throat. Unable to breathe, he squirmed and thrashed while the color of his face slowly deepened from red to blue.

“Do not kill him!” someone shouted.

I raised my head and looked at the crowd. “You were all for a killing when you thought it was a Jew being murdered. I give this rogue a taste of his own stew, and you cry mercy
for him. Would that you had done so for the innocent stranger among you.”

The ruffian ceased struggling beneath me; his eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled up into his skull and his limbs went slack. Only then did I release my hold on him. I stood slowly. “Murder!” someone gasped. “He killed Garbus!”

“This ugly fellow is not dead,” I told them. “He is merely asleep—although, perhaps it would be better for this town if it were otherwise.”

I stooped down and, tucking my fingers under the brute's belt, lifted upward sharply. This action produced two striking effects: the thief suddenly moaned as the air rushed back into his lungs, and the gold ring slipped from its hiding place beneath the belt and fell out upon the ground—to the astonishment of the townspeople looking on.

I picked up the ring, and handed it to Roupen. “Come, my lord, the boat is waiting. We will shake the dust of this place from our feet.”

I put my arm around his shoulder and drew him away. “What about the supplies?” Roupen asked as we walked from the square.

“There will be another settlement downriver,” I told him. “We will buy what we need there. I want nothing more to do with this place.”

Upon returning to the boat, I bade Dodu the haulier farewell. He was sorry to see us go, and said that if he did not have a wife and son waiting for him at home, he would count it a blessing to go on pilgrimage with us to the Holy Land. I told him we would ask for him on our way home. “After all, I still owe you for hauling the boat.”

“No, no!” he cried. “You saved my good oxen. I should pay
you
.”

“Nevertheless,” I said, “I will look forward to paying this debt. Until then, my friend, I wish you well.”

Some of the more curious townspeople had followed us to the landing. As Sarn pushed the boat out into the slow-moving stream, Padraig addressed the onlookers. Pointing to Dodu, he said, “This man is a friend of mine. From now on, you will treat him like a brother. For I will return one day,
and if I learn he has been abused in any way by anyone here, I will call down the wrath of God upon this place. Do not think you will escape judgment for your sins.”

The people gaped at us, aghast at this startling pronouncement. The current carried the boat away, and we left them standing on the landing, looking after us in wonder. Roupen, too, was more than a little awestruck. Once we were safely downstream, he pulled the ring from his finger and offered it to me, saying, “You saved my life at risk of your own. My father will reward you greatly. Consider this token but a small foretaste of the treasure to come.”

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, but declined, saying, “If I take your ring, you will have nothing with which to buy supplies in the next settlement. That is the agreement we made.”

“True,” he agreed, reluctantly slipping on the ring once more. “Even so, I will remain in your debt until the honor of our family is discharged.”

T
HE NEXT SETTLEMENT
was two days downriver. We were hungry again by then, but God is good: we arrived at midday on market day, and the market was lively and well supplied, the merchants eager for trade. In exchange for Roupen's ring, we got two bags of ground meal, a haunch of salt pork, five loaves of bread, half a wheel of hard cheese, a few strips of dried beef, and various other provisions such as eggs, nuts, dried peas, and salt fish. We also bought a cask of cider, which the hardy folk of the region drink almost to the exclusion of all else.

We might have got more for the gold somewhere else—for all it was a very fine ring—but we were already feeling the pinch, and did not know how far the next market might be; also, with space already cramped it would not have helped us to capsize our craft. We bargained hard and were able to come away with our provisions, but nothing left over. While Sarn and Padraig stowed everything aboard the boat, Roupen and I went to inquire of the way ahead. Although the young lord had come up the river, and knew the general route, he could not remember how many days the journey required.

“It is perhaps nine days,” said the merchant I asked. “This time of year, of course,” he tapped his front teeth with a dirty fingernail, “when the water is low, I suppose it might take longer.”

We thanked him for this information, and turned to leave. He called us back, saying, “There is no difficulty, mind. Just keep to the main channel until you come to Lyon, where the river joins with another and changes its name.”

“What does it become?”

“The Rhône,” he said. “Just keep to the main channel and you will have no difficulty after that. I should know, I have been to Lyon often enough.”

“But we want to go to Marseilles,” I pointed out. “Is it much farther after that?”

“Oh, aye. If I were you I would forget all about Marseilles and go to Lyon instead. It is better in every way. I always enjoy very good trade in Lyon; the people there are very wealthy. Not like here, mind. Still, I make no complaint. The people here are hard-working, and know the value of their goods.”

Again, we thanked him for providing such excellent advice, and made to leave, whereupon he said, “After Lyon, you are only seven days—or perhaps eight, as I say—from Avignon, and from there it is but a short distance to Marseilles by sea. You should stay a few days if you can. The cathedral is splendid—or will be when it is finished. They have only begun, mind, but already it is a sight worth seeing. Even Paris has not such a grand cathedral.”

Padraig and I walked back to the boat. “Our young lord Roupen might have warned us it was so far. He doesn't seem to remember anything about the journey at all.”

“Do you regret taking him with us?” asked the priest.

I thought about it for a moment. “No—at least, not yet,” I replied. “But we are still a long way from Marseilles.”

It was as the merchant said—we reached Lyon without trouble four days later, and six days after that Avignon—which, I was disappointed to learn, was nowhere near the sea. Our destination was still many days off.

Feeling that time was pressing, we journeyed on without even so much as a glance at the city or its splendid cathedral. It was late in the day when we reached the first shoal south of the city, and decided to camp for the night and begin our
exertions afresh in the morning. We stopped at a place where the bull rushes grew tall, forming a high green palisade around us; we pulled the boat up onto the gravel shingle, and Padraig set about making supper with the little that remained of our once-plentiful supplies.

No sooner had we sat down to eat, however, than we were attacked and overwhelmed by dense clouds of biting midges. Despite the smoke from the fire, which usually kept such pests at bay, these fierce flyers swarmed over us, biting each time they alighted. More demon than insect, their constant stinging soon drove us from our food. In order to get some relief, we rolled ourselves in our cloaks, head to foot, and finished our meal in sweltering misery.

We then lay down to sleep, though the air was quite warm, and the sky was still light. All night long I lay with my face covered, scarcely able to breathe, the perpetual buzzing in my ears. We all woke early, ill-rested and itching from a thousand tiny sores which the midges had inflicted. Not wishing to linger even a moment, we did not pause to break fast, but straightaway seized the ropes and began pulling the boat over the gravel shoal, eager to get as far away from that place as quickly as possible.

It was hot work. And stinking, too—owing to the numerous pools of stagnant water lying in the hollows of the sandbars. The ever-present reek of the warm, slime-green water filled our nostrils, driving all thoughts of food from our heads. So, aside from pausing now and then to swallow a few mouthfuls of water, we took no meals. There was little left of our provisions, and the smell and flies took away any desire to eat, so we pushed on and ever on, shouldering the ropes and towing the boat through the heat of the day.

Unfortunately, when the sun began to descend in the west and loosen its grip on the land, then the midges came seeking our blood once more. We spent another endless, insufferable night wrapped in our cloaks. Anyone stumbling upon our camp in the night would have imagined we had all been slain and prepared for burial in our shrouds.

After three days of fighting a losing battle against the
vicious midges, we at last entered a deeper channel and, though there was only the slightest, most hesitant breath of a breeze. Sarn raised the sail so that we might leave the plague of pests far behind as swiftly as possible.

Downstream, we stopped long enough to prepare one final, meager supper with the last of our provisions—a gruel of flaked dried meat and meal which, like starving dogs we devoured instantly; we licked the bowls clean and journeyed on. The channel was good and the moon bright, so we sailed through the night and arrived at Arles late the next day—tired, sore, very hungry, and with no money to buy food.

It was beneath my dignity to beg, although if it came to that, I would so humble myself. Roupen said he would rather starve than beg; and Sarn said that since we were already starving, he did not see that begging made any difference one way or the other. “Beyond that,” I said, “I reckon our best hope lies in reaching Marseilles as soon as possible, and beseeching the Templars to take pity on us.”

Padraig, however, had other ideas. “It may be the Templars will aid us,” he allowed indifferently when I suggested it, “although I do not see why they should.”

“If you have something better to offer, I am waiting to hear it.” I cupped a hand to my ear and leaned toward him. “Well, I am still waiting.”

“If you would cease your yammering, you might hear something worthwhile,” he replied testily. “As it happens, your father stopped here on his way to the Holy Land—or have you forgotten?”

I
had
forgotten. Then again, owing to Murdo's reluctance to speak of his part in the Great Pilgrimage, I knew little about the place to begin with. Most of what I had heard about Arles I owed to Emlyn, who had also told Padraig—apparently far more than he had told me.

“They wintered here,” I said, remembering. “There is a monastery. We could ask them for food—is that what you are thinking?”

“Come, I will show you what I am thinking.” He started
off along the quay and I hurried after, leaving Roupen and Sarn to refresh the water casks and make the boat fast.

Padraig found his way to a market square near the harbor. As in most settlements of any size, there are always a fair number of elder citizens gathered around talking and taking their ease. Padraig greeted them respectfully and, seeing we were strangers, they wanted to know where we were coming from, and where we were going. He told them a little about our pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and they all nodded earnestly. They had heard of the Great Pilgrimage, of course, and several of them said they knew men who had participated, and had stories to tell. We listened and talked like this until they were well satisfied with our integrity, and then Padraig said, “My uncle wintered here on his way to the Holy Land; he was a priest traveling with some Norsemen. Perhaps some of you remember them.”

The old men shook their heads. No, they did not remember, but they were certain that such things did occur.

“There was also an armorer who lived here. He became friends with this man's father.” Here the priest indicated me, which impressed the choir of idlers enormously. “I wonder if he is still here.”

Our informants grew very excited. Not only was the fellow still there, they said, he was still doing a brisk business in weapons of all kinds, and only for the noblemen of the region. “The Templars have been here to see him,” one toothless fellow proclaimed proudly. “They are fighting priests, you know. Only the best will do for them.”

Upon learning that we were on our way to Marseilles to join the Templar fleet, we were enthusiastically informed that one of the Templar ships had come into the harbor to receive the weapons which had been purchased the previous year. “They were returning to Marseilles and were to set sail for the Holy Land in three days' time.”

“How many days ago was this?” I asked.

“Four,” replied the old man. “They will have sailed by now. If it is the Templars you were hoping to find, I fear you have missed them, my friend.”

One of the other men spoke up. “What are you thinking of, Arnal? It was only two days ago the Templars were here.”

“It was four days,” maintained the one called Arnal. “I suppose you think I no longer know one day from another, eh?”

“When did you ever know one day from another?” said his friend. “It was two days ago the Templars were here, I tell you. Charles remembers as well as I.” Turning to a third old fellow, he asked how many days since the Templar ship had sailed. The man leaned forward on his stick, thought for a moment, opened his mouth, then closed it, thought some more, and then said, “Three days.”

“There! You see?” cried Arnal triumphantly. “I told you, it was never two days.”

“Where would we find this armorer?” I asked, breaking into their deliberations. “Maybe he could tell us more.”

They told us how to find Bezu's forge, and we thanked them for their inestimable help and hurried off in search of the smithy. We passed the priory of Saint Trophime, where, as Padraig remembered, Emlyn and his brother monks had passed many a dreary winter day in fiery debate with the priests of Arles. The day faded around us as we hurried through the narrow streets and pathways and into the old part of the city.

“They said Bezu's forge was once a gatehouse used by the legion,” mused Padraig. Pointing to a high stone wall rising broad and tall above the low rooftops of the houses clustered tight beneath it, he said, “There it is—and there is the smithy.”

It was a solid stone edifice built into the wall. We could see the place where the old doorway had been closed up with rubble stone. Black smoke issued from a squat chimney, and the clang of hammer on anvil rang out from within. The low, wide door was open, so the canny monk walked directly into the smithy and called to the proprietor, telling him he had visitors who wished to make his acquaintance.

I stepped through the door to see a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard, his face red from the glowing iron in his
hand. His shirt was a filthy rag full of tiny burned holes from the sparks and bits of molten metal that flew from his hammer. He regarded us without interest, and went back to his pounding.

I felt a pang of disappointment. “Are you Bezu?” I asked; but he made no reply.

Instead, my question was answered by a man who suddenly stepped from the darkness of the room behind the forge. This fellow was short, white-haired, plump, and smiling. Clean-shaven, his round face glowing with the heat from the forge fire, he was dressed in a long mantle of fine cloth, with a wide leather belt to which a fine, slender sword was attached. He regarded us with a kindly expression, and said, “I am Balthazar of Arles, at your service, my friends.”

I begged his pardon, and told him we were looking for the armorer named Bezu.

“My dear friends, of whom I have many, call me Bezu,” he informed me. “You may do so, if you wish.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Master Bezu,” I told him. “I am Duncan Murdosson, and this is my friend and companion, Brother Padraig.”

“A man who travels in the company of a priest must either be very devout,” Bezu observed cheerfully, “or else he is so wicked as to require continual observation and correction.”

“Then again,” I suggested, “it may be such a man is merely on pilgrimage.”

“Ah, yes, I expect that will be the likeliest explanation.” Bezu laughed, and said, “You were looking for me? Well, here I am. How can I help you.”

“I have come to meet you, and to thank you,” I replied.

“Have you indeed?” he wondered. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir. But how is it that you should be thanking me?”

“Once, many years ago,” I explained, “you gave winter refuge to a young man. Like myself, he was from the northern isles and on pilgrimage. His name was Murdo.”

The old armorer's faded eyes grew hazy as his mind raced back over the years. “You know,” he said, his expression
growing thoughtful, “I believe I did have a young helper by that name. I have not thought about this for many years, but now that you say it, I remember this fellow. Why, he was but a boy.” Bezu regarded me closely, as if trying to decide if he might know me. “Even so, why should this concern you, my friend?”

I smiled and said, “That young man you befriended is my father.”

Bezu's eyes grew round; he stared at me and shook his head in amazement. “Your father, you say!”

“None other.”

I quickly explained that Padraig was the nephew of one of the monks who had been traveling with my father, and that, as we happened to be passing through the city, we could not ignore the chance to thank the armorer for his kindness all those years ago.