The Saracen: The Holy War by Robert Shea
LXVIII
Thierry reined his horse to a stop and doffed his helmet in salute toSimon. From the wild look in the young knight's eye Simon sensed at oncethat he had seen something extraordinary.
"What is it, Messire?" he demanded. "Did you see Manfred's army?"Papillon, the brown and white mare Simon used as a palfrey, stood stillwhile Simon patted her neck.
"Manfred's _and_ Count Charles's," Thierry panted. "Both armies. They'realready fighting, Monseigneur!"
"Merciful God!" A battle meant _the_ battle. One battle must surelydecide this war. Manfred would have brought together all the fightingmen of southern Italy and Sicily. And Simon knew, from the series ofurgent messages he had received from Charles on the road, that the counthad left Rome with every man he could muster, and that there was no morehelp on its way to him.
_Except for this army._
Simon glanced up at the sun. Halfway up the eastern sky. Some bigclouds, but it was going to remain a clear, cold day. If the battle hadstarted at dawn, it could be over by midday.
"Pass the word to advance at a trot," he told de Puys. "Foot soldiers toproceed by forced march."
Antoine de la Durie spoke up. "Monseigneur, should we not call a haltand rest and plan? We cannot plunge blindly into the midst of a battle."
"We will have to plan as we ride, Messire," Simon said brusquely. "KingCharles is outnumbered, and needs us _now_."
He felt a small inner glow. He was getting to be quite practiced atputting older men of lower rank in their place--the sort who formerlyintimidated him.
He turned to Valery de Pirenne. "Tell Friar Volpe to join me here. Andyou, Thierry, come with me. You can tell the friar what you saw."
Simon pulled Papillon's head over, jumped the narrow ditch along theside of the road, and took up a position on a rocky hummock, Thierrybeside him. Looking over the long column of his army never failed tomake his heart beat faster. A dozen banners in front, led by the red andwhite crusader flag and the purple and gold of Gobignon. Mounted knightstwo or three abreast followed by files of foot soldiers and baggagetrains and strings of chargers and spare horses. The mounted rear guardso far back it was usually out of sight.
He could see the rear guard because the army was traveling along windingmountain roads, as it had been the day before and the day before that.They were crossing the center of the Italian peninsula. They had beenthrough the highest of the Apennines yesterday and were now descendingthe western slopes.
A chill anxiety enveloped his body. To have come all this way only to betoo late--what a calamity that would be! He could not allow it.
Friar Volpe came galloping up on the back of his big mule. How wise ofCharles to have sent this friar to meet Simon at Ravenna. The Dominicanhad spent most of his adult life wandering all over Italy preaching, andhe made an excellent guide. It was he who brought the news that Charleswas no longer in Rome and there was no need for Simon's army to gothere. A more direct route to Anjou's army would follow the Adriaticcoast, then turn southward into the Apennines on entering the Abruzzi,the northernmost reach of Manfred's kingdom.
Friar Volpe was a fair-skinned man with a sharp nose, large lips, andround brown eyes. His thick reddish-brown hair fell over his foreheadand ears, growing luxuriantly everywhere except for the tonsure on top,where it was just a red stubble.
"Benevento," he said when Simon told him about the battle, and glancedup at the sun. "We could arrive in the valley of Benevento well beforenoon. There is a high ridge along the east side of the valley. Beneventois a crossroads town. The roads meet at the south end of the valley."
"That was where I saw Manfred's camp," said Thierry.
"I have to see this valley myself," Simon said. "Could we climb thisridge you spoke of?"
"Shepherds and their flocks go up and down the hills all year round,"said Friar Volpe. "There are many paths."
"Many paths," Simon echoed. "Excellent. Be good enough to lead usthere."
Simon ordered the army to continue along the main road to Beneventountil they reached a roadside shrine to San Rocco. Farther than that,Friar Volpe said, and they might be seen from Benevento.
Friar Volpe led Simon at a fast trot till they were out of sight of thearmy. Thierry and Henri de Puys had insisted on coming along, arguingthat Simon might meet some of Manfred's outriders. They turned onto azigzag track that sometimes disappeared altogether over bare rocks as itclimbed to the top of a long ridge.
They came out of a stand of wind-twisted pine trees to the bald top ofthe ridge. The ringing of steel on steel, the pounding of horses'hooves, and the cries of men drifted to them from below.
"Hold the horses, Thierry," Simon ordered. He and de Puys and FriarVolpe moved forward at a crouch. When he could see the battlefield,Simon lay down and crawled, his mail scraping over the rocks, the tip ofhis sheathed sword bumping along.
_Is this what a battle looks like, then?_
He was reminded of times when he had stepped on anthills in the woodsand thousands of the little creatures milled about in confusion underhis feet. Masses of men below heaved and struggled. Dead horses lay bythe score, large dark lumps. Smaller objects lying about the field likerocks might be dead men; it was hard to tell from this distance. Much ofwhat he saw was partly veiled by clouds of gray dust.
He felt a breath of fear on his neck at the thought that he must takehis army into that cauldron. He tried to make sense of what he wasseeing. Where were the leaders?
The half of the field nearer him was hidden by the trees growing lowerdown on this ridge. Ignoring de Puys's whispered warnings, he crawledfarther forward for a better view.
Now he saw the town of Benevento at the south end of the valley, a cityof moderate size whose walls were fortified by a dozen square towers.And before it a smaller city of many-colored tents. Above the tents, ayellow banner with a black splotch in its center. That would be theHohenstaufen eagle.
Then those tents at the other end of the valley, where the road enteredfrom the north, must be the French camp. Simon saw many more banners,too far away to recognize, on poles in the center of that camp.
He saw no fighting at the north end of the valley. Closer to the battle,a small group of horsemen sat on a low hill, apparently observing. Abovethem a red and black banner hung from a long pole. That could only beCharles himself, and his chief commanders, under the banner of the blacklion. Lines of foot soldiers screened them from the main fighting.
_I should go down there, or send someone, to find out what Count Charleswants me to do. But there is no time._
Again Simon's gaze swept the battlefield. The innumerable smallstruggles, mostly in the center of the valley, told him that neitherside was winning. Again the Saracen warriors with the turbans caught hiseye. They were the only group of mounted men acting together. Moving ina V-shaped formation with the center back and the tips of the two wingswell forward, they advanced slowly across the field. But with suchconfusion around them, where could they effectively attack?
_Never mind that. Where can I effectively attack?_
He lay on his belly, his chin resting on his intertwined fingers, hisbreath steaming in the air in front of him. Thierry, de Puys, and FriarVolpe were waiting behind him. And behind them, the army he had broughthere. A sudden terror froze his limbs. The day was cold, but he feltcolder still, staring at the swirling fury below him, listening to theshouts and screams, the thundering and clanging.
There would not be time to get orders from Count Charles. There wouldhardly be time to consult with the experienced men--de Marion, de laDurie, de Puys--among the barons he had brought with him. The plan, thedecisions, would have to be his alone.
At what place, at what moment, should he throw the Gobignon army intothe battle? If he just led them into the present confusion, his columnsof knights and files of archers would at once fall apart into more knotsand whirlpools of combat like those he saw below. His army could bewasted, ground up like wheat in a water mill. The turmoil in his mindwas as bad as the cha
* * * * *
The floor of the valley was uneven, and rolling hills hid the battlefrom Lorenzo's eyes, but the clash and clamor of the fighting carried tohis ears as he approached the French camp. It was empty except for aboutten sentries, some armed with crossbows, others with pikes, who stood atits perimeter. They were all turned to watch the battle, their backs toLorenzo despite the creaking of his wagon and the clip-clop of hishorse's hooves.
The tall tents were dusty, stained, and patched, their colors faded.
Lorenzo spotted a party of horsemen in bright cloaks atop a hill outsidethe camp. One helmet was topped with a gilded crown.
Charles was being sensible, standing back from the battle and watchingit--unlike Manfred, whom Lorenzo had seen just as he was leaving theHohenstaufen camp, riding into the fray waving his great broadsword.Lorenzo shook his head sadly.
_What my king needs is less gallantry and more ruthlessness._
Holding up a parchment covered with elaborate handwriting and a largeseal of green wax with long ribbons, he pulled his cart up to thenearest guard, a stout, white-haired man with bleary eyes. Naturally,only the least able-bodied would be left to guard the camp this day. Andthe worst they would be expecting would be attempts at thievery by thewhores and traders whose tents and wagons lay a short distance up theroad from the camp.
"Here is my safe conduct from King Charles's ally, the bishop ofAgnani," said Lorenzo briskly. He held his breath anxiously while theguard stared at him.
"We are in the middle of a battle, man. You can't just drive your cartin here. What do you have in it?"
The guard barely glanced at the document Lorenzo had spent a precioushour forging. Lorenzo was relieved. He was not at all sure the scrollwould bear close scrutiny, although only one soldier in a thousand couldread. And any clerics who might be along with Charles would probably beon the edges of the battlefield, succoring the wounded and dying.
"I bring a gift of wine from the Bishop of Agnani to the ambassadorsfrom Tartary."
"I will have to taste the wine," said the white-haired guardimportantly.
"Of course," said Lorenzo with a grin, and as the guard climbed into thedark interior of the cart, almost fully occupied by two big wine casksstanding on their bottoms, Lorenzo unhooked a tin ladle from its woodenwall and handed it to the stout man.
Stupid as well as unfit this guard was, thought Lorenzo. He could stunhim with the sack of sand and stones hidden under his tunic or slit histhroat with the dagger in his boot. But then he would have a body to getrid of. This particular body would be more of a problem dead than it wasalive and conscious. Lorenzo turned a spigot and let some of the redwine flow into the ladle.
The guard smacked his lips and grunted. "Too good for those slant-eyedbarbarians."
"Right, my friend," Lorenzo agreed. "But the bishop cultivates theirfriendship because he finds them interesting. These high-horse folk haveno common sense."
"If you want to know what is interesting," said the guard, "what isinteresting is the pretty little putana the older Tartar travels with.They say she's a Jewess. I have often wondered if she would be partialto other older men."
_Rachel! That pig of a Tartar dragged that poor child here to thisdamned war._
"That is interesting, all right. Now, where the hell do I find theseTartars?"
The guard poured himself another ladle full of wine without bothering toask, and drained it with more loud lip noises. Then he and Lorenzoclimbed out of the cart.
"Their tent is the one with blue and yellow stripes in the center of thecamp. You see it? But I do not think you will find them there."
Lorenzo had suspected that the Tartars would not stay in their tent. Ifthey were out watching the battle with Charles's commanders, it would bewell-nigh impossible to kill them in full view of so many of the enemy.But that had occurred to him before he left Manfred's camp. He hadthought of another way to carry out Daoud's orders. Along with thecasks, he had brought one jar of a very special wine, laced with enoughbelladonna to kill a whole army of Tartars. He would leave that to greetthem on their return from the battle. Then he would unhitch his dappledbrown and white gelding, a good riding horse, and scout around the edgesof the battle to see if there was some way to get at the Tartars moredirectly.
A crossbowman sat on the ground at the entrance to the blue and yellowstriped tent. He picked up the bow that lay on the ground beside him andjumped to his feet when Lorenzo drove up. Lorenzo remembered seeing himguarding the Tartars in Orvieto, and his heart beat heavily for amoment, but the man gave no sign of recognizing him.
Lorenzo held up his splendid parchment and explained his mission.
"They are not here," said the guard sourly.
"Well, the Bishop of Agnani is an important ally of your King Charles.Help me unload this wine." Lorenzo went around the cart and pulled theback down to make a ramp.
"It is good wine." Lorenzo continued, "and you can drink your fill afterwe get it into the tent. The Tartars will not miss a few cupfuls."
Grumbling despite the promised reward, the guard helped Lorenzomanhandle the cask to the back of the cart, tip it, and roll it down tothe ground. Then they unloaded the other one.
The guard stood back to let Lorenzo roll the first cask by himselfthrough the loose flap into the Tartars' tent.
"Stay away from the girl," he growled at Lorenzo's back. "His Eminencethe cardinal says she's under arrest."
Lorenzo stiffened, and a chill gripped him. What danger was Rachel innow?
As Lorenzo straightened up, he heard a gasp.
The tent was lit by a single candle and the daylight that filtered dimlythrough its silk walls. It was held up by two center poles and an oblongframework from which the sides were hung. Around the edges were campbeds. Between the center posts was a table. Charcoal glowed in abrazier, warming the interior of the tent.
A shadowy figure rushed toward him. Lorenzo backed away, his handreaching inside his tunic for the sandbag.
"Lorenzo!"
"Rachel." His voice was choked.
Her arms gripped him as tightly as if she were drowning. He felt warmthflood through him.
"Ah, Rachel." He had not seen her since he had taken her to TiliaCaballo's, and not a day went by that he had not cursed himself fordoing so. She looked well, her face pink, but thinner than heremembered. She was, he realized suddenly, very beautiful.
"I thought your name was Giancarlo," said a dry voice. Lorenzo looked upto see the old Franciscan monk who traveled with the Tartars standingnear him.
"What is going on here?" The Venetian burst into the tent. "Get yourhands off that woman." He drew the shortsword he wore at his belt.
Lorenzo instantly let go of Rachel and stepped back. He bowed low,spreading his hands in a courtly gesture.
"Forgive me, Messere," he said in a placating tone. "A long-lostcousin." His hand darted for his boot and seized the handle of hisdagger.
"I don't believe that for a--" the Venetian began, but his guard droppedslightly, and his words were cut off when Lorenzo's blade plunged intohis chest.
"Jesus have mercy!" said the old Franciscan. The Venetian dropped to hisknees and fell on his face on the carpeted wooden floor of the tent.
"Try to give an alarm and you are dead too, Father," Lorenzo growled.
"No, Lorenzo, no!" Rachel cried. "Friar Mathieu is a good man."
"Perhaps that would not matter to Messer Lorenzo," said Friar Mathieu,his eyes fixed on Lorenzo with a penetrating stare. "If, as I suspect,he serves that elegant blasphemer Manfred von Hohenstaufen."
Lorenzo gave a short bark of a laugh. His heart was galloping.
Friar Mathieu knelt and whispered prayers in Latin over the deadVenetian. With his thumb he traced a cross on the man's forehead.
"You think there is no good to be found in King Manfred's camp?" Lorenzosaid. "I am not surprised. You Franciscans pride yourselves on yourignorance."
Lorenzo's mind was working rapidly. Apparently, Friar Mathieu was adecent sort, and Lorenzo had no desire to kill him. But what to do withhim? Rachel might have given him the answer. This was, in fact, aGod-given chance to get her away from the Tartars. And Daoud, he knew,would bless him for it.
"Where are the Tartars, Rachel?" he said.
"They put on mail and took bows and arrows and swords, and they havejoined the fighting."
Lorenzo was astonished. "Charles is risking their lives in this battle?Pazzia!" And the would-be king of Sicily himself was not even fighting.
"Yes, it does seem mad, does it not?" said Friar Mathieu.
"Well, that is good," said Lorenzo. "I was afraid I might have to fightthem for you, Rachel. Why did this lout say you are under arrest?"
"The cardinal accuses me of spying for King Manfred. He says you wereall spying--you, Madonna Sophia, Messer David. Is that true?"
Lorenzo looked from Rachel to Friar Mathieu. There was no need to keepit from them any longer. For good or ill, all would be settled today.
"In a word, yes."
"Ah!" Friar Mathieu exclaimed. "I knew it."
Lorenzo felt himself grinning suddenly. "I could tell the cardinal thatyou knew nothing about us, but I do not think my testimony would helpyou. Perhaps it would be best if I just got you away from here."
Rachel's face was like a sunrise. "Oh, yes, yes!"
"Good. Wait one moment now."
He went out of the tent and looked around. There were no guards insight. He rolled the second wine cask into the tent and set it besidethe first. He dragged the Venetian's body into a corner, where anyonelooking in would not see it.
"You have actually come here in the midst of this battle to rescueRachel from John the Tartar?" said Friar Mathieu.
The old priest might still have a protective feeling toward the Tartars,Lorenzo thought. Best not to tell him the real reason.
"I guessed that right now there would be less of a guard on her," saidLorenzo. "And if you are as ashamed of your part in what has happened toher as I am of mine, you will help me. You really should come with me."
"Willingly," said Friar Mathieu. "I have no great confidence in yourability to protect Rachel."
"You seem to have done little enough for her yourself," said Lorenzogruffly. Friar Mathieu appeared angry as he opened his mouth, but thenhe closed it again, without speaking.
_A good Christian. Turning the other cheek._
Trying to see in all directions at once, Lorenzo carried blankets fromthe tent and threw them into the back of the cart. He took thelong-necked jar of poisoned wine from under the driver's seat. Lookingaround for guards and seeing them all gazing southward toward thebattle, he went back into the tent and put the wine on the table.
"This wine was my disguise," he said. "I am bringing a gift of wine forthe Tartars from the Bishop of Agnani." Much better to tell them no morethan that.
"My chest, my treasures," Rachel said. Lorenzo sprang at the box shepointed out and gripped it by both handles. He was shocked at itsweight.
"My God! I do not know if I can--"
A sudden fear came over him. There was no time for this! If he werecaught now, with the dead Venetian, Rachel would surely be executed, andhe along with her.
He hoisted the box to the level of his hipbone, feeling as if his spinewould snap. Rachel and Friar Mathieu put their hands under it, easingthe load a little. Panting, the three of them wrestled the chest out ofthe tent, and with one heart-bursting effort Lorenzo heaved it up intothe rear of the cart.
He glanced about him and saw that they were still not being watched.
He picked up the dead archer's crossbow and quiver of arrows and setthem beside the driver's seat at the front of the cart, although hehoped he would not have to fight his way out of this place.
Bustling Rachel and Friar Mathieu into the cart, he had them hide underthe blankets, in case any of the guards around Charles's camp shouldwant to look inside.
It seemed to him that he held his breath all the way from the Tartars'tent to the edge of the French camp. But the elderly guard he had spokento barely glanced at him as he drove by with a wave.
The battle seemed unchanged as his cart creaked and rattled along thenarrow dirt track leading through the hills west of the valley. Savethat more dead littered the rolling brown landscape. Charles still stoodon his mound, not deigning to get into the fight himself.
Horsemen and foot soldiers struggled in crowds the length of the valley.The Tartars, whom he had come to kill, must be fighting down theresomewhere. With luck they would die, either on the battlefield or later.
He kept his eyes moving, watching everything. Arrows or stragglers fromthe battle might get the three of them. They would not be safe untilthey reached Manfred's camp. If then.
"Oh, Lorenzo, I'm so happy!" Crying, Rachel threw her arms around hisneck.
Embarrassed, he said gruffly, "Easy, child. I have to see what is goingon down there." He gently pulled her arms loose.
The track had climbed high enough to give him a view of the south end ofthe valley. With a glow of pleasure he saw that Daoud had kept the Sonsof the Falcon intact. There was their green banner with its whiteinscription. There were their turbans, red dots forming a line acrossthe valley.
A warm feeling swept over him as he made out Daoud's figure in thecenter of the line. Never had he met a man he admired more, not evenManfred. He caught himself praying that Daoud would live through thebattle and be victorious.
He had seen the Sons of the Falcon attack earlier today and check thefirst French charge with their volleys of arrows. Now they seemed to beriding to attack again. What was their objective?
A flash of light above the battle caught his eye. Sunlight reflected onmetal. He looked across at the bare gray rocks that topped the highridge on the other side of the valley. He could see beyond the rocks thetips of a pine forest. Again the flash of light.
Helmets.
Ten or more conical helmets appeared between the forest and the rocks.Men were crawling over the top of the ridge. The lower slopes of theridge, on the valley side, were heavily forested. Those men would bequite hidden from anyone looking up from the valley.
Who were they? And how many? The hills over there could concealhundreds. They could be some of Manfred's troops, sent up there to makea surprise flank attack. But Manfred had rejected just such a plan.
He remembered now a conversation between Daoud and Manfred at dawn. Notall of Charles's allies had yet arrived. The Gobignon banner, forinstance, had not been seen with Charles's army.
That could be a whole fresh army of Frenchmen up there on that ridge,about to fall like an avalanche on Manfred's forces.
And Daoud's Sons of the Falcon were rapidly advancing up the valley.
Lorenzo felt himself trembling. He wanted to scream a warning.
_I have to reach Daoud._
He jerked the horse to a stop and called to Rachel and Friar Mathieu.
"I have to leave you."
"Lorenzo!" Rachel's eyes were huge with terror.
He took her hands. "Listen. I love you like my own daughter. But I havejust seen something--I have to warn them. Daoud--David--will be killed."
"David of Trebizond?" said Friar Mathieu. "You called him Daoud?" Theold priest's eyes were alight with sudden understanding.
"Never mind." Lorenzo heard his own voice rising in panic. He took adeep breath to steady himself, then plunged back into the cart andseized the saddle he had tucked away in the back. He jumped down fromthe cart, unhitched the gelding, and threw the saddle over its back.
"Oh, my God, Lorenzo!" Rachel screamed. "Take me with you. Don't leaveme here."
"I will be back for you," he said as he fo
The gelding expelled a breath as he threw himself on its back.
Rachel was still screaming, but he could not make out her words over hishorse's hoofbeats as he galloped away.
"Forgive me!" he cried over his shoulder.