Tales of the Old World (66 page)

Now it was Claude’s turn to look amazed. “Sire, I will not leave you. I am
sworn to follow you on this quest. My honour is at stake as much as yours.”

“You are sworn to
obey!”
the knight snapped, his tones suddenly harsh.
“And by the Lady you will! I’ll not take any ill man into the ice and snow of
mountains in the winter. And I’ll certainly not throw your life away.”

In a gesture that looked strangely guilty Claude thrust his reddening
knuckles behind his back. “Sire, I—”

“You’ll obey my orders,” Sir Gilles cut him off. “Apart from anything else I
don’t want to waste one of my father’s best men. You will stay here.”

The old man, who suddenly looked much, much older, dropped his eyes and
slumped his shoulders. Without another word he turned back to his horse.

With a last resentful look towards his master Claude led his mount down the
shifting carpet of scree and tried not to let his anger get the better of him.
To be cast aside now, left in safety like a woman whilst his knight rode off
into bitter danger! Was he an idiot or a cripple to be left on the roadside like
a piece of useless baggage? It was an outrage.

What made it even more difficult to bear was the treacherous sense of relief
that even now buoyed up his steps. But that, at least, proved to be
short-lived.

“What do you mean you’re leaving? Are you mad?” Sir Gilles barely controlled
his exasperation, but at a cost. His wind-rouged cheeks reddened further and a
small vein began to pulse a warning above his brow. If the village elder noticed
these small chinks in his guest’s composure he gave no sign of it.

Without taking his eyes off the two men who continued to overburden his
haywain, Francois sighed and shook his head. “No, we’re not mad. Madness would
be to stay.”

“We found something after you went, ah, hunting this morning.” The elder
flicked a glance almost contemptuously over the mud flecked flanks of the
knight’s horse. Her mighty chest heaving in great lungfuls of air and the heavy
organic smell of horse sweat radiated off her in waves. After Claude had
returned, his foul temper buried under consternation at the sight of Celliers
packing up to go, Sir Gilles had ridden back here as hard as he could, sparing
neither his horse nor himself.

“What did you find?” the knight finally asked, successfully keeping the
irritation to himself.

“Jacques.” Francois said the word softly, almost reverently, and Sir Gilles
wondered at his tones. What terrible vengeance must these villagers, his
erstwhile comrades and erstwhile prey, have meted out to make them now sound so
compassionate about the lunatic?

“Oh. Well, that’s good. I take it he’s dead?”

The pained expression on Francois face deepened and Gilles could almost
imagine that tears glinted beneath the craggy overhang of the elder’s brow.

“How did the village execute him?” the knight asked gently, choosing his
words now with the care of a surgeon choosing his instruments. A village
execution. How clean that sounded. How impersonal.

Francois, however, had obviously being pushed beyond the niceties of not just
diplomacy but even common sense. With a sudden start he wheeled on the knight,
the fury in his eyes no longer hidden.

“Nobody
executed
him,” the elder hissed, lips drawn back in a snarl as
he pronounced the word. “He was murdered, horribly murdered, just like all the
rest.”

The sudden vehemence of the elder’s words sent Sir Gilles stepping
automatically backwards into a defensive stance. His hand fell to the hilt of
his sword before he realised what he was doing. He dropped his empty fist
guiltily, but it was too late. Francois had already seen the gesture. The elder
laughed bitterly, hopelessly.

“Oh yes, the protection of your knightly virtues,” he sneered mockingly,
pulling himself to his feet and lurching towards the armoured man who towered
above him. One of the lads who had been loading the cart appeared at his elbow
to offer a supporting hand. The elder shook him off angrily as he stalked
towards Sir Gilles.

“The only difference you’ve made is to double the number of this cursed
thing’s kills,” he said, the anger in his voice twisting into an accusation.
Once more the youth, with a terrified glance at the knight, grabbed the elder’s
arm and tried to pull him away. Once more the old man shook the anxious hand
off, this time turning his ire on the youngster who hovered nervously at his
grandfather’s side.

“Get away. What’s the great knight going to do? Kill me? Ha!” He spat a gob
of contemptuous phlegm onto the ground an inch away from Sir Gilles’ boots,
then turned away with a grunt of disgust.

Claude had watched his master flush beneath the old peasant’s tirade, the
vitriolic fusion of shame and rage burning on his cheeks. Now, as the villagers
went on with their wary preparations, Claude saw the colour drain away from Sir
Gilles’ face, leaving him pale and shaking with emotion. The retainer opened
his mouth to say something, anything, that might be of comfort to the stricken
young knight. But before he could think of a single thing to say it was too
late.

The muscles in Sir Gilles’ jaw bulged with sudden determination and he
strode forward after Francois. The old man’s hunched back was still turned
towards his guest. He must have seen something reflected in his grandson’s
widening eyes, though, for he turned when the knight had approached to within a
dozen paces. Claude saw the rigid mask of defiance still etched across the
elder’s features. There would be no apology, of that he was sure, no more
bowing. And behind the stubborn old fool a dozen of his sons and grandsons had
noticed events unfolding.

As the steel giant closed in on their ancestor they fumbled for knives, hoes
and pitchforks. In their shaking hands and round eyes Claude saw the same
desperate courage that will drive a ewe to attack the wolf pack that has
cornered her lambs. He felt his heart plummet at the tragedy he knew was about
to unfold.

Sir Gilles, reaching out one gauntleted hand towards the old man, seemed
oblivious to all this. His whole attention was focused on the elder. As the
mailed fist fell towards him the old man’s only response was the small
straightening of posture that was all an aged skeleton would allow. The first of
the villagers lowered his pitchfork and started forward. Claude, mind frozen by
the speed of events, wished futilely that what was going to happen wouldn’t.

Then the metalled talon of Sir Gilles’ hand swept past his host’s neck and
landed gently upon his shoulder.

Bowing down to peer into the astonished elder’s eyes the knight said: “I am
truly sorry to have so failed you. I am sorry that you are frightened enough to
leave your village. I have failed in my duty to the Lady and to you, her people.
My father would not have failed. Nor would my brother, Leon. But I have and I
have no excuse.”

Suspicion chased astonishment off Francois’ wizened features. By the time
the knight had finished his apology the sincerity of the words had melted away
even that.

“No, no, lord. I should apologise to you,” he replied warily, voice softened
now with grudging compassion. “I had no call to blame you. Since the black hail
fell on these hills in my grandfather’s day much has happened here, much that
has proved beyond man’s power to change.”

“Yet I would be more than a man,” Sir Gilles smiled bitterly. “And perhaps I
still can be. All I ask is that you give me one more night. Give me one more
chance to find the monster that would prey upon the Lady’s people.”

Francois hesitated for barely a moment before giving the shallowest of nods
and turning to address his flock.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” he told them. Then, with a stiff bow towards Sir
Gilles, he turned and hobbled back into his hut. The knight returned the bow and
walked stiffly back to his horse.

“What will we do now, sire?” Claude asked, hurrying to catch up.

“I go to beg for the Lady’s aid. There was a pool a little way into the woods
we rode through this morning. It seemed like a goodly place.”

“And will I come with you?”

“No, you’ll stay here. I want you to organise these people into three
regiments and make sure they stay in them. I leave you in charge of the
details.”

“Yes, sire, of course.” Claude bowed subserviently whilst his master climbed
back into the saddle and cantered back out of the village. He waited until Sir
Gilles was out of sight before crossing to Francois’ hut. He ducked below the
heavy oaken lintel of the door and instructed the elder.

“I want you to organise your people into three groups,” he told the old man
urgently. “All of them are to carry their weapons at all times. None of them are
to leave their groups for any reason. Any that break these rules are to be fined
half of their wealth. Do you understand?”

As soon as Francois had grumbled his assent Claude took his leave and went to
fetch his horse. He had carried out his orders. Now he would go to watch his
knight’s back, as was proper for an equerry. There was nothing underhanded about
that, he thought, as he carefully scanned the horizon. Nothing underhanded at
all.

Sir Gilles was not difficult to follow, especially to one as skilled at
reading the land as Claude. He had followed the path of crushed moss and snapped
twigs through the forest just as easily as he had followed the great crescents
of the charger’s hoofs through the mud of the road.

He had tethered his own mount some way back and continued stealthily on foot
beneath the great damp overhangs of beech and birch and twisted ancient oak. The
undergrowth was thick here, heavy with moisture and dying brown leaves. As
Claude pushed through it his nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of decay. In most
parts of Bretonnia, he reflected, such a bulk of vegetation would have been
cropped back by deer or boar, but here it seemed untouched.

And come to think of it the forest did seem strangely quiet, almost as if it
had been cleared of life by something, perhaps even something that left human
bite marks in the raw flesh of its prey. The thought sent a sliver of ice down
the old man’s spine and he found himself walking faster.

“Don’t be such an old woman,” he scolded himself, consciously slowing his
pace. “A small wood in a small valley is easily over-hunted. There’s nought more
mysterious here than greedy peasants.”

Even so he was more than a little relieved when he finally reached Sir
Gilles. Only the fact that the knight was so obviously immersed in prayer
stilled the cry of greeting that rose to his retainer’s lips.

Sir Gilles knelt silently before a wide pool, his attention lost in its cool
depths.

Overarching trees shone and glimmered in the calm surface, one world
reflected by another, and around the banks rushes swayed gently to some ancient
and inaudible rhythm.

Claude sank to his haunches at the edge of the clearing, lulled by the peace
of the scene. The only real movement was the light fall of autumn browned
leaves. He watched one as it spiralled down onto the placid mirror of the water
and began to float away, pulled by some invisible current.

Leaning back against the bole of a willow, the old man half-closed his eyes.
In his imagination the leaf became a ship, bound for distant Cathay or even
mythical Lustria. The stem became a mast, the withered edges the gunwales. And
when the first splash of water sent thick ripples rolling towards the little
craft he saw only waves riding before a storm.

A moment later he began to wonder what had caused such a disturbance in the
water. Surely this pool was too isolated to contain trout to rise and leap. He
looked up with a frown. For a moment he saw nothing but the enveloping mass of
trees and shadows that encircled them, and the stooped form of his master’s
back.

Then he saw her and his heart leapt.

It was
her,
there could be no doubt of that. How many times had he
seen her form, revered in stone or glass or on parchment? How many times had men
whispered of her in the depths of the night or called upon her in the midst of
battle? He’d even met her before in dreams and amongst the labyrinths of his
imagination and felt her sacred presence, a comforting hand in the depths of
hardship or a playful ripple of light on the water.

Yes, it was her. As she glided through the pool Claude’s eyes caressed the
skin that glowed paler and more precious than Araby pearl. Her hair cascaded
down onto her shoulders, framing a face both girlish and ancient, wise and
forgiving. And her eyes! How they sparkled and shone with a healing warmth of
green fire.

Claude felt a moment’s dizziness and realised that he had been holding his
breath. He managed to tear his eyes away from the Lady for long enough to glance
at Sir Gilles.

The knight still sat slumped in prayer, lips moving silently even as his
goddess approached. The light gossamer of her dresses flowed around her, shining
with a ghostly luminescence against the dark backdrop of rotten forest. For a
moment Claude considered calling out to his master, of heralding her approach,
but somehow he lacked the courage. In the presence of such divine beauty he felt
too unworthy to speak. Instead he gazed upon her and let every detail of her
magnificence burn itself into his memory.

She had almost reached Sir Gilles before he looked up. He rose to his feet,
then started as though stung. The Lady smiled at his astonishment, a beatific
expression of love and compassion speeding slowly across her face, and he sank
back down to his knees.

“My Lady…” he whispered as she approached, arms opening and hands
outstretched in benediction. Sir Gilles, head bowed, watched her glide through
the last few feet of water and step onto the bank. He saw the water dripping
from the hem of her dress, the white of it now speckled with the green of pond
weed.