The Cross and the Dragon (42 page)

“We were there…” Hruodland stopped himself, partly because he did not want to reveal himself, partly because he could not make sense of the war against the ruler of Cordoba.

* * * * *

After a three day stay in Bordeaux, Hruodland and the sisters found six other pilgrims, four men and two women, traveling to Rennes. The slow pace of the journey frustrated him, but he knew it was safer to travel with more people, even if one of the men was old and another was frail.

When they entered the forest again, Hruodland felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The group had only a sword, an ax, a few knives and cudgels, and a handful of arrows to fend off bandits or demons or kobolds or whatever else hid in the green darkness, resenting their presence.

On the third day in the forest, Hruodland heard a whistle that did not sound like any birdcall he knew. Walking beside his master, Fidelis perked his ears. Hruodland stopped his horse and listened for a moment but did not hear it again. He grimaced at the memory of pilgrims’ bodies being brought to Rennes in carts, their throats slashed, their skulls crushed. He leaned toward Sister Elisabeth.

“Remember, if we are attacked, you and Sister Illuna must take cover behind the cart,” he muttered.

“Did you see something?” Elisabeth asked, straightening her spine.

“Heard something.”

Drawing his throwing ax, he sat erect in the saddle, watching, listening, hoping his horse would not be spooked.

Turning, he called behind him: “Draw your weapons.”

Slowly, the group moved forward. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Birds flitted among the trees. Rabbits scurried into the underbrush. Perhaps the whistle he had heard truly was a birdcall. He lowered his ax.

Again, the strange whistle. Before Hruodland could raise his hand, an arrow whizzed by his nose, and another thunked into the shield on his back. There was a shout of pain behind him. Beneath him, his horse tensed and trembled like animal about to bolt.

Rage surged through Hruodland and gave him strength. To his right, he saw movement in the shrubs. He hurled his ax, swung his legs over the stiff horse’s side, and slid down from the saddle. His flying ax cut through the twigs and smacked into flesh. Despite the arrows sailing over him, Fidelis dashed toward the shrubs and pounced on a man-sized shadow.

Two more arrows soared toward Hruodland’s neck. As the horse galloped away, Hruodland dropped to one knee and whipped his shield off his back. Holding the shield in front of him, he stood and unsheathed his sword. With a battle cry, he raised his weapon and charged at the nearest spot where he saw motion, barely hearing the screams around him. At a narrow opening between the shrubs, a thief stood up and shot his arrow straight at Hruodland’s chest.

The arrow dove into the shield, causing it to vibrate, yet the shield held. Hruodland kept running. The bandit dropped his bow and picked up a large ax. The thief lunged at Hruodland, intent on splitting his foe’s skull. Blocking the blow with his shield, Hruodland heard it crack. His pulse pounding, Hruodland twisted and hacked into the thief’s neck, almost beheading him in a burst of blood. Hruodland yanked the sword out of the corpse as the bandit’s body tumbled to the ground. Tightening his grip with a blood-slick hand, he held the sword aloft again.

“You have roused the wrath of Hruodland of the March of Brittany!” he roared.

“He’s a ghost,” a thief screeched. “Flee! Flee!”

Six bandits dashed away from their hiding places and disappeared into the trees.

“Sebastian!” Elisabeth yelled. “Do not give chase! We need you here to protect us.”

Hruodland stopped, his teeth clenched, his chest heaving. He wanted to smite every last one of them.

“Mother!” a young man wailed.

Turning toward the sound, Hruodland saw one of the pilgrims, an old woman, lying face down in a spreading pool of blood. A burning kindled in Hruodland’s gut.
Hanging is too good for them!

The young man and the nuns rushed to the old woman. Sister Elisabeth asked for her confession. Hruodland leapt over a thief’s body and ran to help, with Fidelis at his heels. The young man lifted his mother’s limp body. An arrow was buried in her blood-soaked chest.

“We must get her to a church with all haste so she can be buried in hallowed ground,” Elisabeth ordered with a tremor in her voice.

Cradling his mother, the young man wept.

“Sebastian, how far is…” Elisabeth gasped when she looked at Hruodland. “Are you hurt?”

He looked down. The thief’s blood covered his right arm and chest.

“No,” he said, setting the ruined shield aside. He wiped his sword on his cloak. “You were asking about the next city?”

Staring at him with wide eyes, Elisabeth nodded. Illuna was pale and trembling.

“We are a day’s journey from Saintes,” he said.

Another pilgrim, a pockmarked man, groaned. Blood trickled through the fingers of his left hand pressed against his right arm. With some color returning to her face, Illuna told the man to stay still while she fetched bandages. As Illuna tended to the pilgrim, Hruodland hurriedly retrieved his throwing ax, and the other men rushed to gather their weapons. Thinking of the attack again, he scowled.
Damned thieves! Killing an old woman!
He again wanted to hunt them down, but helping the woman’s soul go to heaven was far more important. Behind him, he heard the horse trotting back.
Cowardly beast!

As the excitement of the battle waned and his pulse slowed, Hruodland felt a weariness settle on him. He would have to leave justice to the count of Saintes. As Hruodland had done in the March of Brittany, the count would send well-equipped men on good horses to pursue the bandits.

He took in his companions’ situation with a glance. Thankfully, no other pilgrim was injured, but only he and one other man were fit for fighting. Four of the thieves had been slain. If the thieves did not claim their own dead, the count’s men would bury them in shallow graves at the side of the road.

“God curse them,” Hruodland muttered.

* * * * *

With help from Elisabeth, Hruodland bought a new shield in Saintes. During the next two months of travel, he was ever alert to the smallest noise during the day and made sure a man kept watch at night. The pilgrims had some difficulties: they broke a wheel, and one of the men succumbed to his illness. But they did not encounter brigands again. When the pilgrims arrived at Nantes about an hour before sunset, Hruodland’s spirits rose. Seeing the tower and its arches rise above the city walls was like seeing snowdrop flowers rise through the snow and bloom. He was home, and he was not sure of what to do. A boy on the verge of manhood stood at the platform on top of the city walls, almost the same height as the trees.

“Who goes there?” the boy called down.

“Fetch your father,” a pilgrim said.

“My father died at Roncevaux.”

Hruodland looked down as he heard the boy tell other guards to let the pilgrims into the city. He was thinking of the men who had not returned. He knew them all. They were his men, and he could not save them.
Why, Lord, did You allow them to die? Why did You spare me?

As Hruodland dismounted, the boy turned pale and made the sign of the cross.
I cannot be that changed
, Hruodland thought
,
reaching down to scratch his dog behind the ears. He was thinner, and his dark hair reached only the base of his neck. He had not shaved during the two months of the pilgrimage to Rennes and now had a beard.

“Young man,” Hruodland asked, speaking slowly, “is Countess Alda here in Nantes or in Rennes?”

“C-countess Alda left the March of Brittany shortly after she learned of h-her husband’s death,” the boy stammered, bowing his head.

A knot formed in Hruodland’s gut. “Where did she go? Did she marry another?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, staring at his wooden shoes and shifting from foot to foot. “I heard sh-she returned to her home.”

“And Lord, uh, Count Gerard, where is he?”

“H-he is in Rennes.” The boy’s voice was barely audible.

Hruodland reached into his purse and tossed a coin — part of the profits of the jewels Elisabeth had sold. The boy caught the coin and thanked him but still did not look up.

Hruodland stood in the paved street, wet from a recent rain. Children were playing and begging. A child swineherd chased an errant pig. Women and old farmers haggled in the marketplace, some speaking Brythonic, others speaking Roman. Peasants who did notice Hruodland made the sign of the cross.

The evening sun made the church look like it was made of gold, a heavenly refuge from the mud and dung on the streets. Hruodland and the sisters arrived at the church steps under a carving of the Last Judgment. Hruodland pondered what to do next. He decided against walking directly to the manor. He had no wish to frighten the servants. Instead, he would see his uncle Guillaume, but not during Mass, not in public.

“Tend to my horse and Fidelis,” he said to Elisabeth. “Once I speak to my uncle, I shall send for you.”

Hruodland walked into the church and climbed the spiraling stairs to the bishop’s study. It was almost time for vespers prayers, and he knew his uncle would want to read Scripture before Mass. Hruodland tried the door and found it was locked. He leaned against the wall and waited in the dark.

A light appeared at the end of the hall. Hruodland stood and tapped his left foot nervously. It had been so long since he had seen a kinsman. The point of light came closer, a candle held by a clerk. Hruodland called to Guillaume from the shadows. The bishop and the clerk both started. The clerk almost dropped the candle.

“Who is there?” the bishop asked, making the sign of the cross.

“It is Hruodland.” He spoke very slowly, pronouncing each syllable, so it came out clearly.

The bishop’s face and hands became pale. The clerk’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the candle in his shaking hand. Guillaume fainted, his tall, gaunt frame falling into his clerk. The clerk lost his balance, and the candle flew out of his hand and landed at Hruodland's feet. Hruodland retrieved it and stamped out the tiny fire on the floor. He heard steps running away. Hruodland looked up. The clerk had fled.

“Wait!” Hruodland cried.

Guillaume moaned. He had red bump on his forehead. Hruodland knelt beside his uncle and carefully placed the candle on the floor. Guillaume opened his eyes and looked up into Hruodland’s face. He gasped and sat up. He backed away from Hruodland, clutching his gold cross.

“What disturbs your peace?” Guillaume whispered, his eyes bulging.

“Somebody help me,” a young man, probably the clerk, called out.

“Over here!” Hruodland slurred. “I will not hurt you.”

Guillaume’s face turned crimson. He brushed Hruodland away as he staggered to his feet. Hruodland rose.

“You are no ghost,” Guillaume growled. His eyes raked Hruodland up and down. “My nephew did not look or speak thus. I shall not have him mocked. You will be flogged.” He called to the clerk, “Come here. This man is a mere drunkard.”

“I
am
your nephew,” Hruodland said. “Do you not recognize me?”

“My nephew died at Roncevaux. He is in heaven. Both I and my brother said prayers to assure that.”

“I did not die. Look at me.”

“You bear an uncanny semblance to him, but my nephew was a warrior. You are no warrior.”

The clerk returned and retrieved the candle. He stared at Hruodland.

Hruodland pushed back a sleeve. “Would a mere drunkard have battle scars?” he growled.

The bishop hesitantly touched a white, ropey scar. “Hruodland?”

“Yes. Hruodland,” he said impatiently.

“It can’t be,” he murmured. He shook his head and looked dazed. “It can’t be. Gerard, he… he told me that you fell at Roncevaux.”

“They tell me I was near dead.”

“Who?” Guillaume fumbled for a key on his belt.

“Sister Elisabeth and Sister Illuna. They are the ones who brought me back from the dead.”

Guillaume’s hand trembled as he tried to fit the key in the lock. He succeeded on the third attempt.

Stepping into the study, Hruodland explained, “I awoke at a hospital in the care of the nuns at Abbey of Saint Stephen. The sisters told me everyone was lost except me, and they thought I would die.”