Thierry reined his horse to a stop and doffed his helmet in salute to
Simon. From the wild look in the young knight's eye Simon sensed at once
that 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 still
while Simon patted her neck.
"Manfred's _and_ Count Charles's," Thierry panted. "Both armies. They're
already fighting, Monseigneur!"
"Merciful God!" A battle meant _the_ battle. One battle must surely
decide this war. Manfred would have brought together all the fighting
men of southern Italy and Sicily. And Simon knew, from the series of
urgent messages he had received from Charles on the road, that the count
had left Rome with every man he could muster, and that there was no more
help on its way to him.
_Except for this army._
Simon glanced up at the sun. Halfway up the eastern sky. Some big
clouds, but it was going to remain a clear, cold day. If the battle had
started at dawn, it could be over by midday.
"Pass the word to advance at a trot," he told de Puys. "Foot soldiers to
proceed by forced march."
Antoine de la Durie spoke up. "Monseigneur, should we not call a halt
and 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. "King
Charles is outnumbered, and needs us _now_."
He felt a small inner glow. He was getting to be quite practiced at
putting older men of lower rank in their place--the sort who formerly
intimidated him.
He turned to Valery de Pirenne. "Tell Friar Volpe to join me here. And
you, Thierry, come with me. You can tell the friar what you saw."
Simon pulled Papillon's head over, jumped the narrow ditch along the
side of the road, and took up a position on a rocky hummock, Thierry
beside him. Looking over the long column of his army never failed to
make his heart beat faster. A dozen banners in front, led by the red and
white crusader flag and the purple and gold of Gobignon. Mounted knights
two or three abreast followed by files of foot soldiers and baggage
trains and strings of chargers and spare horses. The mounted rear guard
so far back it was usually out of sight.
He could see the rear guard because the army was traveling along winding
mountain roads, as it had been the day before and the day before that.
They were crossing the center of the Italian peninsula. They had been
through the highest of the Apennines yesterday and were now descending
the western slopes.
A chill anxiety enveloped his body. To have come all this way only to be
too 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 of
Charles to have sent this friar to meet Simon at Ravenna. The Dominican
had spent most of his adult life wandering all over Italy preaching, and
he made an excellent guide. It was he who brought the news that Charles
was no longer in Rome and there was no need for Simon's army to go
there. A more direct route to Anjou's army would follow the Adriatic
coast, 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, and
round brown eyes. His thick reddish-brown hair fell over his forehead
and 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 glanced
up at the sun. "We could arrive in the valley of Benevento well before
noon. There is a high ridge along the east side of the valley. Benevento
is 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 this
ridge 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 us
there."
Simon ordered the army to continue along the main road to Benevento
until 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 the
army. Thierry and Henri de Puys had insisted on coming along, arguing
that Simon might meet some of Manfred's outriders. They turned onto a
zigzag track that sometimes disappeared altogether over bare rocks as it
climbed to the top of a long ridge.
They came out of a stand of wind-twisted pine trees to the bald top of
the 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 Friar
Volpe moved forward at a crouch. When he could see the battlefield,
Simon lay down and crawled, his mail scraping over the rocks, the tip of
his 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 woods
and thousands of the little creatures milled about in confusion under
his feet. Masses of men below heaved and struggled. Dead horses lay by
the score, large dark lumps. Smaller objects lying about the field like
rocks might be dead men; it was hard to tell from this distance. Much of
what 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 take
his army into that cauldron. He tried to make sense of what he was
seeing. Where were the leaders?
The half of the field nearer him was hidden by the trees growing lower
down on this ridge. Ignoring de Puys's whispered warnings, he crawled
farther forward for a better view.
Now he saw the town of Benevento at the south end of the valley, a city
of moderate size whose walls were fortified by a dozen square towers.
And before it a smaller city of many-colored tents. Above the tents, a
yellow banner with a black splotch in its center. That would be the
Hohenstaufen eagle.
Then those tents at the other end of the valley, where the road entered
from 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. Above
them a red and black banner hung from a long pole. That could only be
Charles himself, and his chief commanders, under the banner of the black
lion. Lines of foot soldiers screened them from the main fighting.
_I should go down there, or send someone, to find out what Count Charles
wants me to do. But there is no time._
Again Simon's gaze swept the battlefield. The innumerable small
struggles, mostly in the center of the valley, told him that neither
side was winning. Again the Saracen warriors with the turbans caught his
eye. They were the only group of mounted men acting together. Moving in
a V-shaped formation with the center back and the tips of the two wings
well forward, they advanced slowly across the field. But with such
confusion 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, his
breath steaming in the air in front of him. Thierry, de Puys, and Friar
Volpe were waiting behind him. And behind them, the army he had brought
here. A sudden terror froze his limbs. The day was cold, but he felt
colder still, staring at the swirling fury below him, listening to the
shouts and screams, the thundering and clanging.
There would not be time to get orders from Count Charles. There would
hardly be time to consult with the experienced men--de Marion, de la
Durie, de Puys--among the barons he had brought with him. The plan, the
decisions, would have to be his alone.
At what place, at what moment, should he throw the Gobignon army into
the battle? If he just led them into the present confusion, his columns
of knights and files of archers would at once fall apart into more knots
and whirlpools of combat like those he saw below. His army could be
wasted, ground up like wheat in a water mill. The turmoil in his mind
was as bad as the chaos he had seen on the field.
* * * * *
The floor of the valley was uneven, and rolling hills hid the battle
from Lorenzo's eyes, but the clash and clamor of the fighting carried to
his ears as he approached the French camp. It was empty except for about
ten sentries, some armed with crossbows, others with pikes, who stood at
its perimeter. They were all turned to watch the battle, their backs to
Lorenzo despite the creaking of his wagon and the clip-clop of his
horse'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 outside
the camp. One helmet was topped with a gilded crown.
Charles was being sensible, standing back from the battle and watching
it--unlike Manfred, whom Lorenzo had seen just as he was leaving the
Hohenstaufen 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 large
seal of green wax with long ribbons, he pulled his cart up to the
nearest guard, a stout, white-haired man with bleary eyes. Naturally,
only the least able-bodied would be left to guard the camp this day. And
the worst they would be expecting would be attempts at thievery by the
whores and traders whose tents and wagons lay a short distance up the
road from the camp.
"Here is my safe conduct from King Charles's ally, the bishop of
Agnani," said Lorenzo briskly. He held his breath anxiously while the
guard stared at him.
"We are in the middle of a battle, man. You can't just drive your cart
in here. What do you have in it?"
The guard barely glanced at the document Lorenzo had spent a precious
hour forging. Lorenzo was relieved. He was not at all sure the scroll
would bear close scrutiny, although only one soldier in a thousand could
read. And any clerics who might be along with Charles would probably be
on the edges of the battlefield, succoring the wounded and dying.
"I bring a gift of wine from the Bishop of Agnani to the ambassadors
from Tartary."
"I will have to taste the wine," said the white-haired guard
importantly.
"Of course," said Lorenzo with a grin, and as the guard climbed into the
dark interior of the cart, almost fully occupied by two big wine casks
standing on their bottoms, Lorenzo unhooked a tin ladle from its wooden
wall and handed it to the stout man.
Stupid as well as unfit this guard was, thought Lorenzo. He could stun
him with the sack of sand and stones hidden under his tunic or slit his
throat with the dagger in his boot. But then he would have a body to get
rid of. This particular body would be more of a problem dead than it was
alive and conscious. Lorenzo turned a spigot and let some of the red
wine flow into the ladle.
The guard smacked his lips and grunted. "Too good for those slant-eyed
barbarians."
"Right, my friend," Lorenzo agreed. "But the bishop cultivates their
friendship because he finds them interesting. These high-horse folk have
no common sense."
"If you want to know what is interesting," said the guard, "what is
interesting is the pretty little putana the older Tartar travels with.
They say she's a Jewess. I have often wondered if she would be partial
to other older men."
_Rachel! That pig of a Tartar dragged that poor child here to this
damned war._
"That is interesting, all right. Now, where the hell do I find these
Tartars?"
The guard poured himself another ladle full of wine without bothering to
ask, and drained it with more loud lip noises. Then he and Lorenzo
climbed out of the cart.
"Their tent is the one with blue and yellow stripes in the center of the
camp. 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. If
they were out watching the battle with Charles's commanders, it would be
well-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 had
thought of another way to carry out Daoud's orders. Along with the
casks, he had brought one jar of a very special wine, laced with enough
belladonna to kill a whole army of Tartars. He would leave that to greet
them on their return from the battle. Then he would unhitch his dappled
brown and white gelding, a good riding horse, and scout around the edges
of the battle to see if there was some way to get at the Tartars more
directly.
A crossbowman sat on the ground at the entrance to the blue and yellow
striped tent. He picked up the bow that lay on the ground beside him and
jumped to his feet when Lorenzo drove up. Lorenzo remembered seeing him
guarding the Tartars in Orvieto, and his heart beat heavily for a
moment, 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 the
back down to make a ramp.
"It is good wine." Lorenzo continued, "and you can drink your fill after
we get it into the tent. The Tartars will not miss a few cupfuls."
Grumbling despite the promised reward, the guard helped Lorenzo
manhandle the cask to the back of the cart, tip it, and roll it down to
the ground. Then they unloaded the other one.
The guard stood back to let Lorenzo roll the first cask by himself
through the loose flap into the Tartars' tent.
"Stay away from the girl," he growled at Lorenzo's back. "His Eminence
the cardinal says she's under arrest."
Lorenzo stiffened, and a chill gripped him. What danger was Rachel in
now?
As Lorenzo straightened up, he heard a gasp.
The tent was lit by a single candle and the daylight that filtered dimly
through its silk walls. It was held up by two center poles and an oblong
framework from which the sides were hung. Around the edges were camp
beds. Between the center posts was a table. Charcoal glowed in a
brazier, warming the interior of the tent.
A shadowy figure rushed toward him. Lorenzo backed away, his hand
reaching 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 warmth
flood through him.
"Ah, Rachel." He had not seen her since he had taken her to Tilia
Caballo's, and not a day went by that he had not cursed himself for
doing so. She looked well, her face pink, but thinner than he
remembered. She was, he realized suddenly, very beautiful.
"I thought your name was Giancarlo," said a dry voice. Lorenzo looked up
to see the old Franciscan monk who traveled with the Tartars standing
near him.
"What is going on here?" The Venetian burst into the tent. "Get your
hands 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-lost
cousin." His hand darted for his boot and seized the handle of his
dagger.
"I don't believe that for a--" the Venetian began, but his guard dropped
slightly, and his words were cut off when Lorenzo's blade plunged into
his chest.
"Jesus have mercy!" said the old Franciscan. The Venetian dropped to his
knees 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 dead
Venetian. 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?" Lorenzo
said. "I am not surprised. You Franciscans pride yourselves on your
ignorance."
Rachel's hand rested lightly on Lorenzo's arm. "Lorenzo, I beg you, do
not insult Friar Mathieu. He has been my only friend since John took me
from Madama Tilia's house. What are you doing here?" Her face lit up
with hope. "Have you come to take me away?"
Lorenzo's mind was working rapidly. Apparently, Friar Mathieu was a
decent sort, and Lorenzo had no desire to kill him. But what to do with
him? Rachel might have given him the answer. This was, in fact, a
God-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 have
joined 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 fight
them for you, Rachel. Why did this lout say you are under arrest?"
"The cardinal accuses me of spying for King Manfred. He says you were
all spying--you, Madonna Sophia, Messer David. Is that true?"
Lorenzo looked from Rachel to Friar Mathieu. There was no need to keep
it 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 that
you knew nothing about us, but I do not think my testimony would help
you. Perhaps it would be best if I just got you away from here."