Tales of the Old World (63 page)

With a grunt of disgust Claude turned his back on the grisly trophy and
stalked off to collect the evening’s firewood. As he reached the tree-line he
heard the sibilant hiss of whetstone against steel. It was the first of the
evening’s hundred sweeps, the ritual that kept the knight’s sword sharper than
any tooth or fang in this wilderness.

In spite of himself, Claude felt the sound cutting through his ill humour.
This de Moreaux, Gilles, the third of his line to rely upon the old retainer’s
good offices, was the first to have taken care of his own weapons. And when
Claude’s rheumatism had bitten deep, curling and crippling his hands, Sir Gilles
himself had ordered the older man to rest whilst he foraged and rooted for the
herbs needed for a cure. Not many knights would have lowered themselves so far
as to serve a servant.

On the other hand, not many knights would still be traipsing around the
Massif Orcal at this time of year for any reason, let alone an apparently
never-ending quest for a trophy large and impressive enough to return with.

Claude, stooping to lift a dry twist of wood from the debris that littered
the forest, grimaced at the thought. True, the sun was still warm on the
leathered skin at the nape of his neck, and even this mild exercise of bundling
firewood was beginning to dampen his brow. But despite the comfortable heat the
leaves on the trees of this valley were already beginning to redden with an
autumnal fire. A thousand traceries of red and gold raced and tumbled through
the green sweeps of their boughs, a final explosion of colour before the
skeletal days to come. He knew that in a fortnight, a month at the most, those
leaves would be gone, mulch beneath the ice and rain of winter.

He also knew that in a fortnight, a month at the most, the rheumatism would
be back. Claude’s fingers twitched at the thought. If he were still out here
when the ice came there would be no escape from the pain. It would eat into his
bones with a fervour beyond the powers of any poultice to soothe. Every movement
would become an agony, every joint would ache like shattered glass. It was too
much.

Still muttering to himself, the old man claimed a length of splintered branch
to complete his load then turned back towards their makeshift camp. He found Sir
Gilles sitting cross-legged by the edge of the clearing. Apart from the
repetitive whisper of the sharpening stone along the blade of his sword, the
young knight remained as upright and as silent as one of the Lady’s stained
glass saints.

Claude surreptitiously watched the blank mask of his master’s face as he
built their fire. Not the slightest hint or ripple of emotion stirred the even
symmetry of his dark Bretonnian features, yet still the old man knew what lay
behind the shuttered windows of the youngster’s eyes. He knew, and in knowing
despaired of a return to their demesne before winter’s misery began.

It was all the fault of Gilles’ brother, Leon. Leon the brave. Leon the
fair. Leon who, after a scant two weeks of questing, had returned with a massive
troll’s head the size of a cartwheel and the blessing of the Lady.

If only Sir Gilles had found a prize to match that, Claude thought unhappily,
we’d be home by now.

He struck a shower of sparks into the tinder heart of the fire and stooped to
blow them into life, his sigh lost in the operation. A few tiny flames leapt up
and Claude tended them, fed them, watched them grow. After a few moments the
kindling was a fist of fire, bright even in the light of the setting sun. He
imprisoned the blaze within a latticework of thicker sticks and swung the pot
containing the evening’s stew into the heat. Only then did he realise that the
sound of the whetstone had ceased. He glanced up at his master. The knight had
sheathed his sword and slipped into that deep breathless trance that seemed to
be the mark of his kind.

Knights!
Claude shook his head resignedly. Thirty-four years as an
equerry and his masters still remained a mystery to him. Perhaps it was because
the Lady asked so much of them. Perhaps it was because they truly were a
different breed. Who knew?

Claude shrugged and turned his attention back to the pot. As he stirred the
glutinous soup, a sudden gust of wind sprinted down the valley, rustling through
the falling leaves with a thousand chill fingers. One more harbinger of winter.
Silently cursing the fate that seemed set to keep him here, the old man pulled
up his collar and waited for the stew to boil.

“The Lady is beauteous indeed,” breathed Sir Gilles.

The quiet intensity of the statement twisted Claude around in his saddle to
follow the knight’s gaze. But a quick glance around was enough to still the
sudden, startling burst of hope that had flared within his chest. The Lady had
not appeared. All that could be seen from the eyrie of this valley pass was the
usual panorama of the Massif Orcal. Claude pulled the tattered blanket that now
served him as a cloak around his scrawny shoulders and studied the scene.

Beyond the distant heights, the slopes were shot through with a thousand
shades of wintry dawn sunlight, the colours a sharp contrast to the depths of
the valley floor, now a grey sea of morning mist. Claude pulled his threadbare
blanket tighter around his shoulders and yawned.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sire—” he began.

“We should make the most of the fine weather remaining to us,” Sir Gilles
completed for him. The look of rapture faded from his face and he turned to
regard his old retainer. “You are correct, of course, Claude. First, though, I
will sit a while in this place. I feel her presence here, I’m sure of it. Why
don’t you wait for me over the slope, and perhaps brew some of that filthy
Empire tea of which you are so fond?”

This last was with a smile, the first crack in the knight’s iron mask for
days. The expression was as fleeting as the rise of a trout, yet in that brief
moment Claude had read the lines of frustration and exhaustion that his master’s
composure had so well concealed. For a moment the old man felt his own worries
swamped in a swell of sympathy.

“I’ll wait as you say, sire,” he assented, turning to lead their horses over
the crest of the ridge. Behind him Sir Gilles sank to his knees, hands clasped
together in silent prayer before the upright hilt of his sword. As he set to
beside the fire once more, Claude snatched a quick glance at the tableaux. He
felt a sudden burst of affection and shook his head.

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age,” he scolded himself in a mutter
as he split the kindling sticks needed to boil his water. “Too sentimental by
half.”

The ripe globe of the autumnal sun climbed into the cloud streaked depths of
the sky. Claude sat and drank his tea. When he had done that, he lay back and
let the warmth of it sink into him.

Sharp-edged shadows stalked across distant slopes and valleys as the sun
began to rise higher. The light was bright but unnatural, thin and brittle like
before a storm. Claude was watching a hawk spiral overhead on the first of the
day’s thermals when a furtive movement from below snatched his attention. He
lowered his gaze to where a grove of stunted bushes below rustled and moved
jerkily against the wind.

Claude froze and watched the undergrowth for any further sign. Perhaps it was
just a trapped deer, or some sort of mountain hare. He didn’t want to disturb
his master for such a—

With a sudden snap the bushes burst apart and a ragged creature sprang out.

“Sire!” the old man bellowed, leaping to his feet with adrenaline-fuelled
agility. He fumbled at his belt for his dagger, struggling to unsheathe it in
time, and snatched a glance at the tattered form that even now approached him.
Only then did he realise that beneath the layers of dirt and bracken it was
human, a man. He found himself fumbling for words of greeting or warning but,
before he could find either weapon or challenge, Sir Gilles arrived.

His appearance was silent, marked only by a sudden rush of displaced air.
Gone was the man, the youngster Claude had known since his swaddling days. Gone
was the tiredness, the yearning. Gone was the humanity. All that remained of Sir
Gilles now was the knight, the steel-clad killing machine. The dark stormcloud
of his cloak whipped around him, driven either by the wind or by the corona of
terrible energy that radiated from him. Claude, without even noticing that he
was doing so, flinched away from his own master.

Despite the layers of metal which encased his form, Sir Gilles bounded
forward with all the grace and poise of a big cat. With the hiss of steel
slicing through air, his sword was in his hand as he leapt towards the newcomer.

“Thank the gods!” the man said, his features wild with a confusion of fear
and happiness. After a moment’s hesitation he threw himself to his knees. “Our
prayers have been answered.”

The knight hefted the length of his sword, flicking it upwards in an
effortless arc that sent a wink of sunlight flashing along the edge. And for a
moment, just one moment, Claude was certain that the blade was about to
guillotine down across the newcomer’s shoulders. But of course it did not. The
Lady, bless and protect her, would not have allowed it.

Yet how would it be, the old retainer suddenly found himself wondering, if
the knights of Bretonnia should lose their respect for the Lady?

Claude shuddered, suddenly cold, and switched his attention to the stranger
who still knelt before Sir Gilles.

“…prayed for you to come for weeks. It’s become too much, far too much,” the
man continued to babble, tears glinting unashamedly in the corners of his eyes.
“None of us can sleep at night, none of us can work. Where are they going,
where? One more and we’re leaving, I swear it.”

The man’s voice was beginning to edge upwards into the realms of hysteria.
Seeming to realise it, he paused and took a deep breath. Then turned his
red-rimmed eyes back to the knight.

“
You
will help us, sire, won’t you?”

Sir Gilles, who until now had remained poised for combat, suddenly relaxed.
He sheathed the wicked length of his sword and raised his visor to reveal a
hungry, wolfish smile.

“Have no fear. I am sworn to help men such as yourself,” he reassured the
peasant, whose grubby features split open into a wide grin of relief. “How far
is this village of yours?”

“In the next valley, sire. If you have horses it will take a few hours at the
most.”

“Yes, we have horses. Perhaps you can help Claude here saddle up… ah, how are
you called?”

“Jacques, sire, Jacques de Celliers. And thank you.”

Sir Gilles waved away the man’s gratitude and turned to face the bright rays
of the mid morning sun. Claude led the newcomer to the horses. It took them a
few minutes to saddle the beasts and lead them back to where the knight still
stood.

Somehow Claude was not surprised to find his master’s head bowed and his lips
moving in a silent prayer of gratitude.

The inn was packed.

Even with the trestle tables pushed back into the shadows there hardly seemed
room to breathe. Claude had even considered slipping back outside, away from the
choke of this room, but somehow the tension of hope and fear that sawed through
the smoke-filled air kept him still. That and the presence of Sir Gilles, of
course.

The knight sat comfortably within an almost tangible sphere of personal aura
that none seemed willing to invade. He looked as calm and serene as always as he
chatted to those around him about their crops, their children, the first signs
of change in the season.

Claude saw the awe that washed across the features of those being spoken to,
watched it being reflected on the faces of their neighbours. In a gesture that
he would have denied even under torture he straightened his back and smiled with
pride. Sir Gilles was, after all, his knight.

Not until Francois, the village elder, made his entrance did the meeting come
to some sort of order. The inn door was thrown open by a burst of cold, eastern
wind and the old man stalked into the warmth of the room. He had hooked one
claw-like hand onto the shoulder of his nephew for support or perhaps guidance
through the chill darkness that now laid siege to the building. Favouring Sir
Gilles with what could just about have been taken for a half-bow, he then
studied the depths of his guest’s face with yellowing eyes as puffy as poached
eggs. For several long moments the two men regarded each other until, with a
grunt of satisfaction, Francois lowered himself onto one knee. Claude could
almost hear his bones creaking.

“Please,” Sir Gilles said earnestly, “there is no need to kneel, especially
for one as steeped in the grey hairs of wisdom as yourself.”

“Thank you, lord,” Francois said curtly. His nephew helped him back to his
feet and led him to the cutaway oak barrel that served as the old man’s seat of
office. Knight and elder faced each other across the few feet of swept earth
which lay between them and, in place of any common currency of small talk,
smiled.

“I thank you for coming to our aid,” Francois began. “I only wish I could
tell you what we need that aid against.”

The knight shifted in his chair, eyes beginning to sparkle with a quickening
interest.

“Your man Jacques here told me something of your dilemma,” he said, gesturing
towards the peasant. Jacques, who had become something of a local hero since his
return this afternoon, puffed himself up with pride at the mention. “Perhaps,
though, you could tell me the full history of these, ah, events.”

Francois nodded and sighed. Staring past the knight’s head into some
invisible point beyond the inn wall he began to speak, the years seeming to
weigh down on him as he did so.

“It began after the first of the year’s harvests, just after the festival of
the summer corn,” he started, his voice dull and hopeless. “This year we took a
goodly crop, thanks to the brightness of the sun and the depths of the rains. In
fact, after we had filled the granaries we had a surplus. We felt rich so, for
the first time in years, we stopped the river trader and exchanged a few bushels
for gold. At first I thought—we all thought—that was what had led to
Pierre’s disappearance.”