The Sword of Aradel

The Sword of Aradel

Alexander Key

1

Fight at St. Martin's

B
RIAN, THE PALE-HAIRED STABLEBOY AT
S
T.
Martin's Abbey, crawled from his bed of straw in the hayloft that morning with an unpleasantly cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The feeling was a sure sign of coming trouble, and he knew from unhappy experience there was very little he could do to avoid it. Unless, of course, he could find the courage to run away.

As he felt his way down the ladder in the predawn darkness, he wondered what his chances would be if he actually did leave the abbey and go out into the world. Surely he was old enough to try it now. And, thanks to the secret instruction of Brother Benedict, he could read and write in the three languages, and probably hold his own with any of the titled students at the abbey school. Only, where could he go? What could he do?

Outside in the courtyard he dusted the straw from his ragged jerkin, stopped just long enough at the watering trough to wash his face, and then hurried over to the hidden corner between the smithy and the great outer wall. Brother Benedict had not yet arrived. Turning, he peered through the shrouding curtain of grapevines at the buildings across the courtyard.

The abbey was like a walled village, complete in itself, with workshops and storehouses. In the center, surrounding the spired cathedral, were cloisters, dormitories, refectories, two kitchens, and a chapel. At this hour all the buildings were dim silhouettes against an uninviting sky that was becoming streaked with an angry red.

The sight of the sky did nothing to ease Brian's state of mind. Suddenly he hated the abbey and his lowly station, and more than ever he hated the students, all of them the arrogant sons of noblemen who thought nothing of kicking him around like a worthless slavey. Even some of the monks, who treated the peasants as if they owned them, were more brutal than pious, and Brian was seldom without a bruise to remind him of the fact.

“But why?” he wondered aloud. “Has it always been this way? What right have the high to beat the low?”

“No right,” came the cool and curiously decisive voice of Brother Benedict. “By my faith, no right whatever.”

Brian spun about and saw the burly form of the monk emerging from the smithy. In the reddening dawn light he could just make out the broad face with its scars, as from old sword cuts, and the tight mouth as grim as a river turtle's. As much as Brian loved him, he couldn't shake the belief that Brother Benedict was not entirely the man of God that he appeared to be. Under that gray robe was a very strange person. Who would dream that a master of the sword and quarterstaff would also be a master of languages and philosophy? Yet no one seemed aware of these attainments, for Brother Benedict managed to remain quietly in the background, and was known only as the abbey blacksmith.

“It has not always been this way,” the monk added. “Nor will it continue for long. But I speak too much. Let us get on with our practice before this place awakens.”

Brian caught the quarterstaff his teacher flung to him, then crouched, holding the seven-foot length of oak firmly on either side of the center. It was the poor man's weapon of defense, and one skilled in its use could down a swordsman. He tried to parry the blows that were now rained upon him, but this morning his heart was not in it.

Brother Benedict stopped. “What's wrong, son?”

“It—it's that awful feeling again. Something's going to happen. You know how it was last time.”

His teacher nodded. That last time Brian had been too slow in drawing water for the abbot's horse, and the prior had had him tied up by the thumbs till dark and given twenty lashes.

Brian added dispiritedly, “I—I just can't take any more of that. I've got to run away.”

Brother Benedict shook his head. “Not yet, son. I know how hard it is for you. But remember, all things change. You must be brave and suffer it a while longer.”

“I don't see why.”

“There are reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“You will learn in time.”

“That's what you always tell me when I ask questions. I don't understand why you even bother with me.”

“I bother with you, my son, because I happen to know you are worth it. You are worth a great deal of bother.”

“But—but I'm nobody! You know that.”

“Never say you are nobody. Everyone is a person, private within himself. That makes everyone somebody.”

The monk reached under the vines and produced a pair of rusty practice swords. “Let us work with these a bit, then you'd better see to your chores.”

Brian took one of the weapons and began a ritual cut and thrust under his teacher's direction, but part of his mind was suddenly asking questions. Why was Brother Benedict always so secretive? Of course, these were not the best of times, and if you valued your head, you kept a guard on your tongue. Yet he was certain at last that his friend was involved in a matter that could be highly dangerous. What could it be? Not only that, but it was beginning to seem that Brother Benedict knew something about him that he didn't know himself.

But that was impossible, he thought. He was just another woodcutter's son; his father, old Harle, used to get wood for the abbey. The hut where he was born was hardly a league away; he could remember every ugly detail of it. No, there was nothing in the life of Brian, son of poor Harle, that could be of the least interest to anyone. And yet …

There was that strange little strawberry girl.

He had a sudden sharp vision of the small cringing figure in the ragged dress and shawl who had been bringing wild strawberries in to sell to the monks. He had supposed she was some peasant's child, but yesterday when she stopped at the smithy—she always managed to have a talk with Brother Benedict when no one was watching—a curious thing had happened. A nightingale had flown down and alighted on her hand. She had whispered to it, and the bird had sung a quick little song, and then had flown away.

Brian remembered his surprise, and then the shock that had gone through him as the nightingale flew off. For the girl had raised her head, and her shawl had slipped back and exposed her long golden braids. Nor did she have a peasant's face—it was far too bright and lively and full of mischief. He'd been carrying water from the well to fill the watering trough, and had stopped and stared. At the same moment her quick green eyes had caught sight of him, and she had smiled. Then she had jerked the shawl back in place and turned away, becoming the subdued little peasant figure she had seemed at first.

Brian's sword was suddenly flicked from his grasp, and Brother Benedict stepped back, shaking his head.

“No, my son! No! The first rule of self-defense is never to let your attention stray from your opponent. What were you thinking about, anyway?”

“That—that girl who brings the strawberries,” he admitted. “Who is she?”

The monk's hard face broke into a rare smile. “You are rather young to have girls on your mind. And she's hardly more than an infant.”

“She—she's no infant,” Brian retorted. “I saw her face yesterday, and she must be nearly as old as I am. And that's not all—” He paused suddenly as a startling thought came to him. Yesterday he'd been close enough to overhear part of what she'd said to Brother Benedict. It wasn't the words he remembered so much as the language she'd used.

“She wasn't talking to you in the local French,” he said. “It was Latin—good Latin. The kind we use.”

Brother Benedict raised his eyebrows. “Well?” he said mildly.

“But—but the peasants hardly know it.”

“You're a peasant. Yet you are fluent in Latin. You have a gift for languages—I've taught you several. And you forget that Latin is universal—it is spoken by the educated all the way from Rome to the green isles of Britain.”

Brian chewed on his lip a moment, then managed a grin. “You're trying to lead me around by the nose,” he accused. “Let's get back to that strawberry girl. She's no ordinary person. She's pretending to be what she isn't. And she knows something about me.”

He paused again, thinking of the quick little smile she'd given him. A knowing smile. It had conveyed a world of information. “She knows a lot about me,” he went on. “She practically told me so. Who is she?”

“You are very discerning, my son. I'm sorry.”

“Please. I—I've got to know about her.”

“She is one of us,” the monk said quietly. “That is all I can tell you now.”

Brian started to protest, but Brother Benedict held up his hand. “The less you know of some matters, my son, the safer you will be. I don't want you to die before your time, like your father.”

Brian could only stare at him, mouth half open. So it was true. Something
was
going on. And he, Brian, son of poor old Harle who had lived in want and died ignobly in the last revolt, was in some unknown way concerned in it. Was another peasants' revolt being planned?

He was beginning to hear sounds of life around him and was all at once aware that the ugly red of dawn had spread entirely across the sky. It was a frightening sight. The chill in the pit of his stomach had become a cold clutching, and he was tempted to gather up his few possessions and leave in spite of being urged to remain.

“You'd better get that watering trough filled,” Brother Benedict reminded him. “If the prior happens to come out before breakfast …”

Brian sighed and started around the smithy for the well. But he had taken only a few steps when he was stopped in his tracks by the sudden blare of trumpets somewhere in the distance. The sound seemed to come from the edge of the forest where the road from the castle ran past the fields and the sprawling village.

He had heard the signal of the trumpets often enough to know that it announced the arrival of visitors of importance who had come from the castle. But trumpets at this hour? It was unheard of. He had about decided that his ears had tricked him when the trumpets sounded again, nearer, louder, demanding. It was an order for the drawbridge that spanned the moat to be lowered immediately.

St. Martin's Abbey came abruptly to life. Gray-robed monks and velvet-clad students of the abbey school, some of them still hastily pulling on their clothing, swarmed into the courtyard. There were shouts from the lookout tower above the gate, and then Brian could hear the creaking of the blocks as the drawbridge was lowered.

“What—what could have happened?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

Brother Benedict growled an oath that was decidedly unmonklike. “Something devilish,” he muttered. “You may bet on it. And you may bet all the gold in Aradel that Albericus is behind it.”

Brian had never seen the hated Albericus, but the very name of that witch-hunting monk brought a chill to his spine. Then he heard the quick clatter of hooves as an advance messenger raced over the drawbridge. It was a page wearing the green and gold of Aradel.

The page drew rein in the center of the courtyard. He slid from the saddle, breathless, and managed to gasp, “The duke is dead!” Then, catching his breath, he cried out, “Long live the duke!”

There was a moment of stark silence followed by a quick murmuring. Suddenly wild shouts broke out among the students as every eye in the courtyard turned toward a gangling youth with a long jaw and a thin mouth. Until now, he had been merely Rupert of Cloyne. All had known there was a chance—if an evil temper did not bring him to an early end—that he might possibly become the next duke. But only, of course, if his uncle, the crown-seeking Frederick, happened to die before having a son. No one dreamed it would actually happen this very spring.

Beyond the abbey walls came a quick, final flourish of the trumpets. Now horsemen began pouring across the bridge—men-at-arms in glittering coats of mail, barons in bright plumes and velvet, pages and squires bearing pennants and banners; and in their lead, on a great black mule, a towering grim-faced monk in a black robe.