The Wolf King (7 page)

“And how many have you seen?” the Saxon asked.

“The first was too many,” Matrona said. The candle nearest her guttered, burned blue, and the night stalker’s mirrored gaze looked back at him. “War is said to be the sport of kings, and I cannot think their appetite for it will ever abate.”

“Get more candles and light them,” Barbara told the Saxon. “If anyone came now and saw the eyes on the two of you, we would likely all be killed.”

There was a shout and then a scream from outside.

The Saxon hurried to the door of the tent and pushed the flap aside. Arnulf was standing there with four of his troopers; one was writhing on the ground.

“I’ll have compensation for this. Your horse kicked my man.”

“Horses kick,” said Regeane. “What was he doing near the part that kicks?”

“They are not even picketed,” Arnulf shouted. “He wasn’t near the horse. It walked over, wheeled around, and kicked him.”

One of the mares, Matrona’s mount, was standing near the fallen man, who was still moaning and gasping. Her hooves had caught him in the abdomen. She looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

“What were you doing here where you could be kicked?” the Saxon asked.

“We came to call on the ladies,” Arnulf said. “To assure ourselves of their safety. None of the men seemed to be about.” His eyes raked the almost empty camp.

“They are in the tents, asleep,” the Saxon replied. “As all the just and virtuous should be at this hour.”

“It is late and the ladies are not receiving,” Regeane said. “Now, go away. See to it,” she told the Saxon curtly, then closed the tent flap.

The Saxon stood quietly and folded his arms.

Arnulf tried to stare him down. It didn’t work. The Saxon was six feet, two inches tall in his socks, two hundred and thirty-five pounds stark naked, carried a long sword with a one-handed grip that most men would have had to swing two-handed, and the expression on his face suggested he was spoiling for a fight. No one wanted to challenge him. Arnulf and his companions took the wounded man and beat an ignominious retreat.

Maeniel and Antonius were taken to a tent near the main pavilion and placed in irons. Antonius protested volubly in Latin; Frankish, the Germanic version of Latin; Gaelic, a spoken Latin similar to Italian Latin; and other less recognizable dialects. When Maeniel tried to open his mouth, Antonius cut him off.

“Retain the demeanor of a great nobleman. I am here to complain for you. This is what chamberlains, seneschals, and the like do.”

Maeniel shrugged. “I can get out of these any time I want,” he said.

“I know,” Antonius replied. “But don’t, please don’t.”

“No,” Maeniel agreed. “One thing I found out early on in my association with humanity is a maxim I keep in the forefront of my mind at all times.”

“What?”

“Nothing is ever as simple as it ought to be or that I anticipate it will be.”

“I wonder what happened?” Antonius muttered to himself.

“I cannot imagine.” Maeniel spoke in a resigned fashion.

“My lords.” A young man entered the tent. “I am Arbeo of Sens. My apologies to you, sirs, but what I have done is at the orders of my lord, the king.” Servants entered the room with a folding camp table and a bench. “Please be seated, and I will send for bread, cheese, and wine that you may refresh yourselves.”

“I understand,” Maeniel answered courteously.

It took Antonius about three seconds to take the young man’s measure. He wore an undecorated cuirass of boiled leather and the sword he carried was old with a plain, wire-wrapped pommel.
Poor
, Antonius thought,
and therefore, if courteously treated, susceptible
.

They seated themselves at the table; the young man left to procure the refreshments.

“You may understand, but I don’t,” Antonius said. “I don’t,” he repeated. “Not nearly enough. Give me one of your rings.”

On Antonius’s advice, they had all dressed to the teeth. Maeniel wore a ring on each finger. He unscrewed one and handed it to Antonius, a priceless creation of heavy gold set with a beautifully carved head of one of the Roman emperors, he didn’t know which one. But the stone was a large Indian ruby.

“My,” Antonius said. “The things you come up with. Where did you get that?”

“I forget,” Maeniel said. He hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell Antonius the story.

Arbeo returned, followed by a servant with a platter of bread, wine, and cheese. The servant placed it on the table. Then, at a signal from Arbeo, he retired. Just to be sure, Antonius checked Arbeo’s boots. Bad, very bad. They were over-large, so worn and scuffed as to be almost shapeless. He’d wrapped his legs in linen strips to keep out the cold; they were visible through the holes in the boots.

“Sir,” Antonius addressed Arbeo.

Obviously surprised to be so addressed, Arbeo developed an owlish look on his face. “Yes?”

“My lord,” Antonius said, “wishes to be sure that you suffer no deprivation because of your courtesy. He instructs me to give you this,” and he offered the ring to Arbeo.

The youngster took it gingerly and stared at it in wonder. “This is too much.”

Antonius opened his mouth, but Maeniel spoke. “Not if you tell us what’s going on. Why are we being treated this way?”

Arbeo weighed the ring in his hand, then, with a look of regret, he placed it on the table. “Sir, I was specifically forbidden to discuss anything about your arrest with you.”

Maeniel fumbled in his scrip and found some silver. “Then take this. I still don’t want you to have to pay for our supper. And take the ring, if you care to. The lady who gave it to me would have liked you.”

Arbeo half drew his sword, unscrewed the top of the pommel, and placed the ring in the hollow.

“Won’t it rattle?” Antonius asked. “Can you tell me if my wife is safe?” Maeniel asked. “Oh, yes, sir, I can tell you that. She is. The lady is, after all, a relative of the king.”

“Is Count Otho here?”

“Yes.” The boy looked mystified. “Good. Can you take a message to my wife?”

“The lady Regeane? Yes, sir! I would be honored.”

“Fine. Tell her to roust that fat—” Antonius gave him a hard look.

Maeniel took a deep breath and began again. “Ask her to call on Count Otho and… and… ask for his protection and… assistance.”

When the boy was gone, Antonius spoke. “You handled that well. For a moment I had my doubts, but you came through at the end. By the way, who did give you that ring?”

“Never mind,” Maeniel said. “I paid that snake’s prick, Otho, enough that he should be willing to do me some favors. Quite a few in fact.”

“Do snakes have pricks?”

“Assuming they are male, yes.”

“I have never known anyone who has seen one,” Antonius said.

“They are retractable.”

“My,” Antonius said. “I imagine that’s necessary, given their method of locomotion. You watched a pair in the act of sexual congress?”

“Yes, one long, boring afternoon, I did.”

“Indeed.” Antonius nodded and stroked his chin. “Indeed.”

Arbeo delivered the message. “Otho! I should have thought,” she said, and gave the young man some gold. Then she set out, with Arbeo as a guide, in search of Otho’s tent. Barbara, Matrona, and the Saxon accompanied her.

She did need protection.

The great king’s army was in a mood for revelry. There were lines in front of the tavern and brothel wagons. Some whores accommodated customers publicly, lying on the baggage in the back of the ox carts while men lined up in front of them. Regeane took in the sights as well as she could with her veil and mantle pulled up over her mouth, but Matrona and Barbara strolled along, looking around insouciantly.

The higher-paid ladies of the
professional friedelehe
, those who preferred longer associations—courtesans, in other words—presided over loud and occasionally violent parties. One man, naked, ran past. He was bleeding and being pursued by two others carrying weapons. Screams erupted from another tent, sounds indicative of a battle royal in progress, punctuated by shrill female cries. When Matrona wanted to investigate, she was hustled along by the Saxon and Arbeo. She allowed herself to be urged to greater speed by the men, but bestowed a heavy-lidded look of disgust on them both.

“It’s not proper for a lady to be exposed to such scenes of debauchery,” Arbeo said.

“Why? Are you afraid one or more of us just might want to join in the fun?” Arbeo looked horrified.

Regeane sucked in her cheeks to keep from laughing out loud and saw the Saxon was struggling with his own attempts to suppress mirth.

“Fear not, I’m too old,” Barbara said. “Speak for yourself,” Matrona told her. “I’m not, but I am busy right now. Come visit me,” she purred at the young man, “some day when I am at leisure, and I will instruct you in the art of creative and civilized debauchery.”

Arbeo’s look of absolute, frozen shock nearly destroyed Regeane’s composure completely.

Just then one of the working girls at the edge of the path spit at a customer. The man pulled a knife. The girl’s pimp tried to intervene and caught a nasty gash across the chest for his trouble.

Matrona rather casually grabbed the soldier’s wrist, jerked it up between his shoulder blades, and took the knife away from him. Then she kicked the legs out from under him, and when he went down on his face, whacked him hard just behind the ear on the sensitive mastoid process. The soldier lay twitching, semiconscious and paralyzed by pain.

The girl in the cart sat up. She cursed her pimp for being so inept as to let her trick wound him, then the soldier for being a stinking louse-ridden pervert.

Matrona asked, “Why?”

“He wanted a blow job. I don’t suck. I work strictly on my back.”

“We are looking for one Count Otho,” Matrona said.

“I am, too,” the girl said. “He set me up with this…” She jerked a thumb at the pimp. “I haven’t seen him in four days. This shithead—” She jerked a thumb at the pimp again. “—he takes too big a cut. And as for protection.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Well, you saw—”

“Otho has women?”

“A whole string.” The girl shook her head for emphasis. “Plenty of women. The king’s men are hot as a fuck in a haystack. Fatso’s losing money all over the place.”

“Doesn’t sound like Otho to neglect business,” Regeane said.

“True,” Barbara said. “I’m not certain that lord has a heart, but if he does, money is the dearest thing to it.”

The girl nodded. “We’re talking about the same guy, for sure. When I went to his tent, nothing. Old woman there wouldn’t let me in.”

“Where is his tent? ” Matrona asked.

“Near the king,” the girl answered.

The camp was formed roughly like a set of rings, with the king’s pavilion in the center. Around it were grouped those of the great nobles; beyond them, the
scarae;
and beyond, in outer darkness, the rabble of peasants, foot soldiers, camp followers, whores, tavern carts, and the shadow classes: cutthroats, brigands, beggars, and professional thieves looking for loot in the case of victory. But equally happy with defeat, as they would be able to despoil the wounded and the dead on the battlefield.

This was where they were now.

The Saxon offered her some silver, two or three nights’ wages for a prostitute of her class. “Show us to his tent,” he said.

She snatched the money and jumped off the back of the wagon. “Right away,” she said. “You have to watch for the horsemen. They patrol at night and don’t want any of us to sneak in.”

It was late, and once away from the revelry among the infantry, the camp grew more quiet. The shelters occupied by the wealthy were larger and farther apart. Servants were quartered there. Most had a rubbish heap and a latrine. The girl pointed to a large tent. Three rooms at least, on the outer edge of the enclave belonging to the highborn. It was set rather far away from the rest. A torch burned in front of the tent closest to it, but otherwise, it was completely dark.

“Maybe he’s asleep,” Arbeo suggested. “Maybe we should come back in the morning.” He sounded apprehensive.

“No,” Regeane said. “If he’s asleep, we’re going to wake him up.”

“He’s not asleep,” Matrona said. “Something’s wrong.”

“Is it?” the Saxon asked.

“Yes,” Matrona said. “Regeane, the wind is at our backs. We must circle, but don’t draw any closer.”

Regeane nodded and the two women began to ease around the tent next to Otho’s.

“Put out your torch,” Matrona told the Saxon.

He did, dunking it in a ditch filled with dubious liquid. Some of it rose as steam and there was no further doubt as to its identity.

“Phueeee,” the girl said.

The Saxon turned to the girl and Arbeo. “Go.” He pointed back the way they had come.

They both voiced objections.

“The ladies may need my protection,” Arbeo said.

“I’m not a
girl
, I’m Gilas,” the girl said. “And I need to know about Otho. If something’s happened to him, I must get another protector.”

“Stop wrangling,” Regeane ordered. “You, Gilas, may stay. Arbeo, escort Barbara back to our camp.”

Barbara smiled, took a very unhappy-looking Arbeo’s arm, and towed him away.

“Gilas, you remain here,” Regeane said.

“No, I want to see,” Gilas insisted stubbornly.

“All right,” the Saxon said in a dangerous tone of voice. “But be silent. If you make one sound, I will drive you into the ground like a nail.”

“I promise, I promise. I’ll be silent as a stone.” She jumped up and down.

“All right, then shut up.”

Matrona led the party, weaving in and out between the tents until she felt the almost-still air push against her face. “Here,” she said.

The air was thick with wood smoke, human effluvia, cooking food, and the thick aroma of stagnant water from the lake. The Saxon declined to sniff. He decided he probably couldn’t smell his upper lip, but Regeane did.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered to Matrona. “I’ve not encountered anything like this since Rome.”

“You knew him as Otho there?” Matrona asked.

“Yes. Living or dead, I can’t say, but he is here.”