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Part III - The Road to Awe and Wonder
-*-
Quickly, the group fell into a routine of walk and rest, walk and rest, tend the animals and sleep. The plan was to follow the length of the Rhone River to its outlet in the Mediterranean, where they would hire a ship to take them east to Rome, and from there they would hire another transport to the Holy Land. Their path put them in sight of the green swath of the river at times, and Jensen never tired of watching the ships and boats and heavy barges making their way up and down its length. At other times, when the river was not visible, they passed through forests and near cultivated fields, and often met clergy or farmers or merchants on the road.
At night they pitched tents in likely places, cooked their meals and spent the time until they were ready for bed observing the constellations in the dark sky. Two of the guardsmen, ruddy-faced brothers from Corsica named Monte and Vack, delighted in singing about traveling, drinking, fighting, and leaving the girls they were in love with, in that order, so the evenings were well spent. Even Tristan, who didn’t spend much time around the others, seemed to enjoy it.
Tristan surprised Jensen in general. He’d expected the boy to be troublesome from the start, quarreling and sour-faced and slacking off in his duties, but Tristan mostly kept to himself and took care of Jensen as though it were second nature to him. He rose early and cared for Purity before Jensen even had a chance to dress himself, and always greeted Jensen with a smile even when Jensen was sore and tired and reluctant to leave the warmth of his blankets. He cleaned Jensen’s armor daily without being asked and learned to stow their small tent on Henry’s back faster than Jensen thought possible. Every day he saw to it that Jensen’s clothes were mended and clean and that the wine in his wineskin was watered to just the right proportions; he even collected mint and jasmine by the river so that Jensen could have a mild tea to settle his stomach when his meal did not sit right with him. He seemed reluctant to talk about himself, but by his actions showed himself trustworthy and eager to please. And if he sometimes thrashed in his sleep and cried out in wordless pain, he usually stilled with the touch of Jensen’s hand, and a soft word.
Alona, who he had thought would be an obliging traveler, was, however, not so easy. She, too, mostly kept to herself or associated with her maids, and some mornings he heard her sharp voice upbraiding them for not scrubbing her veils clean enough or not spending enough time combing her hair or some such feminine nonsense. Her maids were forever assailing him with requests – “Might not we camp here, sir, where the ground is not so rocky?” “My mistress wishes to sleep past dawn this morning.” “Mistress requests that we stop in that orchard to gather red apples.” And so it went, day after day.
Truthfully, though, he adjusted to her demands quickly enough, and found himself pleasantly surprised when she smiled at him or offered a sly word or sought his advice about the day’s travel. She plotted their course on her own map and often questioned him about their route and the people they might meet along the way. He enjoyed her interest, and found her questions incisive and intelligent, and sometimes, when the mood struck her, they talked about the politics of the long-haired Frankish kings and their court, or, more dangerously, about religion. Alona, he quickly divined, was an Arian. While she believed in the divinity of Christ, she argued that he was created by God and through him created the universe, not that he came into being at the same time as God and the Holy Spirit, and she had no shyness about stating her beliefs, quoting the words of philosophers and scholarly monks and the arguments that had taken place at church councils.
Jensen nodded and interjected an observation or two when she started speaking thusly, but he did not see the point in religious nattering, though he knew that some people – educated men and women like Alona herself -- could spend hours and days splitting hairs over the tiniest deviation in scripture. The church denied Arianism as heresy and worked steadily to eradicate the beliefs in Frankish lands, though they were deeply planted and intertwined with the cultish practices of long ago. Despite her Arian leanings she was a staunch defender of the Roman church and hoped, through piety, good works and the steady application of skillful arguments, to loosen the church’s objection to Arianism. Jensen found her dedication admirable, but doubted that the stern-faced patriarchs of the church would compromise even an inch’s worth on what they believed to be hallowed ground.
He knew that many Franks were Arians, and he found himself filled with fresh curiosity about them and their ancient beliefs as they traversed the country, encountering now and again druids with their robes and staffs and somber, dark eyes and the strange rituals with which they blessed the woodland streams and groves.
He asked Alona about them sometimes, when she was in a talkative and indulgent mood, and she told him about the sacred spirits they called forth in their rites, and the requests they asked for – the healings and love matches and the continuance of gentle rains and nourishing soil. Such requests seemed no different than those which inspired the lighting of candles in the great cathedrals, and he wondered at the thread of commonality that wound all peoples together, no matter their eye color or build or the hue of their skin.
He had plenty of time to dwell on such thoughts as they tromped steadily and slowly toward their first destination, the town of Arles.
Exactly one week after their departure, they followed the river road to a spot crossed by a large wooden bridge with stone piers of Roman design. The bridge had fallen into disrepair, though, like so many across the old Empire, and they had to cross slowly, winding around soft, rotted areas or outright holes beneath which rushed powerful tides. Jensen and Tristan hung back, helping the servants and wagons cross first, a task hampered by the sucking mud at the water’s edge, and made miserable by the cloudy, cold sky that threatened rain and possibly even snow, later. Jensen was just leaning his shoulder into a cart to shove it free of a particularly deep mud hole when a far off shout caught his attention. He looked up to find a dozen wild-haired barbarians on horseback streaming down the hillside, screaming and waving weapons.
“At arms!” He bellowed to his guardsmen, then caught at Tristan’s arm and said lowly, “Direct the wagons and servants across the bridge quickly!”
A few clumsy mud-sucking steps later he was yanking his sword free from the scabbard hanging at his saddle and, since he was not at all certain that Purity, flighty and already frightened by the noise, had the temperament to serve as a good battle horse, he slapped the horse on the behind to send him lunging toward the suddenly panicked servants at the bridge. He glanced about – saw three guardsmen sitting atop horses and the rest scrambling to clear themselves of servants and animals while freeing their weapons as well. Such odds did not bode well for them and Jensen cursed himself for not being more cautious at the crossing, which all soldiers knew was a vulnerable time for a group.
Fighters on horseback were more fearsome than those on the ground, but there was no help for the situation now. Jensen chose a target – a heavy set red-haired fellow wielding a battle axe from atop a dark-eyed black – and rushed to engage him, fending off a powerful axe-blow by turning it aside with his blade, causing the air to ring with a sharp whine as the blades met. This close, everything sharpened and slowed as only happened when Jensen found himself fighting for his life. He made out the curly gray hairs in the barbarian’s beard, and smelled the rank scent of his unwashed body. The black horse was strong and nervous, froth at its mouth from the exertion of the run, its sides heaving with effort. It pranced back and forth, making it important for Jensen to pay attention to its steps lest he find himself crushed beneath heavy feet.
The barbarian passed the axe to his left hand and swung at Jensen from that angle. Jensen countered by chopping at the wooden axe handle with all his might, trying to break the head off and succeeding only in lodging his blade in the wood. With his other hand he grabbed the back of the axe head and yanked, succeeding in ripping the weapon free from the barbarian’s startled grasp. With his left hand, he flung the axe and his sword both – joined together – to the ground and snatched his dagger from the sheathe at his waist. The barbarian, now disarmed, let loose a stream of curses in some Frankish dialect that Jensen didn’t know, and pulled the reins of his horse to the left, simultaneously urging the beast to carry him away from Jensen.
Jensen heard a harsh burst of laughter – realized it was his own – and applied his boot to the axe in an effort to free his sword. A few quick yanks did the trick, and he spared the time to grab the axe handle and stomp down on the blade, causing the head to break off. The last thing he needed was someone else picking that thing up and splitting his head with it.
Jensen rushed into the confused fray before him. Two horsemen were bearing down on Cunradus, a wiry young archer. Jensen came up behind one of them and drove his sword into the meat of the man’s thigh. The man gave a terrible high-pitched scream and clawed at the sword desperately. As he leaned over Jensen knotted his fist in the man’s collar and pulled him off his horse. He landed hard on his wounded leg and screamed again, miserably. Jensen might have had some measure of compassion for the man had he not been here with the obvious intention of both robbing and killing the people he was responsible for, but as it was he simply pulled his blade free and kicked the man in the head, which effectively stunned him into shutting up. Jensen grabbed the man’s horse – a sturdy little dun – and swung up onto his back. He wheeled around and surged right into the writhing crowd. It was close quarters for the pointed end of a sword, but he was able to strike with his fist and the hilt of the sword. His head was bare, and while this helped his visibility, it made him significantly more vulnerable. He was reminded of this when one of his opponents cracked him upside the head with a staff. Pain made the world split open in a burst of light, but he was quick to shake it off and wrestle the staff away from his attacker. He would have returned the favor but the man engaged another of Jensen’s men and moved off.
Chaos reigned all around him. He couldn’t tell who was winning the fight and, when he glanced over at the bridge he suddenly didn’t care. Alona and her maids huddled together on the other side of the river, clutching one another and pointing at the fray. Someone held off three attackers at the mouth of the bridge while the last of the servants were skittering across it. That someone – flash of dark shaggy hair, white panicked face, and small dagger – was Tristan. And it looked like he was about to be skewered.
Jensen cursed and spurred his commandeered horse forward through the crowd toward Tristan. It took far too many moments of shoving aside bandits and friendly soldiers alike for Jensen to come up behind Tristan’s most dangerous looking opponent and smash his sword blade down on his helmeted head with such force that the metal rang like a giant bell. The robber collapsed straightaway and toppled off his mount to the accompaniment of Jensen’s shout of triumph.
Tristan, now confronted by only two bloodthirsty barbarians, couldn’t spare a moment for thanks. He was already looking ragged and tired. Blood darkened one sleeve.
Jensen urged the little dun forward until he crowded into Tristan’s second opponent, who quickly turned enraged eyes on Jensen. There followed a furious exchange of blows that made Jensen’s wrist throb and his arm burn. Jensen’s opponent, while not particularly skilled at sword fighting, seemed fueled by an endless repository of angry energy. The two of them drove one another up and down the battlefield before Jensen distracted the man by elbowing him in the face with his sword arm and drew his dagger out with his left hand and plunged it deep into his opponent’s side. With fear in his eyes, the robber cursed him and went galloping off -- hopefully to die in a bush somewhere -- Jensen thought uncharitably.
Jensen meant to help Tristan against his sole remaining opponent, but just as he made to do that Tristan flung himself at the man with a beastlike roar. He clung to the villain like a baby possum to its mother, even as the man, distressed and obviously flummoxed, tried to shake him off. Jensen reversed his sword and banged the man over the head with the sturdy hilt. It had the desired effect of dazing the man, who slumped and sent both he and Tristan tumbling off the back of the horse to land in the mud next to the nervous hooves of the roan mount. Jensen grabbed the reins and pulled the horse aside. Tristan seemed to have the fight won although he kept slugging the unresisting man in the midriff, his face twisted in rage. Jensen thought about pulling him off the man and directing that ferocity elsewhere, but as he looked around at the fight he realized that their attackers were in various states of retreat. At least, the ones that were upright were fleeing. Several lay wounded or dead already on the field. With a quick nudge to the ribs of his horse, he sprang toward a knot of men still fighting and chased off the remaining attackers.
It took a little while to settle everyone down and sort out the damage from the raid. Two of the guardsmen – Odo and Petrus – suffered severe wounds, and two of the attackers lay dead on the field. They had captured two horses and some miscellaneous weapons and other booty stripped from the bodies of the dead, as custom dictated. Not wanting to risk a return of the assailants, Jensen gathered everyone together and herded them across the bridge and on the road for two hours before they stopped for the evening, in a farmer’s field off the main thoroughfare. There, they tended their wounds properly and Jensen spoke with his most experienced men, an old campaigner by the name of John and his nephew Cuno. Both men had lived in Lyons or thereabouts for their entire lives, and they had fought beside or against many in the area.
“I recognized a couple of them from the Burgundian uprising a few years back,” John said. “Hotheads, the both of them. I am not surprised that they fell to thievery rather than work the land like honest folk.”
“Is it likely that they were common thieves?” Jensen asked.
“Perhaps, although they are rich ones if they are,” John responded. “They were well armed and well supplied with horses.”
“Yes,” Jensen said thoughtfully.
He went to check on Alona, but her maids would not let him see her. She had taken to her bed with a headache and would not see anyone. And yes, yes of course she was fine, just tired from the day’s excitement. Tomorrow she would see him. Now, why didn’t he go rest himself?
Jensen knew when he was being dismissed, so he wandered off to check on the horses instead.
-*-
Tristan sat on a log felled by some previous traveler and watched as Jensen went from person to person, checking on them, inquiring about their wounds and making sure they had all their needs met. He found Jensen’s attentiveness and concern aggravating for no reason he could name. He gathered a handful of stones and began tossing them into the fire moodily.
Jensen came over after a little while and sat heavily on the ground beside Tristan, who leaned over and picked up the bowl of soup he had set aside for Jensen and handed it to him.
“Oh,” Jensen said, surprised. “My thanks.”
Tristan grunted in response. He wondered what Jensen had done before Tristan was around to watch over him. He often forgot to eat.
“How’s your arm?” Jensen asked, gesturing to the limb, which Tristan had wrapped with white gauze given to him by Cara, the younger of Alona’s maids. The wound, a deep puncture that throbbed even now, was not as bad as it could have been.
“The wound is little enough,” he said, glancing at Jensen. “And your head?”
Jensen started in surprise, and put a hand to his forehead. He made a noise of discomfort, then pulled away his fingers to see them tacky with blood. “Huh,” he said.
“I will see to it,” Tristan volunteered gruffly and went to find Hilda, the older of Alona’s maids and the one who had taken charge of tending wounds. He returned to Jensen’s side with a bowl of warm water, a clean cloth, and a torch to shed light on his actions.
By this time, Jensen had finished his dinner and sat staring into the darkened forest around them dully, exhaustion from the long day evidently catching up to him. Tristan dunked the cloth in the water and wrung it out, then began to clean the wound, trying to gauge its severity in the small light of the torch. They were quiet as Tristan wiped Jensen’s forehead gently.
“You disobeyed me today,” Jensen commented, gaze sliding sidelong to fix on Tristan’s eyes. “I told you to stay with the women and the servants, not throw yourself into the fray at the earliest opportunity. Still, you handled yourself well in the fight.”
Tristan frowned. “I did not even get to kill one. You finished him off too quickly.”
Jensen’s brow wrinkled and his eyes flashed with anger. “Do not lament that you are innocent of taking a life. It is a terrible burden, to do so. I would have you safe from that. Besides, you have not been trained for warfare. You should not be fighting.”
Tristan felt the familiar twist of anger in his belly. “Is that why you would not let me fight at your side? Because you think me weak and unskilled?”
“You are a servant! You do not even have a proper blade. There is no shame in standing aside and letting the men hired for the work of fighting do their jobs.”
“In your eyes there is no shame,” Tristan pointed out sullenly.
Jensen considered him, then spoke more softly, “I meant it when I said you did well. Thank you.”
Tristan nodded, and fell silent for a bit while he finished cleaning Jensen’s head of blood. When he finished cleaning it, he wrapped a bandage around Jensen’s forehead, making Jensen hiss in pain when he tied it off.
“It is not a burden for me,” Tristan said.
Jensen looked up. “What is not?”
“Killing. I have killed before, from necessity. I will likely do it again if today’s events are any indication.”
Jensen’s expression grew grave. “Then I am sorry. A life of violence is not something to be proud of.”
“I am proud,” Tristan said stubbornly. “You do not know what I have faced.”
Jensen merely looked at him, face shadowed and dark, and said nothing more.
Part IV
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As a writer I have a special admiration when reading something well done that I couldn't write. It's not so much that I think my writing ability is not good enough to handle a historical piece. It's more that the amount of research involved, the total submersion into another time. I just wouldn't do it. Not to mention my penchance for one line paragraphs, overuse of idioms, snarky language -- none of my style would ever fit. So truthfully, I wouldn't attempt it. But I always feel like saying bravo to those who do because I can appreciate how hard it is.