Trouble

  Gast had been a pain in the arse to train. The white charger was a stubborn, angry animal constantly huffing its disapproval at anything but the most commanding of riders. He had kept Matheller on his toes, even given the Baron some of his younger fury back when Matheller had realised that was what it would take to break the horse. Perhaps that was why he liked the animal so much. He was a younger man in the saddle, sitting high and proud, if not a little sore, on the large purebred. The creature was a marvellous thing, but here, in Drun, it would do nothing but attract unwanted attention.

  The Baron watched as Louis shuffled around the stable, the groom conducting a careful dance with Gast, brush in hand. You would not think much of the man, no longer in his youth, not yet in his old age. But the Baron enjoyed watching him work, with slight nudges and careful whispers, even Gast bowed his head, let the man brush out the knots in his mane.

  “Think he wants to get out of here even more than Rodula.” The groom leant against the stall door, cocked his head back and forth to have a look at his handywork. “Well, the horses are ready when the man does, Sire.”

  “Fine work.” The Baron leant forward against the other side of the door. With Gast, the five horses belonging to Rodula and his men-at-arms, and the draft horse for the cart, they had taken the inn’s stables almost completely over. “Tell me, do you believe in spirits?”

  “Spirits? Don’t know who doesn’t. Hell, I’ve even seen one now.” The man shuddered, remembering that night on the outskirts of Vannarbar.

  “Fair point,” Matheller said. “But do you believe in spirits that talk and reason like the stories? Do you believe in what we’re looking for?”

  The groom looked at the Baron carefully. “Sire, I believe horses are a type of spirit. You treat them right, and they take care of you in return. Don’t know much about much else, to be honest. You having doubts?”

  “These are old texts that we are following,” Matheller said. “Our nun seems to think…” The Baron decided to hold off on telling the groom about her theories of old medicus and other borderline heretical ideas, some of which she would be looking into now. Louis was right to keep his world simple. He had one job, and he did it well. “Sister Joan seems think it’s promising, but she is young, excitable in her own ways. I am worried she’s lost sight of the danger. I’m in half a mind to turn back, but that would mean marching to war for Philippe with a thousand men.”

  “Hesitation with a horse can get the rider killed.” And that was all the tactful groom had to say.

  Baron Matheller let Louis get back to his business and smiled at the wisdom of a man who knew his limits. He wished that he could be the same, but that would mean preparing to send thousands to war, hundreds to their deaths. Instead, he would risk the lives of their small party on chasing centuries-old rumours in the Beorgens. It was a bitter choice.

  He was about to turn back to the inn, but saw Marshal Rudola crossing the courtyard towards him, Grune and Horace in tow.

  “Marshal,” the Baron said.

  “Sire, we need to speak privately.”

  They were staying in a room on the second floor of the inn. It had a good view down onto the street and was at the end of the wing, keeping it relatively secluded. Grune stood on watch outside the door, and Horace looked down onto the street as the Baron spoke with Marshal Rudola in harsh whispers.

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  “By the Saints,” the Baron cursed. “How are they here already?”

  “Becker’s army must have stopped short last night. Lord Becker rode in this morning,” Rudola said. “The messengers were a quaint formality for the alderman. There are already some men in town. I expect the rest of the army will be making camp on the outskirts by nightfall. Sire, there wasn’t any way we could have avoided this. I’d say it’s better happening here than we meet them whilst on the road. At least they don’t know we’re here yet. But…”

  “Where’s the nun?” the Baron said. “Where’s Becker?”

  The Baron saw Rudola’s facial expressions shift, saw the marshal swallow, and he came to the conclusion of what Rudola was about to say before he said it.

  “She was at the church doing her research last we heard,” the marshal said. “Lord Becker is at the church also. Word is that the lord is praying there. They have the thumb bone of Saint Linusson, along with other relics. Danner and Talber are watching the church, but I haven’t heard anything from the nun.”

  The Baron grabbed an empty pitcher from the table, threw the thing against the wall. It shattered into sharp pieces of clay. “Damn it all.”

  Rudola didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what she has told the priest there. I doubt it’s anything foolish, but even the presence of a nun from the south may have aroused interest.”

  “Not only that,” the Baron said, “but her topic of inquiry. Becker is a shrewd man. If he catches a whiff of anything, he won’t let her leave until he knows what it is. If he catches a whiff of me or even you, Rudola…” He wanted to reach for another jug and shatter it against the wall. “Shit. I should cover Gast in pitch and shave my own head. Damn with it all.”

  “We should leave tonight,” Rudola said. “The sooner we get past the army, the better. Sister Joan may be able to excuse herself from the church. She may not have any trouble at all.”

  “Or, we may have to get her out ourselves,” the Baron said.

  They waited. The groom kept busy down in the stables, the lucky, unrecognisable bastard working away to dull the sudden anxiety of things. They waited. The Baron and Rudola sat in their second-floor room, drumming fingers, long sighs. The still spring heat made their room stuffy and hot. They waited. Grune and Horace did a round of the town. Becker’s men were camped without the walls on the eastern side of Drun, but they came in and out gayly, enjoying the festivities. They waited, and Danner and Talber brought no news of the nun.

  The sun was setting when they gathered back at their room in the Leaf and Lilly. The sound of Becker’s drinking, singing men in the common hall wafted up through the floorboards underneath them. It was a sharp reminder of how close to being found out they just might be.

  “We’ll have to split in two,” Marshal Rudola addressed the room in a low voice. “Baron Matheller, Loius, Horace and Grune will leave the town with the cart. Becker has posted men by the gates, but I think they are more interested in controlling the flow of his army into the town than anything else. The alderman’s men will think it’s odd that you’re leaving at such an hour, so you’ll need to think of a good story.

  “Myself, Danner and Talber will get Sister Joan from the church. All we know for certain is that neither Lord Becker nor the nun has left the church since they entered. I think that it’s most likely that the nun has got involved in performing rites for Lord Becker before he marches south to war. It’s possible that she’s got herself into more trouble than that, but we’ll only know once we are there. After that, we meet on the road to the Kings Pass, a good two miles from Drun should get us clear. Any thoughts?”

  “It’s as foolhardy and unlikely as anything that I can think up,” Matheller said. “It’ll have to do.”

  “Saints bless us all then,” Rudola said, and that was it.

  In the stable courtyard, Marshal Rudola saluted the Baron, and then he, Danner and Talber trotted off down the lane. The Baron watched them go, watched their quiet steads and the anxious movements of the riders. The old man swallowed a lump in his throat. This was as worrisome as things had gotten. He didn’t want any of his men to die, nor, truth be told, did he want any soldier or Becker himself dead. He’d met Lord Becker a few times. He was a proud but non the less reasonable man. Pity to be on opposite sides of the war.

  “Ready, Sire?” It was Louis. The groom had got the draft horse bridled onto the cart, the great hessian sack in the back protruding behind him. To his side, Horace and Grune were on their mounts. Gast huffed, pawing a hoof across the ground.

  “Louis, give me your cloak,” the Baron said. “Then take mine?”

  The groom hesitated.

  “You will ride on Gast and wear my cloak,” Matheller said. “There will be men amongst Becker and his troops who will recognise me. I’ll play the part of a cart driver. You will be the merchant.”

  “I am not much of a…”

  “Be aloof,” Matheller said. “Leave the talking to me.”

  Louis nodded. They swapped cloaks, and the Baron got on the cart, set the draft horse into motion.