John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

Maeve knew exactly who this man was, for she caught a glimpse of his robe beneath the woolen brown riding cloak, and saw also the string of beads at his waist. She knew it was foolish to say anything more. Every instinct told her to turn and get as far away from these people as she possibly could, but she stared at him, transfixed for a moment, and somewhat breathless. “Landebertus?” she breathed.

The man started, as if he had hoped not to be recognized. “From whence have you come, woman? Have you seen other riders by the river this night?”

“No others,” said Maeve. “I was riding south seeking aid. My party was fallen upon by strangers and I alone escaped. Brigands and thieves they were. They have taken everything!” She had no idea where that story had come from, but it seemed convincing enough. “I was hoping to find the road again to seek lodging. It is very cold.”

The man smiled, noting the fine stature and well muscled lines of her mount. “You must be well off to afford such a horse as that one,” he pointed. “We are very near the river ferry, journeying east. Why not ride with us, my child, it is just south now, another mile further along the river. Then you may cross over with us, and we will lead you to safe quarters—see that you are fed and given to warm yourself by the fire.“ His voice was soft and reassuring. “It is not safe here, yes, other brigands are about this night, and they may be very near. You are certain you saw no other riders?”

“No one, your grace,” Maeve said, her voice breaking slightly. She looked at the women, one obviously a sister or perhaps even the bishop’s wife, who smiled, gently rocking her youngest where the child slept at her bosom. The other was a serving maid, her plump arms wrapped tightly around the waist of the young boy. These were the people she had come here to kill. Here they met death’s prophet on her white Arabian steed, and yet could think only of offering her safe passage and comfort. She looked at their faces, speechless for a moment, her mind and heart tormented by what she must now do.

“Most gracious thanks, father,” she whispered, “yet I must go south—to the main road. My companions will be seeking me out there in the morning. I cannot cross over with you…”

“Are you certain? It is very dark, a dangerous road at night for a woman alone.” Lambert extended an open hand. “Come with us, and you may return here in the morning; thence ride safely to meet those who wait for you.”

Tears began to well in Maeve’s eyes, and she could barely speak, throwing her riding hood up and over her honey red hair, hiding herself. “I cannot…” it was all she could say, as she pulled on the reins, turning Kuhaylan about. “Go with God, my bishop,” she said softly. “And may you rest in peace this night.”

She dug her heels into the horse’s flank and he leapt away, easing up to a canter as Maeve road swiftly south. Just a mile, she thought. The ferry was very near, and she must get to it in plenty of time to do what she had come here to do. She must get there before Lambert drew nigh, where darkness and silence would be her only companions, and the river would slip quietly by, unconcerned, unaware of her inner torment, and the yawning maw of guilt that opened to consume her heart .

Maeve reached the ferry, just north of the place where she had come upon the farm. It was still tethered to the low tree stump she had seen before. The Arabian had raced south like a banshee, eating up the last mile with a steady, powerful gait, but she had little time to spare. She slipped off the horse, throwing off the encumbering gown she wore to stand there in plain trousers, with a light leather jerkin top over a simple white shirt. Better, she thought, still holding the reins as she cautiously approached the edge of the river. The pale moonlight gleamed on the waters of the Meuse, and she was struck with the thought that this was not the same river she had seen here just a few hours ago, nor was she the same person.

Then she had been thrilled to have escaped safely from the farm, with the Arabian under her, running hard, with a clear path home. The thought of what she had done never entered her mind. By simply taking this horse and riding off in the night she was changing every moment yet to come in the long river of Time. Though she knew in her bones that there were going to be major consequences for what she had done, that thought was not so easily connected to Lambert’s death as she rushed to make good her escape from the farmer. The surge of adrenalin chased those fearful thoughts from her mind. She was simply focused on getting away with the Arabian, and finding her way back to their entry point; back to the Arch complex in Berkeley; back to Kelly.

Now, however, as she stood by the low tree stump and stared at the ferry, she could clearly see the meaning of the riddle in the hieroglyphics the professor had translated. Here she stood, with the restless Kuhaylan at her side, hardly winded from the brisk ride and eager to run again. Her eyes were still glassy wet with emotion as she remembered the faces of the people she had fled from minutes ago. They were innocent, unblemished, and yet they must die this night. Each second that passed brought that moment ever closer. The man, the woman, the maid and the two children… five souls that she held now in the palm of her hand, in the hollow of her breaking heart.

Off in the distance she could already hear other riders approaching, their voices carrying in the cold night air, urgent and harried. A distant peal of thunder warned of a coming storm, drowning out the voices in the night, but she looked and spied three other horses, laden with several riders. One came in front, leading the others on with hushed encouraging whispers.

That would be Bishop Lambert, she knew. The cry of the young boy scored her heart again. They were obviously in fear for their lives, for behind them she could now discern another mounted group in the distance as they crested a hillock. Something gleamed in the moonlight, perhaps the glimmer of drawn swords, she thought. All these riders were converging on this one spot, a Nexus Point in the flow of Time that would now decide the future course of history for thousands of years to come.

So here was the place, where the horses were brought to gather, here by the river, she thought. And there before her she could clearly see the thin, weathered rope coiled about the tree stump. The barge that served as a ferry was already well floated in the shallows. She had only to loosen the twine to set the barge free and give it a strong push. The river would do the rest, heedless, unconcerned.

But now there was no doubt in her mind as to the consequences of her action. This was Lambert’s last hope of escape, and the men riding hard behind him would surely cut him down, slaying everyone they found here.

If I let slip this twine, I become an accessory to murder, she thought darkly. It was as if I held the sword myself and plunged it into that good man’s heart. But then one last thought asserted itself, pulsing hard at her temples as the seconds ticked away and the riders drew ever closer. She would most certainly become a victim here as well. Dodo would kill everyone, wanting no witness to his crime, and she would easily be perceived as just another servant of the bishop’s household.

Fear now joined the recrimination roiling in her mind, and the reflex to fight or flee hung in the suspense of this long distended moment. What should she do, remain unblemished in her own soul and accept death, yet another martyr slain on this dark night at the edge of a coming storm? Or should she loosen the twine and alter the stream of this river, and be forever changed herself by that single selfish act? She could simply flee if she wished, washing her hands of the whole matter, leaving Lambert and his family to their own fate…