Christopher Buehlman - Between Two Fires

They climbed wearily into the cart and left.

None of them noticed that the maple stump against which Delphine had slept had grown into a tree.

The soldiers passed them near the town of Nemours, just as deep, cold woods gave way to overgrown and deserted farms. They had just broken camp, and their hunger gnawed at them. They had begun to discuss the possibility of eating their mule. Rather, Thomas had started discussing it, provoking fierce resistance from Delphine and causing the priest to say, “I would rather starve than walk.”

“We can all see our ribs. It isn’t right. We could smoke this bastard and eat like kings for a week.”

“Did you see his ear twitch?” Delphine said. “He heard you.”

“I don’t care if he did.”

“You can’t really want to eat our friend? He’s been so faithful.”

“I have to eat something. I’m losing my whoring mind.”

“ NOT the mule,” she said, and that put an end to it.

The soldiers came then, just at first light. No fewer than six knights and another twenty men-at-arms rode up on them, the horses’ hooves shaking the road. A voice shouted, “Get that cart out of the way,” barely leaving them enough time to do so, startling Père Matthieu so that he reined the mule hard, taking one wheel off the road and causing them all to be buffeted by low branches. One of the knights called, “Hooo,” slowing his horse to a stop and obliging the rest to stop as well.

“I know that man,” the knight said, wheeling his horse around to get another look at Thomas. Thomas recognized him, too, though he could not retrieve his name or title; his surcoat bore a red chevron bisecting a silver griffin rampant on a field of blue.

“That man fought at Crécy, and bravely, too.”

Thomas squirmed with shame at his shoddy armor and his mule cart, and wished the troop would ride on.

“Am I right? You were beside the Comte de Givras when he fell.”

“I was.”

“Where is your coat of arms?”

“I lost it at dice.”

The man stared at him for a moment while he decided whether Thomas’s comment was a joke or an insult. He decided it was a joke.

“Ha!” he barked. “What are you doing in that cart, man?”

“We’re going to the Holy Land to fetch back the True Cross.”

“ Ha! This is a man of levity. He might lighten our journey with his japes if he were of a mind to come with us.”

“Never mind him,” said a youthful knight with golden locks. “Can’t you see he’s fallen? This man is a brigand.”

Thomas chafed, but Delphine put her hand on his before he could rest it on the hilt of his sword.

“What is a brigand in these days? Which of you does not charge tolls on travelers? And woe to those who do not pay their due, eh? Besot me, I’ll not have you insult a man who rode up that hill while you dandled dolls in Évry.”

The blond knight grimaced but did not respond.

“What say, man? We’ve got a spare horse. It’s yours if you’ll ride with us.”

Delphine’s hand gripped Thomas’s harder, but he pulled away from her.

“Where are you bound?”

“Avignon. His Holiness has summoned certain knights to him. There’s talk of a new crusade.”

“Jerusalem?”

“Aye. So it is whispered. He will not issue a bull until the English have declared they will join us, though it is said their king already gave his word.”

Thomas considered this.

“We are also bound for Avignon.”

“Then it is decided! Bring up the bay.”

An acneous squire in saffron yellow rode up now, holding the reins of a handsome bay stallion.

“Where may my companions ride?”

The knight leaned closer, looking the priest and the girl over.

“In the cart, of course, as befits their station. We will be in Avignon before a fortnight. This cart will still be clopping about at Christmastime. On your horse, man, and let them meet you there.”

“I…”

“I, I, I. This is not the time for speeches, sir. On your horse and piss standing up, or in your cart and squat for it.”

“Go your ways,” Thomas said coolly, “and I will go mine.”

Did that knight’s nose just wrinkle like a lion’s?

His surcoat was different now; behind the chevron, a lion rampant tore an old man in an arena.

Monkeys eating a wild-eyed horse.

The dead woman’s moley back in the pit.

“Who is the girl?” the knight said.

“Just an orphan.”

“Who is she really ?”

“Ask your mother.”

“Ha.”

Thomas’s hand drifted for the handle again, and again Delphine steered it away, saying under her breath, “It’s what they want. These are only shades, but your anger is feeding them. Get rid of it.”

“Ha,” Thomas said. Then he imagined the knight’s nose was the tail of a horse. He pictured it lifting and a pile of road apples falling out of the knight’s mouth. His defiant “Ha” turned into an actual laugh, and he let himself laugh freely.

The knight’s face reddened.

He showed his teeth for just an instant.

Thomas laughed harder.

The knight gathered himself enough to speak again, his voice trembling.

“Would that we had more time. I would like to discuss this further with you. But we are stayed for. Perhaps our paths will cross again, when we may linger in knightly fellowship.”

“Good luck on your crusade,” the priest offered.

“Go to Hell,” the squire in yellow said, unconsciously fingering one of his pimples.

They turned their horses and thundered down the road leading to Nemours, tramping autumn’s first golden leaves into the black mud beneath them.

They were not out of sight the length of a troubadour’s verse before the sun peeked between the trees.

Nemours would not let the three of them in. The gates were barred, and the very skinny man at the parapet told them they would be shot if they rode closer.

“Where may we ford the river, then? If we may not use your bridge?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where may we find food?”

“Wait till one of you starves,” he advised. “Then eat that one. That’s how we’re managing. We call it Gigot de Nemours . But no one comes in, and by God no one goes out.”

On the other side of the town, near the banks of the Loing, they came across an encampment of twenty or so men and women hauling in nets and working little patches of field. It was unusual to see such industry now. Something was cooking in a large stew pot, and it smelled like hot, greasy heaven. The priest pulled the cart up to the rough-hewn new-wood fence.

A woman with very red cheeks and a veiny nose motioned two men over. They had been working a two-man saw, but now they put that down and hefted wood axes, holding them casually over their shoulders, standing near the woman.

The trio walked uncommonly close to the cart—people just didn’t walk up to strangers like this anymore. The priest unconsciously leaned back from them.

“Are you healthy?” the priest asked.

“I don’t give a shit if they aren’t,” Thomas said, “We’re asking them for food if I have to eat it from a leper’s hands.”

“We’re healthy now,” the woman said.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what does that mean?”

“It means we’ve already had it here.”

“And it’s gone?”

“It’s never gone. I mean we’ve all had it. And lived. Nobody gets it twice. We call our town Saint Lazarus; the bastards behind the walls wouldn’t let my husband and me in. He died. I didn’t, and neither did my boys. The girls died, though. Four of them. Others came. Now Nemours is full of scarecrows and cannibals and we get survivors every week or so. We’ll let you move in if you’re willing to spend the first night in a sick-blanket. Have any of you had it?”