Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

But after about a week, I simply could not go farther. You and Brandeis were still holding up, but I pleaded for rest. We’d traveled so many miles that surely we would be safe for a day. You agreed. Not because it was safe, but because it was time to make a plan. I didn’t care why. I would take the break for whatever reason.

We’d been riding in circles to confuse our followers and, as an unintentional result, we had not traveled that far from where we’d started. We found ourselves close to Nürnberg, which was an advantage because even if the trackers had managed to stay behind us, the city itself was large enough to hide us for a few extra hours.

We found an inn and the two of you sat around a table discussing the next move. Maybe we’d go north, to Hamburg, or maybe it would be safer to go east, into Bohemia or Carinthia. There was even talk about heading to Italy. You knew a few rudimentary phrases from the Italian archers, and I could act as translator for the rest. After a year or two, we could return to Germany. It was unlikely that our pursuers would guess this destination and even if they did, Kuonrat would have to devote significant long-term resources to continue the hunt in another country.

Our stay in Nürnberg was supposed to last only a day, but my body didn’t cooperate. For three days, I was in too much pain to continue. My heart raced constantly and I was short of breath. I craved food, but could not keep it down. I longed for sleep, but my mind outraced the closing of my eyes. My pregnancy was rebelling and finally, grudgingly, I accepted that you were correct: I was too weak to continue. It was decided that I’d be placed in the care of the Church. You’d hand me over with a fistful of coins, enough to pay for my care through the pregnancy, and when you were confident that you’d escaped, you’d come back for me. The plan was set; you’d allow me only one more night of sleep before it was put into action. I asked where you would go after leaving me, but you would not tell me even this. “It’s better not to have a destination…” I cried myself to sleep that night, with you stroking my hair and assuring me that everything would be all right.

Fate, however, had a different view. In the middle of the night there came a series of heavy thuds against our door, shaking the pile of furniture that you’d pushed up against it, and it was instantly clear that we’d been discovered. The only way out was through the window, even though we were on the second story, some fifteen feet up.

I struggled to lift myself out of bed but was unable, and you had to pull me out by the arms. While I recovered my breath, Brandeis gathered the bags; you craned your neck around the window frame to check whether anyone was outside, and threw up your hand in warning to stay back. “Crossbow,” you commanded.

Brandeis grabbed a crossbow and inserted an arrow into the channel. As soon as the string was set, he put the weapon into your hands and you pushed the front end through the window. There was the whiz of the arrow through the air and a thud as it hit something solid. You gave another hand signal indicating the way was now clear and went out the window first. It wasn’t that you were lacking manners, but someone had to catch me on the way down. Behind us, I heard the door splintering under an ax.

Despite the immediate threat of the attack, I froze at the window. The drop was too much, too risky for the baby. Brandeis stood between me and the door, yelling at me to jump. But I remained immobilized, looking down at your open arms, until I heard Brandeis’ voice behind me-“Marianne, I’m sorry”-as he pushed me through the open window.

I went out with my arms wrapped around my belly and you took the full force of my fall by rolling backwards into the snow as you caught me. I heard shouting from above; a few moments later, Brandeis came tumbling out the window.

There was something strange about the way he fell, but most of my attention was focused on the dead tracker across the street. His face was pushed into a puddle of dirty snow, his neck twisted at an awkward angle because of the arrow sticking through it. Then I realized that the snow was not dirty, but red from the little geysers of blood still pulsing from his neck.

You jerked me in the direction of the horses and the next thing I knew, we were hurtling through the streets of Nürnberg. You and Brandeis were on either side of me, directing my horse and determining my path. Between my fatigue and the shock of the attack, I was pretty much useless.

I watched my horse snort out its steamy breath as it ran, all the while thinking about the man in the street who had no more breath. It was the way that he died that I found so unnerving, the way you’d killed him without a thought, without uncertainty. I’d watched your face as you sent that arrow flying, and it didn’t even cross my mind that the target might be a person. Your mouth had been clenched, your eyes had narrowed, and your finger did not hesitate. You took a quick breath before pulling the trigger but it was not to steady your soul, only your hands. It had all happened in-what? A second? Less? Could this really be all the time it took to kill a man?

We were just outside the city limits when I saw Brandeis’ steed rear. The horse didn’t exactly throw him off; rather, Brandeis just slumped to the side. The animal gave out a confused whinny and twisted around, as if it had lost its bearings without its rider. There was blood everywhere, in the snow, on the horse’s flank, all down Brandeis’ leg. The cloth of his pants was ripped open and there was a huge gash in the upper part of his thigh where the skin was peeled back like a demon’s smile, spitting mouthfuls of blood. His face was pale, his lips quivering. “One of them threw an ax. It caught me on the way out of the window. I’m sorry.”

I pressed my hand to his forehead and it was so cold, so clammy. I didn’t know how he’d managed to stay on the horse as long as he had. You washed out the wound with a handful of snow, and a pink puddle collected around the steaming wound. You asked for fabric, so I pulled out the first thing I could find in my saddlebag. My nun’s habit. I should have found something different but I was in shock, I think, and it was on top. You shredded it into a makeshift binding and tied it above the wound.

You sent Brandeis’ horse in the opposite direction with a slap, hoping it might act as a decoy, and scooped Brandeis out of the snow. You reminded me that the trackers were still behind us, but now they were bound to be angry, and you pulled Brandeis up onto your horse and steadied him against your back. You looped his arms around you and tied his hands together in front of your waist. “We’re not far from Engelthal. Even mercenaries will respect a house of God.”

My stomach knotted because, of all the places in the entire world, Engelthal was the very last I wanted to visit. But I understood how dire the situation was and I swallowed any protest I might have had. Brandeis needed immediate attention, so we fled in the direction of the monastery.

He hung off your back like an overstuffed scarecrow being delivered to the field. Your horse struggled under the strain and we couldn’t travel quickly, but you pushed as hard as you could. We abandoned back paths and took the most direct route, because the time for stealth was past. We couldn’t stop to check Brandeis’ wounds and I had to fight my own racing heart. As we rode, I asked the question of you that I could no longer contain. “How could you shoot that man? Through his throat?”

“I was aiming for his chest.” It was so detached, the way you said it, and it was clear by your tone that the discussion was ended.

When I started to recognize the landscape, I pointed out the best paths. At the gates of Engelthal, I dismounted awkwardly and pounded on the door. It made more sense for me to make our plea and, besides, it would have been too time-consuming to unstrap Brandeis from your body.