She sat up, sliding to the side of the bed,
looking down at the linen sheet all wrinkled and stained with the
evidence of Michel’s passion, and she warned herself once more not
to weep. She stood on somewhat unsteady legs and went to the table
to pour out water so she could wash.
“You’d better hurry,” he said. “Savarec is
eager to be gone before sunrise.”
“So are you, I think. You look forward to
leaving me.” She turned from the water basin, a towel in her hands.
“Shall I help you arm?”
“No, thanks.” His voice was cool, as if he
spoke to a complete stranger. “There’s a boy coming to help with
the chain mail. I suggest you dress before he gets here. No, wait a
minute.” He caught her around the waist, pulling her toward him. He
was wearing his tunic and breeches and the rough wool scratched at
her bare skin. “Who am I, Danise? Don’t stare at me like that.
Answer me.”
She flung back her head, shaking a river of
silver-gilt hair off her shoulders, meeting his glare with her own
brave look, refusing to be cowed by him.
“I said, who am I?”
“You are Michel of Elhein,” she said,
matching his cold tone. “You are the man I love and will love until
I die. If you do not know it now, I don’t know what else I can do
to show you that you are everything to me.” How terrible to say
such heartfelt, binding words in such a cold voice, with defiance
in her face and posture. She kept her back rigid against the
forward pressure of his hands.
She had her reward, small though it was. She
saw a glimmer of warmth in his eyes, a faint softening in his
features, before he pulled control over himself once more.
“We shall see,” he said. “Only time will
prove the truth of your claim, and today we have no more time.
That’s the boy knocking at the door. Put on your dress so I can let
him in.”
Their final leave-taking, in the courtyard
where Savarec’s men were gathering, was cool. Michel stood before
her, looking deep into her eyes as if he wanted to read her soul,
as if he had not had the chance to do so during the night. He did
not touch or kiss her.
“See you later,” was all he said before he
turned from her to mount his horse.
Danise’s farewell to her father was much
warmer. She put her arms around him and kissed him several times,
and her affection was fully returned.
“Come now,” Savarec said at last. “You’ll
make an old man weep. We won’t be gone long, Danise. A few weeks at
most and then those Saxons will be begging us to show mercy.”
Another kiss, a pat on her shoulder, and Savarec was off to see to
his men.
From Redmond Danise had a quick embrace and a
kiss on the cheek, to which she gladly responded.
“Take care of yourself,” she begged.
“Ah, no,” he told her, laughing. “The warrior
who tries to be cautious on the battlefield leaves himself
vulnerable to great dangers. I intend to fight like a madman.”
“Aye,” said Guntram, coming up to them in
time to hear Redmond’s words. “That’s the best way to come out of a
battle whole. Fare you well, Danise, until we meet again.” Guntram
clasped both of her hands.
“Fare you well, Guntram.”
Then they were all mounted and gone, riding
through the gate, leaving Danise alone.
Michel knew his skill with Frankish weapons
was less than proficient in spite of his constant effort and
practice, but he had more than a few things to prove to himself and
to others. Never did he want Danise to have cause to say or to
think that he was a lesser man in battle than Hugo had been.
Damn Hugo! And damn his own stupidity, for
flying off the handle when Danise had revealed her reincarnation
theory. She had sounded like some New Age guru and Michel, whose
interests ran to more practical and scientific concerns, had
reacted like the besotted lunatic he was, jealous of his wife’s
first love.
He would not have much longer to think about
his monumental idiocy. He might not have time to think about
anything at all, ever. He, Savarec, Redmond, and Guntram stood
together with a few others of Savarec’s men on a little rise
overlooking a Saxon village. Guntram had just returned from
reconnaissance.
“They are all there,” Guntram reported. “All
the leaders of the uprising. I saw Autichar, too.”
“He’s here? Good.” Savarec grinned. “Let’s
try to take him prisoner. We’ll put him in heavy chains, shackle
his wrists and ankles, and send him to Charles for a present.”
“Better to kill him and be done with the
trouble he causes wherever he goes,” advised Guntram.
The men paused in their discussion while
Redmond listened to a report from one of his scouts.
“Our men are in place,” Redmond said. “The
village is surrounded and we’ve taken care of the sentries. My man
says the Saxons are completely unaware of our presence. I trust
they will be surprised to see us.”
“Michel,” said Savarec, “you are to go with
Redmond and fight with his men.”
Throughout this conversation Michel had been
wondering if his companions were really as calm as they appeared to
be, or if they were just good actors. Personally, he was terrified
by what lay ahead, but he wasn’t going to show it.
“I still think we should charge on
horseback,” he said. “That would really surprise the hell out of
them.”
“The object is to creep up on them in
silence,” Redmond admonished. “Horses make noise.”
“I’ve heard the Saracens in Spain and the
Holy Land charge into battle on horseback,” Savarec said. “It must
be a splendid sight to see. Perhaps one day Charles will take a
lesson from the Saracens and have his own armies trained to fight
that way instead of dismounting first.”
“He’ll do it in just a few years,” Michel
said, adding with dark humor, “I hope we all live long enough to
see it happen.”
“We must believe that we will.” Redmond
clapped Michel on the back. “Come along, my friend, it’s time to
move into position. Guntram, good luck to you. God willing, we’ll
meet again at this same place when the battle is over.”
The men all shook hands before they moved
into battle positions, leaving Savarec on the higher ground where
he could see what was happening and if necessary send one of the
men who remained with him onto the field with new orders.
The Saxons were indeed surprised by the swift
and unexpected attack, but they were not in disarray for long.
Within moments they had their swords and battle-axes in hand and
were cheerfully hacking away at their Frankish opponents.
Michel had never been in battle before, and
in any case the wars of his time were far different in dimension
and weaponry from eighth century warfare. As for the men involved
in ground fighting, he thought the screams, the stench, the blood
and the fear must be the same in any battle. Nor did the need to
kill an enemy before being killed oneself change from century to
century. But how terrible it was to cut down one man and, before
the light had gone out of his eyes, to be pressed to move on to
serve another man in the same cruel way. Through a growing sickness
of spirit Michel did the best he could, blotting out such unnerving
thoughts so he could concentrate on physical action.
Because he was neither as strong nor as
well-trained as his Frankish companions, it was inevitable that
soon his sword arm would begin to tire. Ignoring the ache in his
arm and shoulder, Michel slogged on, doggedly doing what must be
done. His weakness was quickly perceived by a tall Saxon with
golden hair and beard, who bore down on him with battle-ax raised
for a death stroke. Clearly this man did not suffer from the same
qualms about taking life that afflicted Michel. Michel’s arm felt
like lead, but he lifted it slowly in response to the Saxon’s
approach. If he was going to die here in the bloody mud of a Saxon
village, then he would go down fighting. No one would be able to
call him a coward.
The grinning Saxon roared out a long string
of unintelligible words then stopped short, an amazed look on his
face as Redmond leapt between Michel and the Saxon. An instant
later Redmond’s sword found its mark. But the Saxon still had a bit
of life left in him.
He brought his battle-ax down onto Redmond’s
shoulder, slicing through chain mail and muscle and bone. Then the
Saxon toppled forward on his face to lie in the mud.
Michel caught Redmond as he fell. Sinking to
his knees Michel eased Redmond downward, cradling him with his head
upon Michel’s chest. At some level of his mind Michel perceived
that the sounds of battle were moving away from where they were,
leaving the two friends in an area of relative quiet dominated by
the awful noise of Redmond’s struggling breaths. Michel wasn’t
thinking about the battle anymore.
“Damn it, Redmond! What do you mean, saving
my life like that? Now look what you’ve done!” Michel yelled in
mingled grief and horror as he realized the full extent of the
damage inflicted by the Saxon’s final stroke.
“My friend.” Redmond’s eyes were open and he
was fully conscious, but there could be no question that he would
die in a matter of moments. Blood gushed from his wound, soaking
Michel’s arm and chest. “Danise – Danise loves you.”
“I know. I love her, too. I will take care of
her. Oh, God, Redmond, this shouldn’t have happened! Not to you.
Hang on, I’ll try to find the surgeon.” But before the words were
out of Michel’s mouth Redmond had gone to a place where wounds and
pain and bloodshed did not exist. Gently Michel laid his friend
down on the ground and closed his eyes. “Stay there, Redmond. Wait
for me. I’ll come back for you. I won’t leave you in this hellhole.
I’ll take you out of here. I promise.”
Michel rose, sword in aching hand once more.
The fighting had moved off to one side of the village, but he could
see that the combatants were edging slowly toward the spot where
Savarec still stood directing the battle with a few of his men
around him. The Saxons were trying to push the Franks backward so
they could get to Savarec. It looked as if they might succeed.
“Tell him about Redmond.” Michel was finding
his thought processes oddly slow and disjointed, but he
instinctively knew what he had to do next. Stumbling and wavering
on his feet, he started toward Savarec. “Needs to know – needs
reinforcements there. Where’s Guntram? Help Savarec. Must help.”
The slight rise in the land seemed like a mountain to him, but he
trudged onward until he stood within a few paces of his
father-in-law.
“Savarec,” he said, noting with some
astonishment that his voice was hoarse, as if he had been shouting
all day long. “I have – have a report to make.”
Savarec turned toward him, recognizing him
and just beginning to smile in greeting. Savarec’s lips opened to
say something, but no sound came out. Instead, there was a
whistling noise unlike anything Michel had ever heard. Before his
disbelieving eyes the source of the noise, a long spear, flew
through the air and imbedded itself so deep in Savarec’s back that
he was dead on the instant. Immediately a shout went up from the
men surrounding Savarec, a rising howl of grief and outrage.
“A cowardly stroke!”
“Who? Who did this?”
“Autichar! There – see – it’s Autichar!” That
last cry came from Michel, who raised his sword to point toward the
unmistakable figure wearing a fancifully decorated helmet and a
dark red cloak.
“Damn you – traitor, kidnapper, villain!
Damn you
!” New strength flowed into Michel’s aching, weary
body. With the rush of adrenaline his confused mind cleared. Now he
had one purpose and one purpose only, and he knew the men would
follow him. Every last one of them was as furious as he was at the
manner of Savarec’s death.
“For Savarec!” Michel shouted at the top of
his lungs. “For Redmond! Stop Autichar!” At the head of Savarec’s
men he charged down the little hill and into the fray, leading them
into the midst of the Saxon defenders. He fought like one gone
berserk, not caring what happened to him, intent only on avenging
his fallen friends and capturing Autichar, whose fault it all was.
Enraged by the cowardly killing of their commander, the Franks
followed Michel’s lead as he had known they would. They fell upon
the Saxons in a frenzy, forcing them back toward the edge of the
surrounding forest… backward … and still back … and back
again….
“It’s over,” Guntram said, taking the sword
out of Michel’s numb hand. “You can rest now. You are a hero,
Michel. Men will tell of your deeds on this day for years to
come.”
“No.” There was moisture on Michel’s face. He
thought at first it was blood, until he realized he was crying, and
had been crying for a long time. “Redmond was the hero, not me.
Redmond saved my life.”
“Every man here knows you saved the day when
we were beginning to falter,” Guntram told him.
“Any other man would have… all
furious…Savarec’s death.” Once again he could not seem to put his
thoughts together into a coherent sentence.
“You’d best let the barber-surgeon wash that
wound out with wine and bind it up. You don’t want to lose so good
a sword arm to infection.” Guntram touched his arm and Michel
looked down to see blood welling out of a cut just below his
elbow.
“Didn’t notice before.” His tongue was thick,
his mouth dry. He felt as if he was going to vomit. “Thought it was
someone else’s blood.
“Redmond. Savarec.” Michel made himself look
around at what remained of the burned-out Saxon houses. “Have to…to
take them back.” Remembering their deaths, remembering all the
deaths that had occurred on that day, friend and foe alike,he bent
over, emptying his stomach onto the ground.
“It’s all right.” Guntram’s hand rested on
his shoulder for a moment. “It happens when a man is overtired. Get
to the surgeon, Michel. Ask him to give you some of his wine to
rinse your mouth.”