Much Fall of Blood: Chapter Seven

    David was saddle-sore, tired and a long way from Jerusalem. Too far for him to run in one night. And that dark-haired son of Baal that had hired him still wanted work from him!

    “You want me to do what?”

    Kari cuffed him. “Every night. It gets done, see. If I have to chase you to it again, I’ll beat you. Do you know anything about the care of horses? You ride like a bag of corn. You barely know which end bites and which end makes manure.”

    David decided right then that running off, with or without something for his trouble, could barely wait until everyone was asleep. Only they didn’t seem tired.

    It was a cold and grey dawn when Kari shook him awake. “Get up, lazy boy. There is work to do.” Kari seemed cheerful to be up before the sun. David was not. He must have fallen asleep, and he was so stiff he could hardly move.

    Kari looked at him trying to stand up and began to laugh. “You’re not really a horse boy, are you?”

    David stared poisonously at him. “No, Lord.”

    “Then why did that big fool of a stable-master tell me you were?”

    David did not point out that his father was no stable-master, although right now he would agree that he had been a fool to have done this to his youngest son. “Can I go? I will even give you the money back.” He never thought he’d say that. But it would be worth it.

    Kari laughed. “No.”

    “What…?” David gaped.

    “Ha!” Kari shook his head. “And make me have to tell Erik that I messed up? Are you crazier than me? No, you are going to become a great horse boy. Now get moving. The more you move, the less stiff you will be.”

    The only direction David wanted to move in was straight down back into sleep. But with Kari standing there he could hardly do anything except to stagger towards his chores.

    A few minutes later the Frank, Erik, came in to the stable, still in a quilted jacket and carrying a thin-bladed sword. “No training this morning, Kari?” he asked, setting aside the blade and taking off the jacket.

    Kari poured oats into a nosebag. “No. New horse boy to train instead.”

    Erik laughed. “I hope he makes your life a bloody misery.”

    “Then he’ll be a short-lived horse boy.”

    Other Frankish knights began arriving. They had all plainly been hard at some form of exercise, and were sweating freely despite the cool of the morning. David soon realized that he was there merely to care for the spare remounts. The knights had each come to see to their own horses. What kind of Frankish lords were these?

    Later he asked Kari. He got a cuff around the ear for his question — but also some answers. “Firstly, I am not a Frank. I am from Vinland. And secondly, these are the Knights of the Holy Trinity. The Knights are a militant order, brat. They may be Frankish lords, but right now they are monks in armor. They also believe a knight must have a close bond with his horse. It is his first and greatest weapon in battle.”

    David had heard of the knights. Who had not? It just hadn’t occurred to him that these men with the three crosses on their surcoats were part of that order. They fought up in wild northern parts, which in his limited knowledge of the world, must be at least three days ride from Jerusalem.

    Vinland… he wasn’t too sure where that was. A wild land somewhere to the west, full of monsters and barbarians. He took a long look at Kari. Well, that fitted.

    “Why are they here?” he asked. “Are the ogres and trolls of the north coming to attack our master the Ilkhan?”

    Kari shrugged. “I am just Erik’s blood-retainer, now. Or so he has told me. It is some affair of state, brat. Of no interest to you or me.”

    David had heard of affairs of state. Just quite what they were he was less sure. But he suspected high-paid whores. He found the idea very interesting indeed. The Mongol escort’s slaves and servants began trickling into to the stable-area to see to the horses. One had a steaming piece of new bread. David was suddenly aware of pressing need for food. He’d fallen asleep before anyone had eaten the night before. “Do we get to eat?”

    Kari looked at him critically. “When you’ve finished with the horses, yes.”

    “Chartering vessels for this lot is going to be less easy than it was in Venice,” said Manfred thoughtfully. “I don’t have Francesca to smile at Petro Dorma, and the Venetians are going to look askance at fifty armed Mongols and their horses.”

    Eberhart shook his head. “Only nine will be going on with us. This is something of an honor guard. But yes,” he said, his old eyes twinkling, “even I miss Francesca. Although it is her wit and her knowledge of statecraft that I miss.”

    Manfred grinned. “Old man, I saw you look at her statecraft, if that is what she kept on her chest. And I’ll bet we miss her more than she misses us. She’ll be breast deep in intrigue already, mark my words.”

    “Breast deep…”

    “She never got neck deep. Always liked to be able to see above the common herd of players. I’d like her here to watch this emissary.” Manfred began to chuckle. “Mind you, just think what she will drag Eneko Lopez and his friends into.”

    “The priest and the courtesan. An unusual pairing,” said Eberhart, smiling.

    “That depends on the priest.” said Erik. “But those two are well matched, I would say. She’ll add some worldly wisdom to his saintliness and he will add some his piety to her… uh… breasts.”

    Eberhart nodded. “It’s as well that those two are numbered among the Empire’s friends.”

    Manfred rubbed his jaw. “I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly. Eneko Lopez is a friend of God. As long as the Empire is on God’s side — at least in his eyes — he will stand by us through thick and thin. But only God will save us if we become like Aquitaine. I’ve heard him on the subject. As for Francesca… she is a wonderful woman. A very, very clever woman. I wonder if I ever saw what really motivated her. It wasn’t just money. She could have become very rich, at least in the short term, by betraying the Empire. She knew who would pay — I know, because she pointed enough of them out to my Uncle. She sees, or at least saw, that her interests aligned to the Empire — when it might have been of short term benefit to see profit elsewhere. Now…” he shrugged. “I know she will be in contact with my uncle’s agent in Alexandria.”

    “You’re very dispassionate about it,” said Eberhart, impressed despite himself. His brief had been to teach Manfred something of diplomacy and statecraft on this journey to the Holy Land. At first he’d thought it hopeless…

    Manfred shrugged again. “She said princes need to be.”

    Erik said nothing, but he knew Manfred well enough to know that his charge was still a little hurt by Francesca’s departure. Manfred was deeper than he let people guess. And his armor was more complex too. Perhaps Francesca and Manfred had not been soul-mates, as he and Svan had been, and God knew how it still burned him even now to think of her, but Manfred had stuck almost faithfully to Francesca for longer than Erik would have thought possible. In a way he was comforted that Manfred was a little wounded. Dispassionate might be what princes had to be, but it was not what a man must be. And a prince needed to be a man, first, or he might become a monster like Jagiellon. Maybe errors in love were a small price to pay to avoid that.

    But all he said was: “Time to ride before it gets too hot again.”

    “To think I longed for warmth in Ireland,” said Eberhart, looking out at the cloudless sky.

    “Too much of anything is a bad idea.” Manfred speared another piece of meat from the wooden platter on the table.

    “Tell your stomach that also applies to breakfast,” said Erik. “The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll get there.”

    The sea was near to mirror flat when they came in sight of Ascalon, gleaming as if some knight’s poor squire had just polished it, with reddish tints from the setting sun. Erik saw how the new horse boy — who had possibly the worst seat of any rider Erik had ever seen, bar Benito — gaped at it, his mouth wide open. For once, the scrawny foxy-eyed boy didn’t look like a thief looking for a target. He just looked stunned and very young.

    “What is it?” asked the horse boy.

    “The Mediterranean. They call it a sea,” said Kari, sneering, “but it’s hardly worth it.”

    “But… what is it?”

    “Salty water. The tear of the giantess Ran.”

    “Can’t be….” The boy swallowed. “It’s even bigger than Jerusalem.”

    “And has more fish too. Some big enough to eat a man whole.”

    The foxy expression returned to the boy’s eyes. “I’m not some stupid Frank.”

    Kari grinned. “You just thought you were a horse boy. Really, we’re keeping you for bait.”

    “Kari,” said Erik.

    “Well, he’s not much good as a horse boy,” said Kari with a shrug.

    “And too scrawny for good bait,” said Erik. “Now, someone who hasn’t come to drill for the last few days is more likely to have a bit of fat on him for the sharks.”

    David decided that they were all crazy. He ignored them. But he wanted to get to that “sea.” It called to him. He wanted to touch it. Tears… ha. There was not that much salt in the whole world. But to see it and touch it! The stories he would tell his older brothers…

    The world was a bigger place than he’d realized. Bigger even than Jerusalem, although he would never admit that in public. Ascalon itself was barely worth calling a town, though, he thought, with a lofty sniff. They rode on into the gathering dusk, towards the port. The air smelled very strange. He recognized the garbage and horse-dung scent of Jerusalem. But it was overlaid with fish, tar, and a smell that he’d never come across before.

    It smelled salty.

    “The bad news is that going on to the Black Sea, let alone chartering a vessel to take Borshar there is simply a non-starter,” said Eberhart. “The Mongols are not welcome in Byzantium — with good reason, to be fair — and word is out that the Venetian traders on the Golden Horn are virtually under siege again. Alexius is not going to allow Venetian vessels to pass through the Bosphorus to the Black Sea. He may let the eastern trade convoy that has gone to Trebizond back out because to try and trap them again would mean war, but it’s going to take a fleet bombarding his palace to get the Byzantines to let Venetian vessels sail up the Bosphorus.”

    “Get hold of the fleet in Trebizond and get them to transport these Mongol gentlemen to the lands of the Golden Horde first,” said Erik. “The Mongols have this very admirable system of pony-messengers.”

    “It won’t work.” Eberhart shook his head. “I suggested that. It appears the eastern convoy did not make a long stop in Trebizond. Normally they stay for months. But this time… well, Venice may know something we don’t. The vessels unloaded, took on what cargo was ready, and put to sea. Ahmbien had them watched, and used that system of riders to keep him informed.”

    “Then,” said Manfred, standing up. “I think we need to sail for Venice. I suspect Alexius’s capital is about to feel the weight of Venetian bombards. The question is what do we do with this Borshar Tarkhan?”

    “I suppose we need to ask him.”

    They found the Ilkhan delegation on the balcony. Borshar Tarkhan rose and bowed. “Greetings. I gather your endeavors have not met with much success,” he said in perfect Frankish.

    He was expecting that, thought Erik. Their spies must make Francesca envious. “Yes. We plan to go to Venice itself…”

    The Tarkhan interrupted. “I am ordered to accompany you if that is the case.”

    Erik wondered why Eberhart looked as if he had just swallowed something really nasty. As they walked back to their quarters in the Inn Erik decided he’d better get on with learning some Mongol. It made him uncomfortable not to know what these people were saying among themselves. And he was, first and foremost, Manfred’s bodyguard. Anything that made him uncomfortable was a warning sign.