The Reckoning

  De Valmy smiled. “Have you not wondered, Hugh, why there was no pursuit? Why no efforts have been made to track Bran and Guy down? Oh, I daresay Charles disapproved of the killing. But no king willingly loses a good battle commander, and Guy de Montfort is one of the best. I’d wager a thousand livres—if I had it—that Charles is going to wait for the furor to die down, for men to forget, and then, lo and behold, Guy will turn up in his service again.”

  Hugh was shocked by de Valmy’s cynicism. “But Guy and Bran have been outlawed, their lands forfeit!”

  De Valmy shrugged. “Yes, but you did not see Charles laying siege to Sovana Castle, did you? No, if Charles does not in time restore Guy to favor, it’ll be only because he could find no way to appease Edward, not because of his moral outrage over the murder.”

  “What of Bran? Does he know you’re going?”

  De Valmy nodded again. “He did not even blink,” he said, then swung up into the saddle. “You’re a good lad, Hugh, and I’m in need of a squire. Come with me.”

  “I thank you, Sir Roger. But I cannot.”

  De Valmy did not look surprised. “No, I suppose not. But I did want you to have a choice, lad,” he said, and rode out of the stable.

  His leaving sent Hugh’s spirits plummeting. What would happen now? What were they going to do? He could not bring himself to face Bran, not yet, and he followed de Valmy into the blinding, white sunlight.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. He spent much of it sitting on a secluded, rocky beach just east of the village. Lying back upon the hot sand, he stared out to sea, watched gulls circle and squabble overhead, flung shells into the surf, and sought to convince himself that a happy ending was still within Bran’s grasp. He had in fact devised a plan, but he’d so far lacked the courage to broach the subject with Bran, for never had Bran been so unapproachable as in the weeks after Viterbo. As always, he kept his grieving to himself, and thus made it impossible for others to offer any sort of comfort. Hugh could only look upon his silent sorrowing, his daily drinking, and hope for a miracle.

  He dozed for a time, awoke with a start, with the guilty realization that this was Whitsunday and he’d not yet attended Mass. But what came to him next was worse. He’d been gone nigh on all day. What if Bran thought he’d ridden off with Sir Roger? Jumping to his feet, he started to run.

  Their room was the best in the inn, but that wasn’t saying much. The chamber was cramped and cluttered and stifling, for Bran had not bothered to unshutter the lone window. A reeking tallow candle was burning down toward the wick, a tray of untouched food had been dumped by the door, and several empty wine flagons lay scattered amidst the floor rushes. Bran was sprawled, fully dressed, upon the bed. Gaunt and unshaven, he looked like a stranger to Hugh, looked unnervingly like his brother Guy. The narrowed eyes were bloodshot, unfriendly. “So,” he said, “you’re still here, are you?”

  He sounded like a stranger, too; there was a harsh, mocking edge to his voice that Hugh had never heard before. “Of course I am here, my lord.”

  “Why?”

  Hugh blinked. “My lord?”

  “A simple enough question, I should think. I asked why you did not go with Roger.”

  Hugh had been poised to begin removing some of the litter. Instead, he straightened up, eying Bran warily. Drink had always acted as a buffer for Bran, isolating him behind a moat of ale and wine, not as fuel for an erratic temper, as Hugh had once feared. He did not know how to handle this sudden wine-soaked sarcasm. After glancing down at one of the empty flagons, he said, “I would not leave you, my lord.”

  Bran gave a hoarse, rasping laugh. “Faithful to the grave, eh, Hugh? But did it ever occur to you that I do not want it, that steadfast, suffocating loyalty of yours? Christ, do not look at me like that! The truth is that I needed a squire, instead got a wet-nurse, and am heartily sick of it.”

  Hugh didn’t speak; he couldn’t. His silence seemed to spur Bran on. Sitting up, he said impatiently, “Do you not understand what I am saying? Go home to England, Hugh, where you belong.” And when the boy just stood there, staring at him, he reached for a leather pouch, flung it at Hugh. “For services rendered, a debt paid in full. Now what are you waiting for? I no longer want you with me, am bone-weary of your infernal hovering. How much more plainly can I speak than that?”

  Hugh caught the pouch, but it was an unthinking act. He looked at Bran, then kicked aside the flagon at his feet, turned, and bolted from the chamber. He went down the stairs so fast that only the reflexes of youth kept him from taking a headlong fall, and he did trip over the inn’s aged dog, sound asleep in the doorway. The animal awoke with a snarl, its yellowed fangs snapping at Hugh’s outstretched fingers, grazing his thumb. Hugh never felt the bite, did not notice the blood on his sleeve until hours later.

  He would have no recollection of saddling his horse. He took the road toward Grosseto, but that was not a conscious choice, either. Grosseto was only fifteen miles away, but Hugh did not reach it until dusk, for he’d allowed his horse to set its own pace. He was half-way there before he remembered his belongings, back in Bran’s chamber. But nothing on earth could have induced him to return to Talamone.

  The first inn he tried was full, but the inn-keeper offered to let him sleep on the floor of the common room for a reduced rate. There were other inns in Grosseto, but Hugh didn’t bother to check them out. The inn-keeper’s wife made supper for the guests, but Hugh had no appetite. He’d left his bedroll at Talamone, bought a blanket from the inn-keeper, and passed the longest night of his life, listening to the snores of nearby sleepers, the yowling of stray cats, occasional bursts of barking, the wind rattling loose shutters, the creaking on the stairs as men stumbled down to use the outdoor privy.

  He awoke soon after dawn, so tired he ached. During those endless hours in the dark, he’d sought to summon up anger, resentment, outrage. But it was still too soon. All he felt was a stunned sense of betrayal.

  The smell of baking bread reminded him now that he’d not eaten for fully a day. As he sat up, stiff from a night on the floor, his brain, too, seemed to be stirring at last. It was a foolish move, going to Grosseto. He ought to have headed south, sought to overtake Sir Roger. Did he want to stay in Italy, though? Bran’s taunting words came back at him, “home to England.” Home. But what did England hold for him? His father’s grave and lands no longer his.

  It occurred to him suddenly that even if he wanted to, he might not have the money to return to England. He’d forgotten about Bran’s pouch, paying for his lodgings out of his own meagre funds. As he unfastened it now from his belt, he frowned at the unexpected weight. For a moment he balanced it in the palm of his hand, and even before he pulled the drawstring, he could feel the hairs beginning to rise along the back of his neck. The pouch was crammed with coins, too many to count, more money than he’d ever seen.

  As Hugh dismounted, the Talamone inn-keeper burst through the doorway, waving his arms, gesturing back toward the inn. His speech was so rapid that Hugh could understand little of what he said. But the man’s agitation only confirmed the worst of Hugh’s fears. Handing over his reins, he hastened inside, taking the stairs three at a time.

  The room was in darkness. Striding to the window, he jerked open the shutters. One glance at the man on the bed and he whirled toward the door, shouting for blankets and hot wine. Snatching up his forgotten bedroll, he covered Bran with blankets, then added Bran’s mantle. But Bran’s chills showed no signs of abating. He was shivering so violently that the bed itself was shaking, and when the inn-keeper brought up the hot wine, his teeth were chattering too much for him to manage more than a swallow or two.

  There was no doctor in Talamone. But Hugh did not need a doctor to diagnose Bran’s ailment. Some called it ague, others tertian or quartan fever. Hugh was familiar with the symptoms; Brother Mark had enjoyed tutoring his young infirmary helpers. But he’d never before seen anyone stricken with the ague, as it was much more prevalent in the Engl
ish Fenlands than in the Evesham vale. He understood now why tertian fever stirred such superstitious fears in men, for Bran did indeed seem possessed, so intense were the tremors convulsing his body.

  The chills continued for almost an hour before giving way to fever. As Bran struggled weakly to escape the coverlets, Hugh hastily bent over the bed, jerking the blankets off. “Here, my lord,” he said, “try to drink this.”

  Bran swallowed with difficulty, then lay still, watching the boy as he began to soak cold compresses. “You were a fool to come back, Hugh,” he said huskily.

  “You’re a fine one to talk about foolishness!” Hugh snapped, then almost dropped the water laver, so astounded was he by his own words. But the corner of Bran’s mouth was twitching. Bringing the compresses to the bed, he put one of the wet cloths upon Bran’s forehead. “When did you have the first attack, my lord?”

  “On Saturday, whilst you and Roger were in Grosseto.”

  “It is a tertian fever then, for the quartan fever recurs every fourth day. If we can only find some cinquefoil leaves—”

  Bran reached out, caught Hugh’s wrist. The boy could not suppress a gasp, so hot was Bran’s skin. How could the body be freezing one moment, on fire the next? “Tertian fever, quartan fever—does it matter? What does is that it is contagious, Hugh! Do you not realize the risk?”

  “We do not know that for certes, my lord. Anyway, I’ve had it already.”

  “Did you now? Doubtless due to all that time you spent in the great swamps of Evesham. Hugh, this is no game!”

  “I know that! I do understand the risk, and I accept it. Now you can insult and mock me again, but it will avail you naught, for I’ll not leave you. My lord, I have to say this straight out. What you did was brave, but it was crazy, too.” Hugh paused for breath, amazed by his own daring. “I’ve had my say. Get angry if you will. But when your anger’s done, I’ll still be here.”

  He waited tensely, soon saw that the emotion Bran was fighting was not anger. Perching on the edge of the bed, he carefully checked Bran’s compresses, while mentally polishing the plea he was about to make. “My lord, I know this is not the best time, but we need to talk. This is what I think we must do. As soon as your fever breaks, we must go to Grosseto, find a doctor. Then, once you have recovered, we must go to Siena, must—”

  The corner of Bran’s mouth twitched again. “Missing Serafina, are you, lad?”

  Hugh refused to be distracted. “My lord, I am serious! I ask your pardon for speaking bluntly again, but I know no other way to say this. Since the…since Viterbo, I have been remembering what I learned at the abbey school about the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas à Becket.”

  He heard Bran’s indrawn breath, and hurried on, before he lost his nerve. “I expect you know the story, my lord, how four of King Henry’s knights decided to kill the Archbishop after hearing the King cry in a fit of rage, ‘Will none rid me of this turbulent priest?’ But did you know that after the deed was done and the Archbishop lay dead before the Cathedral altar, one of the knights, a man named de Tracy, set out at once for Rome, where he sought absolution from the Pope?”

  Bran had not interrupted, and Hugh took heart from that. “Do you not see, my lord? Why can you not do the same? Since there is no new pope yet, I propose that we go to the Bishop of Siena, that you confess your sins, tell him of your remorse, and ask him to impose a penance upon you. Then you do as he directs, whether it be a crusade, a pilgrimage, whatever.”

  Hugh almost blurted out his belief that the Bishop would be sure to absolve Bran, for his contrition was beyond doubting and the greatest guilt lay with Guy, but he stopped just in time, knowing that Bran blamed no one but himself. “You must agree, my lord,” he pleaded, “for it is your only chance. Once you satisfy the Bishop’s penance, you’ll be at peace again!”

  Bran knew better. But he could not bring himself to deny the boy this last shred of hope, for Hugh’s eyes were shining with certainty, with the affecting innocence of unquestioning faith. “I agree,” he said wearily. “We shall go to Siena, seek out the Bishop. But not later; now, as soon as I am able to ride…”

  Hugh started to object, thought better of it. “As you wish, my lord,” he agreed, rising to change the compress. Bran’s forehead was searing to the touch, and he could tell Bran was in sudden pain by the way he averted his eyes from the light, tangled his fist in the sheets. Remembering that severe, blinding headaches were a symptom of the ague, Hugh hastened to close the shutters, then went to find the inn-keeper, seeking chamomile and rue, herbs said to ease head pains.

  For the next four hours, Bran’s fever burned higher and higher, then broke as suddenly as it had begun. Bran was soon drenched in sweat, almost at once fell into an exhausted sleep. Hugh pulled a chair up to keep a bedside vigil and to plot strategy.

  They’d have to pass through Grosseto on the way to Siena. Once they were there, mayhap he could coax Bran into remaining till he was fully recovered. But what if he could not? Men oft-times went on holy pilgrimages barefoot, their bleeding footsteps trailing painful proof of their devotion, their willingness to suffer for God’s favor. Bran might well see his quest in the same light, might think that a fevered trek would mean more to the Almighty.

  If so, at least they’d be able to get medicine from Grosseto’s doctor ere they set out. Siena was about fifty miles away. With Bran’s attacks coming every other day, they ought to be able to cover fifteen or twenty miles on his fever-free days. The weather was no threat, warm by day, mild by night, so camping out would present no problem. And if Bran did take a turn for the worse whilst on the road, there was a Cistercian abbey at San Galgano, about half-way to Siena, and monks were adept at healing.

  Hugh smiled at that, thinking fondly of Brother Mark. No, however he looked at it, their prospects seemed promising, and for the first time in more than two months, he dared to let himself hope. Men did die of tertian fever. But it was not an inevitable death sentence, not like consumption or cancers or spotted fever. And Bran was young and healthy. Why should he not recover? Hugh was getting sleepy himself, but he thought to add a drowsy “God willing,” lest the Lord think him impertinent.

  The doctor in Grosseto did not inspire Hugh with confidence. He seemed as old as Methuselah, spoke no French, and was taciturn even in his own Tuscan. After he tried to bleed Bran and botched it, puncturing Bran’s arm repeatedly before he was able to find a vein, Hugh was not all that disappointed when he refused to accompany them to Siena.

  The malarial fever struck on schedule, the day after their arrival in Grosseto. At Bran’s insistence, they set out on the following morning for Siena. Because Bran had to stop and rest so often, they were not able to cover as much ground as Hugh had hoped; he guessed they’d made only about fifteen miles by nightfall. The next day Hugh built a bonfire to ease Bran’s chills, meticulously measured out doses of the doctor’s herbs, betony and sage, which he then mixed in strong ale. He had not tried very hard to dissuade Bran from starting for Siena, for he was half-afraid that if they loitered too long in Grosseto, Bran might change his mind about seeking absolution.

  Hugh was faintly ashamed that Bran’s illness should give him so much hope. But he’d begun to despair that Bran would ever come back from wherever he’d gone after the killing in Viterbo. Now those dark silences had been banished by the ague. On his fever-free days, Bran was no longer a stranger; he listened, joked, even laughed occasionally. And soon they’d be in Siena, where Bran could confess to the Bishop; then all would be well. There was no reason why he could not visit Serafina again, too, whilst they were in the city.

  That Friday eve optimism was not to last, though. By the next day, Hugh’s cheerful assurance had begun to falter. He’d not anticipated how rapidly these assaults of chills and fever would sap Bran’s strength. He tired so easily that they managed to travel less than ten miles. On Sunday his seizures were more severe, more prolonged, than any that had come before; his fever burned out of con
trol from noon till dusk, and, for the first time, he was stricken with bouts of nausea. On the following day he was weaker still. Each time he dismounted to rest, he found it harder to get back into the saddle, and by early afternoon, he was so exhausted that they had to halt, thus losing precious hours of daylight.

  That night they both slept badly, and they awoke on Tuesday to a sky marbled by clouds. Bran’s chills began in mid-morning. In vain Hugh stoked their fire higher, piled blanket after blanket upon Bran’s trembling body. He found the chills more frightening than the fever; it seemed to defy the very laws of nature, that a man could be shivering so under a summer sun. They had camped beside a shallow stream, and when Bran began to throw off the blankets, Hugh soaked compresses in the clear, cold water, fought the fever as best he could. This was the worst day yet; for a time Bran was delirious, drifting in and out of fevered dreams as Hugh desperately doubled the doses of betony, and clouds continued to gather overhead.

  Hugh kept an uneasy eye upon that darkening sky, for they’d left the Maremma behind, were in the highlands now, which meant that nights would be much cooler. What if it rained? If Bran got soaked in a downpour, could he survive a night out in the open? A distant rumbling of thunder stirred him to action, and he knelt by Bran’s side.

  “My lord, can you hear me? I must leave you for a while, must find us some shelter ere that storm breaks. There is a wineskin right here. I’ll not be gone long.”

  Bran’s world was shot through with hot colors and swirling mist. It was not unpleasant, though, a slow spiraling down into the dark. But someone would not let him be; he could hear his own name, oddly muted, as if echoing from a great distance. He didn’t want to heed it, to come back. But a hand was gripping his shoulder. His lashes seemed sealed with stones; he struggled to raise them, to focus on the white, tense face floating above him.

  “Thank God! I was so scared when I could not wake you…” Grabbing the wineskin, Hugh tilted it to Bran’s lips. “My lord, listen. I found a shepherd and he says there is a castle not a mile from here. Lord Bran, can you try to stand? If we can just get you onto your horse…”