The Sword of Aradel Read online

  For a moment Brian stood trembling, hardly believing what he had done. Then, in a language he did not know he knew, someone shouted to him to run.

  He turned and made a dash through the encircling men-at-arms.

  2

  Merra

  IT WAS ONLY BECAUSE EVERYONE IN THE COURTYARD was in a momentary state of shock that Brian was able to reach a corner of the smithy without being stopped. The line of knights and squires, who had been closing in on him during the fight, could have cut him down easily, for their swords were already drawn. But they seemed paralyzed by his incredible victory. Not only was their new ruler lying motionless before them, but the invincible sword of Aradel had been vanquished by a ragged stableboy with a quarterstaff.

  Brian’s first impulse was to race for the main gate under the drawbridge tower. If he could get through and make it across the drawbridge, there was a good chance he could reach the fringe of forest beyond the road.

  But he had taken only a few strides when he heard Albericus giving orders. “Close the gate and raise the bridge!” the gaunt monk shouted. “Shoot him, you bowmen! Kill the wretch! Don’t let him get away!”

  A whistling arrow made Brian whirl in his tracks. He dodged behind the smithy, saw no one, and began running as fast as he could along the rear of the stable. There was a door ahead where a part of the stable joined the abbey wall. If he could get through it without being seen, he should have time to catch his breath while he planned his next move.

  The door opened almost in his face, and a big hand caught his arm and jerked him inside. It was Brother Benedict.

  “Follow me,” said his burly friend, and began running with surprising speed past a row of stalls and across an open storage area beyond. At the rear of it, where the roof met the abbey wall, the monk slid behind a stack of heavy timbers leaning against the masonry. Here in the shadows Brian made out a small wooden door.

  “Better leave your staff,” he was advised. “You will not need it, and it will just be in your way.”

  With some reluctance Brian thrust his quarterstaff among the timbers, and followed his guide. After the door was secured behind them they were in total darkness.

  “We have fifty paces to go,” Brother Benedict said. “Hold to my robe, and keep in step with me.”

  Wondering, Brian did as he was told. They seemed to be in a narrow passageway that led in a long curve through the wall. He had heard that this portion of the abbey had once been a fort, built in Roman days. Could this possibly be an old escape route?

  “Here we are,” Brother Benedict said finally, as a sliver of light outlined one arm. Stooping, he pulled a rough wooden cover away from an opening just large enough to crawl through. Brian peered out at the brightening day.

  His view of the moat and the world beyond it was partially obscured by a small tangle of willow shrubs that screened the spot. The moat, nearly covered with lily pads here, was only a few feet below him. Directly opposite, a larger thicket almost hid the embankment that bordered a small field.

  “Now you are in on our little secret,” Brother Benedict said. “Only a few of us know of this way out of the abbey.”

  “But the moat—how does one cross it?”

  His guide chuckled. “On sunken planks below the lilies. Walk them carefully, or you will slip into the water as I did one night. When you have crossed and reached the field, keep your head down and follow the embankment till you come to the trees. Have no fear of being seen. There’s no one on this part of the wall at this hour, and I doubt if there’s a worker in the field, for it’s been put to pasture.”

  Brother Benedict paused a moment, listening. Brian knew that a thorough search was being made for him on the other side of the wall, but he could make out no sounds of it here.

  Carefully the monk drew something from a fold of his robe. It was the sword Albericus had brought to Rupert.

  Brian gasped. “Where—where did you get it?”

  “I picked it up near the smithy, where it fell. No one saw me. Take it, son. It may not be all that it is supposed to be—but it happens to be the very finest of weapons, and you won it fairly against great odds. I’m proud of you!”

  Brian experienced a sudden thrill as he grasped the jeweled hilt. As a weapon, it was too long and much too heavy for him, but he had no doubt of his ability to use it should the need arise. It suddenly seemed strange that Rupert, who was far taller and stronger, had been so clumsy with it.

  “By doing what you did,” Brother Benedict went on, “you upset many plans, and set something in motion. But there isn’t time to explain it to you here. You must be well on your way before Albericus decides you must have escaped from the abbey. He’ll surely send men after you—but do not worry about them. Merra will hide you well.”

  “Merra? Who—where—”

  “In the forest, son, a full three leagues downstream from the Roman crossing, there flows a crystal spring from the foot of a mighty oak. It is a sacred spot, and something in you will know it when you see it. You will find Merra waiting for you there.”

  “I—I don’t understand,” Brian said. “How can anyone possibly know I’m coming?”

  “She will know. On your way now—and may the merciful God protect you!”

  Brian experienced a frightening minute as he waded the moat on the submerged planks. He was exposed to anyone who might have gone to the top of the wall to search, and with every step he almost expected to hear the snap of a bowstring and the quick hiss of an arrow. Yet he dared not hurry, for the planks were so slippery he could only slide along a foot or two at a time while he carried the sword carefully over his shoulder.

  Then at last he was across, with the thick growth of willows on the embankment hiding him from any chance observer. When he glanced back he was relieved to see no one, nor could he make out the opening to the secret passageway.

  As he hurried along the edge of the field behind the embankment, he was astonished to see the sun rising above the line of forest ahead. It seemed that hours must have passed since he had first heard the trumpets. How could so much have happened in the short space between dawn and sunup?

  Before the sun was a hand’s breadth high, he had gained the Roman crossing—a stone bridge built by Caesar’s men—and was beginning to pick his way through the tangle along the edge of the stream.

  Three leagues downstream, Brother Benedict had said. That was a long, long hike, and he would do well to make it by midday. But why, he wondered, would anyone want to live in so remote a spot? As nearly as he could remember from a map Brother Benedict had at the smithy, that section of the stream was entirely wild, far from any road or village. A few old trails had been dotted on the map, along with a scattering of symbols showing the location of several ruins and a chapel.

  Suddenly Brian halted, thinking of those symbols. A cross had marked the location of an early chapel, but there had been another cross deep in the forest just about three leagues from the Roman crossing. Only the second cross, unlike the first, had a circle behind it. What did that mean?

  And who was Merra?

  Puzzled, he hurried on, swinging the sword occasionally to clear a way through the growth. It seemed that he should know the answers to both questions. And there was that curious matter of the person who had shouted to him right after he’d downed Rupert. Had it been Brother Benedict who had shouted, using a strange language so that no one who had come with Albericus would recognize either the voice or the words?

  Then why had he, Brian, son of Harle the woodcutter, understood the words when he didn’t even recognize the language?

  At that moment a horrible thought came to him. Did he, without realizing it, know the forbidden language? The language that meant death if you were caught using it? It was supposed to be the tongue of the witches, although heretics used it also. The penalty for speaking it—just like the penalty for being caught with a Bible, which was also forbidden—was death by burning.

  He had never seen a real Bib
le, and he had once asked Brother Benedict why it was forbidden. The burly blacksmith had peered around carefully, then said in a low voice, “Watch your tongue on that subject, lad. Now, to boil it all down, it’s just a matter of power. Those who have it are always fighting to keep it. Those who don’t have it are always oppressed. You see?”

  “I’m beginning to. I’ve heard that the Bible is full of magic, which was put in there by the devil. Is that true, and is that really why it’s banned?”

  “It is full of miracles and magic, but the devil didn’t put them there. That is a great lie, told by the righteous rascals in power. To keep their power, they must destroy those who know the truth.”

  “Then—then there really is magic?”

  “There is, and there are those among us who are able—but no. You are too young to know more. I have told you enough. For your life’s sake, and mine, forget what I have said.”

  That had been years ago, Brian remembered, not long after he had come to the abbey. Today he had fled from it, with more questions than ever unanswered.

  Why, for one thing, had Brother Benedict been so anxious for him to cover his pale hair? What was there about pale hair that should be hidden?—and why had Albericus stared at him so strangely when his cap was knocked off?

  Then there was the matter of defeating Rupert so easily. Had he really handled the quarterstaff so skillfully—or had someone put a spell on Rupert?

  In spite of what Brother Benedict had once told him, he had never really believed in spells and magic. But now he was beginning to wonder.

  As he trudged deeper into the forest, following a game trail that wound along the stream, the undergrowth gradually vanished and the trees became immense. Several times herds of deer faded into the shadows, and once he saw a great wolf regarding him with a sort of cold but speculative interest from the other side of the stream. It gave him a moment of sharp fright. The sword, which he had been carrying over his shoulder, was swept down instantly to a ready position. But the wolf did not move, and he hurried thankfully on his way.

  Having eaten no breakfast, and only a bowl of thin gruel the night before, he was very hungry by midmorning. But he knew little of the woods and saw nothing that seemed edible. Even the few strawberries he found were green.

  He stopped at times to drink hastily from the stream, and as the day grew warmer he was tempted to shed his ragged and none-too-clean garments and plunge into the cool water. Only the fear of Albericus, who surely had sent men to hunt him, kept him on the move.

  Brian had lost all sense of time when he stumbled finally into an open glade. The place was covered with a lush growth of wild strawberries. He did not at once notice the wide crystal pool ahead, and the ancient oak beside it—an oak so huge that it entirely dominated this parklike corner of the forest. All he saw were the berries. There were thousands of berries, lusciously red and ripe.

  He fell eagerly on his knees and began stuffing them into his mouth as fast as his hands could pick them.

  Suddenly a mischievous voice somewhere behind him said, “Are you enjoying my strawberries, Brian of the horse trough?”

  He grabbed at his sword and managed to scramble to his feet. Juice was running from his mouth, which was far too full for speech. He could only gulp and stare.

  A few yards away a small slender figure, arms on hips and dressed like a boy in green doublet and hose, was watching him with amusement. The lively face under the green cowled cap was a girl’s, and it seemed curiously familiar. But where could he have seen anyone like her? She was dressed entirely in green—but the greenest things about her, from the bright feather in her cap to her small green boots, were her eyes. They were as brilliantly green as the jewels in the hilt of his sword.

  He was wondering about her eyes when a small bird fluttered down and alighted on her shoulder. It was a nightingale.

  “You—you’re that strawberry girl!” he stammered.

  She gave a gay little laugh. “Of course! I’m Merra.” Suddenly she took a step forward, her nose crinkling. “Give me your sword,” she demanded.

  Hesitantly he held it out, hilt first.

  She took it firmly in both hands and thrust the point toward him, forcing him backward. “You stink,” she said, green eyes dancing. “Brian of the horse trough, you smell of the stable. Back you go—into the cleansing waters! Whee!” she cried, as he fell with a great splash into the crystal pool.

  He came up gasping, then found his footing and shook the water from his face, and saw her crouched on the bank in front of him. Eyes bright, she was watching him like an impish kitten.

  “Off with your filthy rags!” she ordered imperiously, pointing the sword at him. “Off with the dirt beneath them! And when you are clean as a lamb, you may come forth and don your new clothes. They are here by the ferns.”

  Utterly bewildered by her, he watched her turn away and vanish across the glade. Then he drew off his rags and began to wash. When he crawled out finally, he found a towel and a complete outfit in green almost exactly like her own. There were even a leathern pouch with coins in it and a small sheath knife to hang from his belt.

  The moment he was dressed she appeared, sword over her shoulder, and studied him critically. “What a change!” she exclaimed in her gay little voice. “Why, you could almost pass for one of your betters!”

  Her silvery laugh tinkled, as if at some private joke. Then abruptly she became very serious. Drawing herself up to her full height, which was hardly to his chin, she ordered in a truly regal manner, “On your knee, Brian of the horse trough! Kneel!”

  He submitted, deciding that so strange a person had much better be humored.

  She brought the point of the sword down and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Brian of the horse trough,” she went on, switching easily from Latin to English, “by right of my birth and powers, and because of thy pale hair and valor, I dub thee Sir Brian the Fair. Arise, Sir Brian, and take thy well-won blade—and a murrain seize our enemies! All those wretched rogues and devil’s whelps who fain would stop us!”

  “Stop us from what?” he could not help asking as he took the sword. For he realized all at once that she was deadly serious and meant every word she had said.

  “From saving Aradel!” she replied hotly. “From destroying that horrible Albericus before he burns all the good people! But most of all, from succeeding in our search—for if we fail in that, then everything is lost! Everything!”

  He could only gape at her, wondering what incredible sort of creature she was.

  “Oh fie!” she exclaimed. “I see you don’t understand. But of course you don’t! I forget. How could you possibly understand—after the spell that was put upon you?”

  “What spell?”

  “The one that changed your memory. It was a powerful spell, and I don’t know how to break it. So I suppose I must explain it all to you. You see, to begin with—”

  “To begin with,” he interrupted, “there’s nothing wrong with my memory. But I’d like to know how you learned I was coming here. And—and these clothes I’m wearing. How—”

  She sighed, rolling her eyes as if fighting for patience. “It’s very simple, Sir Brian. I was told from afar what happened this morning at the abbey. How you bested that stupid and unmannered lout of a Rupert, and escaped—”

  “Told from afar?” he interrupted again. “I—I’ve never heard of such a thing! It’s impossible!”

  She stamped her foot. “If it’s impossible, you silly goose, how is it that I know all about you, and even sent Tancred ahead to watch for you? But I suppose you didn’t even notice him.”

  “I—I didn’t see anybody. Who is he?”

  “Tancred isn’t a person—though he’s certainly smarter than most people. He’s my nightingale.”

  “Oh.” She was becoming stranger to him all the time. “Is—is it Brother Benedict you talk to from afar?”

  “Of course. He’s much more than a monk, though few at the abbey know it.”
She hesitated, then added, “And he happens to be my uncle.”

  “Your—your uncle?”

  She nodded. “My father’s brother. The family has long been a great one in Aradel.”

  “Then what are you doing way out here, so far from everything?”

  “I live with my mother’s people. And all my friends are here.” She flashed him a quick look with her green eyes, and added quietly, almost hopefully, “They are hard for most mortals to see, but they are all around us. Can you not hear them singing?”

  He stared at her a moment, then turned quickly and peered about him. For the first time he became fully aware of the crystal pool in which he had been forced to wash, the stream joining it on the left, and the tremendous oak on the right, the greatest of all the trees in this ancient grove. Something stirred deep within him, and unconsciously he crossed himself. Did he really hear singing—or was it only the soft music of running water and the wind?

  He started to ask Merra about it, but at that moment the nightingale, which he had not seen since his bath, swooped down to her shoulder, burbling excitedly.

  “What’s the matter, Tancred?” she asked. “What is it?”

  She listened to it a moment, lip caught between her teeth. Suddenly she said, “I sent him back to see if you were being followed. You are. Hunting dogs are on your trail. Some men-at-arms are behind them, and Albericus is leading them!”

  Shock held him rigid a moment. Had he made Albericus so very angry that the gaunt monk would come after him in person?

  Merra clutched his sleeve. “Hurry! I’ve got to hide you!”

  3

  The Secret of Cerid

  AS MERRA DREW HIM IN THE DIRECTION OF THE great oak, Brian suddenly remembered the rags he had discarded. “My old clothes,” he gasped. “I’d better get them! If the dogs find them, Albericus will know I’m somewhere near.”