I looked up and through the leaves saw a smattering of stars. There was no moon this night. Something about the stars troubled me. I glanced around. I saw each indentation of bark on the nearest cypress trees. I frowned. It was night. At night, you needed a torch to see this well. I stared at the bark as dread stole my ability to move. This was vile sorcery. Yes, I’d been ensorcelled, possibly enslaved to a foul sorcerer or to one of Erasmo’s dark deities.
I turned the coin. It showed an engraving of an achingly beautiful woman. She looked just like the lady in the moon I’d seen before…before passing out.
I clutched the coin. “Erasmo.” I spoke his name with hatred, with the desire to slay. This was his doing. We had come to the swamp….
I couldn’t remember why. I realized with a shock that I’d forgotten things.
Something tugged my hand. I frowned. It tugged again. I opened my hand. The coin…by some dark witchery it wanted me to go…to a place where I could gain help. That’s what seemed to whisper in my mind.
My lips twisted into a sneer. This was witchery indeed, dark sorcery. Although I’d been ensorcelled so I could see at night like a demon, I still had my will. I was Gian Baglioni, the rightful prince of Perugia. The grass through my armor showed me I’d lain here for some time. Erasmo had long departed, of that I was certain. I wanted this spell taken from me. Therefore, I would allow the coin to tug me. Then…a fierce desire to right these hideous wrongs broke the loathing that had locked my limbs. I would free myself of sorcery, hunt down Erasmo and kill him.
Only then did I consider the spear. It had pierced my belly. Forcing myself to it, I inspected my mailcoat around my stomach. There was a tear in the middle of my gut. Much of the rust might have been dried blood. I reached around and fingered smashed links in the small of my back. The implications-the spear had gone completely through me-I leaped up and ran in a gibbering panic, sickened at the idea that I was already dead.
— 2-
Wet leaves slapped my face. Mud sucked at my boots and horror crawled up my spine. I was dead. Erasmo wielding a spear had stabbed me in the stomach so all my lifeblood had flowed out of me. The lady in the moon-this was all a lie of the Devil!
After a time, a question broke through my terror. I’d been a prince of Perugia. I’d spoken with scholars, had kept several in my court. They had taught me the art of reason. If I’d died, why wasn’t I in Heaven…or in Hell?
Another leaf slapped my cheek. I tore the leaf from its branch and crushed it. I halted, released the crumpled leaf and watched it drop in the mud. I’d never seen the dead walk. I walked. I ran. How could I suppose…suppose that I was….dead?
I studied my gut. With dread, I pushed a finger through the mail and through the hole in the padding underneath. I kept pushing-and found my solid stomach underneath. There was no hole in me.
What did this mean?
Erasmo had spoken about dark deities who had once rules the Earth in olden times. The ex-priest had tried to sacrifice me on a wooden altar in order to gain power, among other things. I laughed hoarsely. Old gods, pagan altars-it was just another name for deviltry. My stomach was whole. Someone must have healed me. Then why had they put a coin in my mouth as if I’d been a corpse?
I stared at the coin, at the beauty with the mocking smile whose portrait was stamped on it. The coin still tugged my hand. I pressed a finger against my stomach. I could not deny this marvelous healing. For that, I was grateful. Yet I’d lain in the swamp long enough for grass to grow through my armor, and I saw at night like a demon. Had I been in an enchanted sleep? Minstrels told such tales.
I stared at the woman in the coin. Her beguiling smile seemed to promise me power. For a moment, she seemed alive, as if she watched me through the coin.
I clutched the coin to block her vision. I shook my head. I refused to let spells bewitch me. A cold, hard smile stretched my lips. I needed a sword, a horse and a lance. Then I would force this sorcery from me. I would gather my soldiers and scour Italy for Erasmo. Wherever he went, I would follow. Not the Devil or Erasmo’s slumbering gods could save him from my wrath. And if he’d harmed my wife or my children-
I trudged through mud and in a rage swiped aside vines. It was time to leave this dismal swamp. Cypress trees grew thickly, and there was a large body of ooze to my left. The wind blew ripples across it. By its tug, the coin suggested I enter the ooze, the slimy water. I waded into it and my foot slid in the mucky bottom. The slime was cold and soon soaked my leggings to the knees. When the slimy mud reached my groin, a coil like an octopus’s tentacle rippled into view. The coil had scales like a lizard. I watched it transfixed.
I’d never heard of such a thing in Italy.
The vile creature or its tentacle disappeared. I longed for a sword or even a knife. This was a horrible place. Warily, I resumed my trek. It was like wading through blood pudding and soon the slime reached my ribs.
Cruel laughter rang out ahead. A scream followed and a sobbing plea.
I halted a moment and then grimly waded toward the sounds. I was sick of being alone and I wanted answers. For one, I wished to know how long I’d lain in the swamp. Maybe it was dangerous heading to these ruffians, but it was night. I was in muck, in a swamp. Who would suspect me to appear from this quarter? And I saw at night like a demon. That would give me an advantage.
They sounded like brigands, either outlaws or mercenaries. Bands of mercenaries had crossed the Alps from France. These bands practiced an evil style of warfare, looting, burning and ransoming whomever they could capture.
Another scream erupted. It was of awful pain, maybe the receiving of a death-wound.
“Now you know we’re in earnest,” a man said gruffly. He had an English accent and confirmed my suspicion that they were mercenaries.
I soon spied brightness through the leaves. A fire danced beyond a dense thicket. The thicket was on higher ground, protected by a muddy bank. As I neared, a frightened horse whinnied, sounding as if it smelled a wolf or bear, something to terrify it. I studied the thickets and their leaves. The fat leaves shivered as the wind blew toward the brigands. I glanced around, but spied nothing to frighten a horse, certainly no wolves or bears. What did the horse smell?
I pried a stone loose as I climbed up the bank. The stone was my only weapon. I crawled past weeds. Then, after a careful survey, I found space under a thicket. I crawled through dirt and pried away a twig that snagged on my chainmail. Soon I spied their fire through a screen of leaves.
The brigands wore mirror-bright breastplates and mail. Most mercenaries darkened their armor as the best means of defeating rust. I’d heard of the White Company, a vain band of Englishmen who ordered their pages to polish their armor until it reflected like mirrors. These mercenaries undoubtedly belonged to the White Company.
I counted three lances. Normally, a lance was a knight’s spear. In this instance, a lance was a military term for a particular number and type of soldiers. In our day, a lance was composed of a squire, a soldier or man-at-arms and a page. There were also two crossbowmen. Both cradled loaded weapons. The handful of men-at-arms had belted swords. Two wore helmets. Three circled the poor wretch at a stake. There was a second stake, with a slumped-over wretch tied to it. That one looked dead. The first man wore furs and a golden medallion.
The mercenary leader was big, had a red beard and wore iron gauntlets. He grinned at the staked man. “The only thing that matters now, signor, is whether you want to buy yourself back with one arm or two.”
Another brigand suggestively hefted an axe.
“Take my medallion,” the man at the stake sobbed. “Take it, it’s all I have. You have to believe me.”