Everyone except Andreas.
Having checked the position and disposition of the six guards, he swept his gaze toward their master. The inquisitor leaned forward in his saddle, a mixed expression of disgust and wry amusement on his face. None of his men had shown any eagerness to engage with Andreas, and so he knew they would not act without an explicit signal. Judging from the priest’s expression, the situation was still poised on the edge of a blade.
Raphael eased Gerda to the ground, a bundle of his cloak shoved against her neck. He was talking to her in a low voice, and her gaze was locked on his face, her body shivering.
The magistrate stood frozen, his sword almost forgotten in his hand.
That’s the sword, Andreas thought. That’s the one that killed the others. The magistrate was not a trained swordsman, that much had been obvious by the cuts on the bodies in the woods, but he knew enough to not hesitate when he had to use it.
“Kill them,” the inquisitor said, making a sudden declaration. “This entire village is a pit of heresy and should be purged by sword and fire.” His men stirred, their hands tightening on their weapons. “These knights, the woman, this blasphemous monster”-the last was directed at the magistrate-“and burn everything. Let nothing remain of this blight.”
Andreas tightened his grip on his sword.
That was all the signal he needed.
The first man raised his sword too late, and Andreas’s strike crumpled his defense. Some of the force of Andreas’s attack was deflected, but it was still strong enough to split the man’s helm.
Andreas jerked his sword free and pivoted, dropping the blade into the low guard as the second man charged at him with a leveled spear. Andreas swung his sword in a rapid arc, flicking the blade from one side of his body to the other. He felt the steel slide along the shaft of the spear, and with a flick, he diverted the spear into the ground. He placed his foot on the shaft of the weapon, pinning it, and jerked his hands up, whipping the tip of his sword across his opponent’s throat. He stepped back with his other foot, bringing his sword up and around to connect with the back of the choking man’s neck. A mercy stroke, for the man was going to bleed out from the neat cut across his throat.
The third and fourth men came at him simultaneously, and Andreas dodged to the outside of the man on his right, batting the man’s blade into the path of the other man. As they tangled, he slashed across the back of the right-hand man’s thigh and then shoved him against his fellow.
The last two men were already fleeing, having decided the inquisitor was not paying them enough to die in this village. Especially when the inquisitor and the other mounted men had already left.
The one guard still in fighting condition untangled himself from his wounded companion and came at Andreas, approaching with a healthy caution. He finally found the nerve to attack, and Andreas found him lacking in the bind. He stepped in, swept his left arm over the other man’s arms, and turned, drawing the man’s wrists into the crook of his arm and stripping the blade from the man’s suddenly slack fingers. From there, it was easy to bash the man in the face with the pommel of his sword, breaking his nose and driving the fight out of him.
Andreas checked the field, fairly certain he had disposed of all threats, and he caught sight of the magistrate rousing himself from his torpor.
The man gripped his sword tight as he focused his anger on the two who had wronged him most: Gerda and Raphael.
Andreas cast about for some way to stop him in time and darted for the spear dropped by one of the inquisitor’s men. He scooped it up, gauged its heft, and felt it to be too heavy for much distance. But it wasn’t going to have to fly far. He got his weight behind the throw and hurled the spear.
As the magistrate raised his sword over Gerda and Raphael, the spear struck him square in the chest, splitting his ribs and lifting him off his feet. He tumbled to the ground, quivered once, blood spurting from his mouth, and then lay still.
Raphael had not even looked up.
“Lie still,” Raphael insisted. “I can bind your wound if you let me work.”
“Why?” Gerda rasped, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. She tried to smile. “I will see my Otto soon. Why would I want to stay here?”
Raphael had no answer for her.
“Did you find him?” she asked.
“We did.”
“Bring his body here,” she said. She coughed, choking on the blood in her throat, and more of it ran from her mouth as she turned her head. “Let us be together,” she whispered, her voice fading. “In the old way. Scatter our ashes over the fields. Let us be the offering.” She reached up, touching his face, and he felt her blood mingle with the tear on his cheek. “Let me go,” she said.
“I’m trying,” Raphael said. “It is very hard to do.”
“I know,” she sighed, closing her eyes.
HUMILIS
Andreas stood at the edge of the field beside Raphael’s majestic and patient horse and idly ran his hands through the beast’s glossy mane as he watched Raphael pace back and forth across the fallow earth.
Tiny white clouds floated in Raphael’s wake as he scattered handfuls of ash from a basket clutched beneath his other arm. A playful wind had blown a fair amount of the ash of the lovers back at Raphael, and his torso and legs were lightly dusted by the time he was finished with his task.
“Pulvis es et in pulveram reverteris,” Raphael said as he came over to Andreas. He seemed to notice the ash on his clothing and brushed vainly at it for a moment before giving up with a shrug.
“Were we wrong?” Andreas asked.
Raphael shook his head. “I don’t know, Andreas. I have fought Saracens beneath the banner of Christ. I have fought alongside Moors in Iberia. I have stood with pagans against the Church. Our own order tries to forget its past, and have we lost our way as a result? These people had a relationship with this land that existed for generations. Who are we to say that what we have brought them is better or worse?”
Andreas patted Raphael’s horse. “Maybe it is best to be simple knights,” he said. “Defend our honor and the honor of those who cannot defend themselves.”
Raphael offered him a wan smile. “I admire your simplicity.”
“Good,” Andreas said. “Then perhaps you will not mind my company on the way to Mainz.”
“Why do you think I am going to Mainz?” Raphael asked, a note of cautious curiosity in his voice.
“I wish to speak with the Archbishop there,” Andreas said, ignoring Raphael’s question. “The abbey at Lorsch used to have a library, but the monks tell me it was closed on the Archbishop’s order. I wanted to ask him why.”
“The library,” Raphael said slowly, as if he was examining Andreas’s words for some hidden meaning. “At Lorsch.”
“Yes.” Andreas shrugged. “Though I suppose we might run into the inquisitor,” he added as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him.
“He did leave awfully suddenly,” Raphael mused, feigning a similar innocence.
“It does only seem right that we let him know how his tribunal turned out, don’t you think? In case he wants to send a report to Rome.”
Raphael laughed. “Your simplicity has an unnerving daring to it, Andreas.”
“I am but a mere sword.” Andreas extended his arm, fingers outstretched. “Point me in the direction of our enemies.”
Raphael clapped the younger man on the shoulder and climbed into the saddle of his horse. He raised his hand against the morning glare and made a show of looking from horizon to horizon.
“That way,” he said, pointing to the east.