A hooded figure emerged from the tree line, guiding a small figure. The sentry’s name was Eilif, a blond-haired phantom of the woods, and his captive was a scrawny lad, yet lithe and active—this boy wasn’t like the typical urchins who seemed to spring out of the ruins like weeds growing in an unplowed field. “Said he has a message for Feronantus,” Eilif said as the group of Shield-Brethren gathered around.
“Does he now?” Andreas said, appraising the boy. It was not lost on him that the boy seemed to know a little Latin; he tried to seem bored and without a care, but his eyes tracked them too well. He was listening intently to their words. “Was he alone?” he asked Eilif.
“Been following him since the river.”
Andreas nodded. Eilif took that as a dismissal and faded back into the trees, vanishing once again to his phantasmal role as the chapter house’s watchful eye.
“Boy,” Andreas said, catching the youth’s attention, “what message do you bring?”
“For the leader of the Red Rose,” the boy said, haltingly. He pointed to the standard flying over the ruined monastery.
“I’m their leader,” Andreas said. “You can give it to me.”
The boy screwed up his face and shook his head. “Feronantus,” he said, holding steady to his demand.
Andreas squatted and looked the boy squarely in the face, intrigued by the youth’s persistence. The youth didn’t know Feronantus wasn’t here, but he knew enough of the Shield-Brethren master to know that Andreas wasn’t the man he was looking for. “Who sent you?” he asked, wondering whom the boy had been talking to. Haakon? The Mongol camp continued to rebuff their inquiries about the fate of their missing Brother. It had been more than two weeks since the young fighter had gone through the Red Veil, and no one had been able to discover what had happened. The mood among the Shield-Brethren was turning more and more murderous, and Rutger had his hands full with their tempers in check.
“Flower Knight,” the boy said, and when that name failed to produce any response from Andreas, he performed an exaggerated pantomime—whirling his hands around.
Like he is swinging a staff, Andreas realized. The boy had no real training, and the technique was raw and unformed, but clearly he had been watching someone whose skill had made a deep impression on him. “The Flower Knight sent you?” he asked.
The boy stopped and nodded. “Feronantus.” Back to the beginning again.
“You can tell me or not,” he said with a tiny shake of his head. “But you will come no closer to our camp.”
The boy was shaken by this statement, and his tough mien threatened to break. He glanced at the woods behind him and then back at the standard again. When his gaze returned to Andreas’s face, his expression had softened, and some of the ferocity was gone from his eyes. “Protect…” He pointed at the standard and then made a circle with his fingers. He held it over his heart. “Protection?”
The men muttered amongst themselves. “By the Virgin,” one of them swore, and Andreas kept his expression neutral as he glanced at the man next to him. “Go fetch Rutger,” he said, using the Northmen tongue the boy did not know. “And some food,” he added, noticing how the boy’s ribs pressed against his ragged shirt.
“He said Kim—this Flower Knight—sent him?” Rutger continued to pore over both of the messages. They were both written by the same hand, and both were addressed and signed the same. The difference lay in what they actually said.
Andreas nodded. “He” said there was only supposed to be one message. Kim told him to deliver both. One would be true, the other false, and we would know which was which.”
Rutger looked up and glanced over to where the boy— Hans, as Andreas had managed to learn, finally—was still hungrily working on the wings and thighs of a grouse given to him. “Do you think he knows what the messages say?”
“I don’t think so. He said something about a fight. Near the bridge. Between Kim and a couple of bodyguards.” He indicated his chest. “He said they were Livonian Knights, but when I asked him how he knew, he said they wore a red cross and sword on their surcoats.”
“Shit,” Rutger said. “I thought they gave up the cross and sword after they merged with the Teutonic Order. Why are they wearing those colors?” He glanced at the message in his left hand—the note they had decided was the false one. “You think they wrote it?”
“I do,” Andreas said. “Why would they be escorting a messenger unless they wanted to make sure we got this message?” Your Brother is dead, the message said. I saw the Mongols kill him, after his victory.
“You think they know something about Haakon?”
“Perhaps,” Andreas shrugged. “Maybe not. They could just be stirring up trouble. We won’t know until we go down there and find out.”
Rutger shook his head. “We can’t risk it. That may be exactly the sort of reaction they’re hoping to provoke. The boy came here looking for Feronantus, and he knew enough to know you were lying to him. We have to stay here; we have to protect the secret of Feronantus’s hunting party.”
Andreas made a noncommittal noise in his throat. And when Rutger repeated his last statement, he roused himself as if from a trance. “Yes,” he said somewhat curtly, “I know. But these Livonians are another matter, especially if they are wearing the red cross and sword. They aren’t hiding in the Teutonic ranks. Who is leading them? Is it someone who truly knows Feronantus on sight? What if they decide to pay us a visit?” He waved a hand at the chapter house behind them. “And what of them? How long can we keep them here, pretending that a few more days of training is all they need to be ready?”
Rutger crumpled up the false message. “I don’t know.”
“The Khan is going to get bored, if he isn’t already,” Andreas said, “and he’s going to order his army to move on. We can’t keep hiding here, waiting for a miracle to happen.”
Rutger whirled on him. “What would you have me do?” he snarled, his voice low and harsh. “Throw them all against the horde that outnumbers them ten to one? It’s going to happen eventually, so what is the point of waiting any longer, is that it?”
“No,” Andreas said quietly. “It is always better to avoid a fight than rush into it. But that does not mean we sit idle.” He looked over at Hans. “Kim wants to meet us.” He smiled. “From the boy’s description, it sounds like he might be one of the Khan’s champions. We need to issue a challenge. There are still qualifying fights going on, even if the main arena is closed. We need to draw the Khan’s attention to those fights—offer some sort of exhibition bout, even. I’m sure it won’t take much to convince the Khan to try another of his fighters against us.”
Andreas rolled his shoulders. “Besides, I want to meet this Flower Knight. He sounds like he might be a challenge. I’m getting tired of smacking your charges around.”
When the guards threw him in the same cage with Zug, the Nipponese man hauled himself off his mat and came to inspect the bruises on Kim’s face. “You trusted the wrong man,” he grunted as he sat back on his haunches.
Kim rolled onto his back and lay still, staring at the rusty ceiling of their cell. “Yes and no,” he said enigmatically. He worked his tongue around his mouth, checking his teeth. The Mongols hadn’t roughed him up too much—they had, after all, noticed and appreciated that he had downed two knights from one of Christendom’s fighting orders—but they had had to inflict some punishment on him for being so close to the river.