The Retreat (medieval historical fiction)

Chapter 27 Keep Thy Money to Thyself

That night the army was merry. Well supplied in roasted meat, wine and beer, any morbidity arising from the fact that we were camped among ghosts was quickly dissipated. Songs, some of them from my home region, rang out in the evening sky. The children formed large packs and chased each other with increasing daring underneath carts and around fireplaces, understanding that the adults tasted freedom and escape and that the dreary confined march through the forest was at an end.

Having survived disaster and, indeed, having been rewarded with treasure, did the people around me now think themselves righteous and deserving of their happiness, in contrast to those who had become meat for birds? Did they feel a sense of superiority to those vastly greater crowds of people who had once camped with us at this very spot?

The difference between being numbered among the dead or the living in my case was a matter of no great moral weight. A petulant impulse had made me stop and listen to Gerard; a desire to check Arnulf's condescending manner towards me had seen me tolerate the footsoldier as he led my horse across the square.

Yes, I had earned my place here tonight in the two battles on the bridges and above all in the ambush of King Bratislav's army. But it was Gerard to whom I really owed my life, Gerard and luck. He had the wisdom and strength of character to say 'no' to Shalk and it was my good fortune that I heard him at the right time.

Perhaps I was being harsh towards the people who were now merrymaking. Perhaps, like me, they simply considered themselves lucky and were rejoicing in the pleasure of being alive when it could so easily have been otherwise.

'Cateline, do you deserve to be alive now, do you think? Compared to those who have died?'

'Deserve? No. There were a lot more deserving people died with Shalk. Or on the way, like my parents. Arnulf too.'

'So, why do you live, when they don't?'

This question clearly interested Cateline and she stood up from the fire to come and sit before me, eyes dark and thoughtful. 'Sometimes I think I have come to the attention of an angel, who is preserving me. But at other times, I think it is a devil who has taken interest in me.'

'A devil?'

'Who wants to keep me alive in order that I suffer over and over.'

'I too... feel a presence. Or that I am being judged. But our suffering will soon be at an end. When we are at Rocadamour, we'll have a happy life. It's a beautiful castle, high above a valley that is fertile and a joy to ride through. And my brother and my sister will love you.'

'Perhaps. And if so, then it was the angel who shadowed me.'

I leaned forward to put my arms around Cateline's slender form, when I became conscious of two shadowy figures by our fire.

'Lord Rocadamour? The sheriff invites you to the palace.'

'Is Count Stephen coming?'

'He is already there.'

With a last squeeze to Cateline's shoulder, I left with my escorts; having anticipated the invitation I had made some effort to wash and to find my least dirty shirt.

By contrast with the exuberant scenes outside the city walls, the streets of the city were gloomy. Bells tolled, mourning the loss of the bishop; black banners were displayed around the square before the Wernhers' palace. This building was an impressive three-story rectangle, with Roman pillars across the whole of the front. Arriving through a wide doorway, I was escorted to the right, to a modest dining room, where Count Stephen, Peter Ninefingers and (as was evident from his appearance) a middle-aged, Jewish man were seated. Two armed guards were also present in the room, one at each door.