Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (12 page)

"I am Jacques Dimon," he said. "You are here because we do not know where else to place you. You will each pick up a sword and fight me, one-on-one, to determine your skill level and unit placement." Dimon, whom Francois could only assume was Lieutenant Dimon's older brother, produced two swords and threw one on the ground a few feet in front of him.

"We are fighting to first blood or exhaustion, whichever comes first. The edges of these blades are dulled, so do not worry about killing blows. Now, who is first?"

Artois rose, but Raul grabbed his son's hand and yanked him back to the ground.

"Never be first!" Raul hissed, "Use your brain, and learn from another man's mistakes."

A simple-looking farmer walked to the center of the arena. He was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, and had thinning hair and extra weight around his midsection. He had probably never used a sword in his life, but had swung plenty of axes and hoes, and he assumed those skills were easily transferrable. He picked up the sword and took a few practice swings, getting comfortable with the weight of the blade and grip of the hilt.

"Ready?" Dimon asked.

"Yes, sir," the man said. The words were barely out of his mouth when Dimon moved, sending a straight lunge at the farmer's belly. To his credit, the farmer leaped to his left, but Dimon's foot was already there, and the fat farmer was sent crashing to the ground. Dimon's sword was at his throat a moment later. "Surrender?"

"Yes, sir," the farmer said, gasping for breath.

"Again. This time, do not run from my blade, block it," Dimon instructed. They reset and Dimon swung an exaggerated, slow, overhand strike that the farmer easily blocked, though he flinched and shrank away from the impact of the blades. With that small window, Dimon kicked the man in the stomach and he fell over, his face red, holding his gut.

"Teachable. You are in group three," Dimon said. "Go back to the recruit cottages and tell the sergeant you are in group three, and you will be instructed from there. Next!"

Artois and another man, a dark-haired Spaniard by the looks of him, stood at the same time. Dimon gave Artois a look and indicated he should wait, and the Spaniard took up the sword in the center of the arena.

"Begin," Dimon said.

The Spaniard was clearly terrified, and he swung wildly. Dimon saw his telegraphed attacks with the practiced ease of a veteran, and the Spaniard's swings began to slow, his arms tiring. After one particularly bad attack, Dimon struck the man in the back of the head with the sword, and the Spaniard fell to the ground, motionless.

"Get up," Dimon said. The man didn't move. "Get up!" Dimon shouted, kicking the man in the ribs.

"Let me check him," Francois jumped up and ran to the Spaniard before Raul could stop him. He pressed his fingers to the man's neck and felt no pulse, and then he checked the spot below the thumb, on the wrist. No pulse. He rolled the man over and opened his eyes, but they were vacant. "He's dead," Francois said.

"You can take him to the sick tent. When you get there, tell them you're a new assistant, because you seem so keen on helping the hurt," Dimon said, dismissing Francois with a wave of his hand. Francois gave one final look back at his family, not expecting to be parting from them in this sort of fashion, and then he hauled the Spaniard over his shoulder and wobbled out of the arena.

Artois was like a giant with a twig when he picked up the sword. Dimon didn't appear intimidated, but he still gave Artois plenty of room while he took a few practice swings. After a time, Dimon said, "Strike me, if you can."

Dimon opened his legs in a wide stance and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for Artois. When Artois approached, Dimon sidestepped quickly and attacked Artois' flank, but he saw the attack coming and dodged it, moving unnaturally fast for a man his size.

"Well done," Dimon grunted, resetting his stance.

"Get him, Artois!" Christof roared from the sideline.

"Don't chase him, let him come to you!" Raul yelled.

Dimon came in again, feinting a strike to the head, suddenly dropping his weight, changing levels, and aiming for Artois' midsection. The blow landed cleanly, but Artois' hand snapped out and he grabbed Dimon's arm, pulling him close. He hooked his leg behind Dimon's and they collapsed to the ground, Artois on top. With a savage yank, he tore the blade from Dimon's hand and reversed it, letting the cold steel linger at his throat.

"Enough," Dimon gasped, having difficulty breathing with Artois on top of him. With a sneer, Artois stood.

"You will come with me, now," Dimon said. "I am recommending you for the king's bodyguard."

Raul and Christof watched Dimon lead Artois away. They were alone, two older, Cathar brothers without any friends or connections in the French Army. And they were going on the Seventh Crusade.

Chapter Thirteen

OLIVIA WAS SUFFOCATING. With a massive effort she pushed her arms against the bed and turned her face, so that she was no longer smothered by the oversized goose-feather pillow in Louis' bed. He was behind her, thrusting furiously and pushing her neck down, grunting and sweating while she prayed that he would finish quickly. This was so unlike the gentle lover she had known in Paris, where he would hold her close and whisper in her ear. The closer they got to leaving Aigues-Mortes, the more violent and agitated he became, and he took his anxiety out in the bedroom. Normally, Olivia could absorb the worst of Louis and brush it off, but this was becoming too much.

With a final thrust, Louis' body spasmed and he collapsed on Olivia, his member still inside her. It was a primal moment, and Olivia could feel goose bumps on Louis' legs as he lay on her, and she moved forward and rolled, separating herself from him.

"That was . . . good," he said.

"I exist to please you, my king."

"I will be bringing you on the crusade, it seems. It is not my decision, but his," Louis said, showing her his limp prick. Olivia dutifully laughed.

"May I be dismissed, lord? I must attend my duties."

"Yes, of course," he answered, his eyes taking on the faraway look of a man suddenly reminded of his responsibilities.

Olivia had trouble keeping her balance as she stepped out into the bright sunlight. It was the middle of summer in southern France, and she smiled at the sun. She liked the idea of her skin darkening and her hair lightening, giving her skin an exotic tone that would attract more than ugly French farm boys and sneering nobles. She moved down the roads of Aigues-Mortes, not eager to return to the other whores and their dusty wagon, yet. She wanted to explore the town, to meet with faraway people and—

Something was dripping down her leg. Olivia looked down and saw blood on her inner thigh, a trail of redness streaking down her leg and staining her shoes. Olivia looked to make sure she was not being watched, and she put her hand in her most tender of areas. It hurt very badly. Throwing off ideas of exploring Aigues-Mortes, Olivia went toward the sick cottages, where the army's doctors had set up a temporary clinic. She hoped there was a female doctor on staff.

The cabins were built far from the rest of the town. They were a half-mile east and north of the mass of buildings, to isolate the sick and infected from the healthy. As she neared the open-roofed, free standing buildings, a man walked by her, carrying another man on his shoulder. She couldn't see the bearer's face, but she imagined it was kind, for him to carry another all the way to the doctors.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked. To her surprise, the man stopped completely.

"What?" he said. His voice was familiar to her, but far-off, like she knew it well but in a different world, a different time.

"I said, can I help you?"

"Olivia?" Francois said, turning.

"Francois!" Olivia nearly threw her arms around him in relief, but the broken man on his shoulder and her own vaginal injuries halted her. "What are you doing? Have you decided to go to Egypt?"

"Yes, my family convinced me. What are you doing here? Are you bleeding?" he asked, looking at her legs. Olivia opened her mouth to reply, to tell him everything and find forgiveness and understanding, but she couldn't. Her shame was overwhelming.

"I must see a physician, excuse me," Olivia said, ignoring Francois' questioning gaze and rushing to the sick cottages. Francois followed her, but his strength was failing him and he moved slowly. Olivia went into the cottage on the left, and Francois followed her inside, nearly collapsing under the weight of the Spaniard that Dimon had crippled.

The stench of the cabin was putrefying. Flesh, blood, and shit mixed in a gas that the open roof of the cottage couldn't evacuate. The odor clung to the floors, the beds, the walls. There were three physicians in the cottage, all of them men, moving through the space and checking on their patients. Olivia looked around, turned and brushed past Francois. Evidently, she had not found whatever she was looking for. Francois poked his head out of the cottage and saw her go to the other one. Maybe she just didn't want to be around him? With a groan, Francois lowered the Spaniard to the ground and greeted the physician who approached him.

"I've been instructed to bring this man here and announce myself as a new assistant," he said.

Olivia was mortified to only see male physicians in the second cabin, as well. One of them was kind enough to tell her of a medicine woman who lived in the nearby hills, but her methods were controversial and her reputation dubious at best. It didn't matter. Olivia would rather see any woman and tell her what happened than any male doctor. With a bit of reluctance, the doctor pointed her in the general direction of the hills.

"It's along the coast, about a mile east. The building is shrouded by trees and shrubs, so if you go farther than two miles, you've missed it. Good luck," he said. His face was so kind and understanding that Olivia almost decided to ask him for help, but she couldn't. She just couldn't.

The afternoon was giving way to the shadows of early twilight, and Olivia hurried down the dark road toward the medicine woman's house. She was becoming dizzy from her blood loss, which had not slowed since her tryst with Louis, nearly an hour before. Seeing Francois and reuniting with him had nearly overwhelmed her, and she brushed him from her mind as she half-jogged, the blood on her leg beginning to coagulate.

The cabin would have been easy to miss, but Olivia was desperate and her eyes searched furiously after she measured a mile in steps. It was there, with a roof thatched with leaves and twigs. Its support beams were the same color of the nearby trees, and the cabin camouflaged nicely into the foliage. There was a rarely-used dirt path that led to the front door, and Olivia approached the cabin cautiously, the blood still draining from her body. She felt very cold.

She raised her hand to knock and the door flung open. A squat, grinning woman stood before her. Olivia processed grey hair, wrinkles and powerful hands before she passed out on the doorstep.

"Wake, young one, wake," the old woman crooned. Olivia's eyes snapped open and she was sitting at a recline, her legs propped in the air. Her dress was hiked up past her knees, and she heard the old woman talking to herself.

"The pain gives them pleasure, they must have the pain. But are they ever sated? Never, and they only create more pain, more pain . . ."

"Uh, mademoiselle?" Olivia said. "What can I call you?"

"Call me Vaille, dearie," the woman said.

"Okay, Vaille. What is wrong with me? I was having sex with the king, and afterward I was bleeding, and then—"

"You passed out on my doorstep! Couldn't have my evening smoke with a cold body on my doorstep, could I? Never mind that, did you say the king? The king of what? He's the king of your body! The king of your body!" the old woman laughed and repeated herself, over and over. Olivia's face reddened, but she didn't want to disturb the woman who had saved her life and was currently elbow-deep in her body.

"The King of France, Louis IX," Olivia finally said.

"Truly?" Vaille asked.

"Yes."

"We are done," Vaille pressed some sort of lever and Olivia's legs began to close and lower, and then she was sitting normally. Vaille stared at her, looking for duplicity in her face.

"What happened?" Olivia asked.

"You were with child, perhaps for three or four weeks. It was not formed; mind you, but growing all the same. Have you been traveling roughly?"

"We just came here from Paris," Olivia said, her lips moving but her voice empty. She was pregnant? How was that even possible? Well, there was the obvious reason, but still—

"That absolves King Louis a bit, then. The fetus could not survive in you, for the true reason, none may know. But it left your body and took part of your insides with it, so that you could not stop bleeding. I stopped it, though, and you will be fine," Vaille said. "Now, would you like to join me for a smoke? I do not know what a dead bastard son means for the king's Seventh Crusade, but it can't be a good omen. I will consult spirits, if you will help."

Olivia carefully stood and took in the cabin. It was filthy at first glance, packed wall-to-wall with books, masses of unidentifiable plants, flesh, and strange devices. A cauldron, squat and black, sat in the corner of the cabin, next to a window. Olivia noticed wisps of steam coming from the cauldron, and she cautiously looked over the rim—

An odor hit her full in the face, and she fell back, dazed. It was the scent of her blood, boiling with roots and hemp. There was a floating mass in the cauldron, too, and Olivia forced herself to look at it. "How long was I unconscious?" she asked Vaille.

"Almost a full day. I had some boys from the town collect your leavings in buckets, and then deliver them to me. They must be examined, you see, to detect illness in your womb."

Olivia put her head down and vomited a stream of yellow and green bile. The puke splashed on her knees, legs and feet. She felt like a dirty whore, not even fit to stand in this grimy, blighted cabin. "I'm sorry," she stammered, looking around for a cloth to soak up the vomit.