Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (2 page)

"Got him," Artois said, pointing to the valley.

Francois saw him, crawling through the dirt. He appeared to have a broken leg, and Francois realized the hounds had driven Leaf over the cliff. Raul's eyes were not as sharp as his sons' were, and he didn't want to admit that he couldn't see Leaf.

"Go get him, I'm tired," Raul said.

"You want us to go
over
that cliff?" Artois asked.

"No, Artois, you're too heavy. Francois, go and take a rope with you. We'll lower you over the side, and you can tie an end to one of Leaf's legs. We'll haul him up, and then we'll haul you."

They went to the spot where Leaf had likely gone over. The dogs were there, jumping and growling. The hounds had the sense to not go over the cliff, but they still salivated and stared at the fugitive, who was slowly crawling away fifty feet below them.

"Let's get this over with," Francois said.

They lowered him slowly into the rocky valley. The snowdrifts were not as high, perhaps from the valley's overhang, and Francois' boots were soon touching the rock-strewn bottom. He slipped the rope off his body and gave it two swift tugs, to let them know he was okay. He jogged over to Leaf, who was watching the young Frenchman with terrified eyes.

"Please, I'm innocent," he said.

"Not my concern," Francois said, pulling bindings from his pockets. He started to reach for Leaf, but the man rolled over and started crying like a baby. It was bizarre, but then Francois noticed Leaf's snapped shinbone, jutting out of his skin.
A bad break, he'll lose that leg in a day or two,
Francois thought. And then, a darker thought,
He needs to be executed before an infection finishes him off.

He reached for Leaf and was kicked by the man's good leg. Francois' temper broke, and he jumped on top of Leaf, battering him with his hands. Leaf stopped fighting after a moment, he was already starving and exhausted, and Francois smashed him in the face one more time for good measure.

"Come along nice and easy, or I'll feed you to the dogs," Francois said. Leaf nodded faintly, his face swollen and bleeding. Francois grabbed Leaf's uninjured leg and dragged him across the valley, back to the rope. They hauled Leaf up first, and then Francois.

At the top, Raul stared at Leaf's broken leg, and said furiously, "You stupid fool! You can't even walk now! How are we supposed to get you back to Troyes? How?"

Leaf had the good sense to not answer. He didn't want to go back to Troyes, where his former neighbors and friends had condemned him. He couldn't face the parents of the girls, the people who wanted him to suffer beyond imagination.

"Drag him, use the dogs," Artois said.

"These are not pack beasts! They are the finest tracker hounds in France," Raul answered.

"Could we take his head? He doesn't need to be alive for the full reward," Artois said.

"He must face justice," Francois insisted.

"To hell with it, use the dogs to drag him," Raul finally decided. Above all, he hated wasting time.

Chapter Two

THE COQUET COTTAGE was the first in the village, bordering the wild lands. It was a simple thing: three rooms and a well in the back. The roof was thatched with straw and water reeds, and a furnace in the heart of the structure kept the men alive during the coldest months; unless, of course, they were out tracking fugitives.

One long road, called the
Rue de tuos les lieux,
went right through Troyes and past their cottage, and then into the country and eventually Paris. It was the same road where Francois last saw his mother, when she took him to his father to be raised as a man.

 Artois untied Leaf before they reached the city proper. He flung the murderer over his back like a sack of grain and carried him up the
Rue de lieux
, smiling and waving at the neighbors as he neared the jail. Francois and Raul walked behind Artois; they left the bloodhounds in their pen back at the cottage.

At the jail, Artois unceremoniously dumped Leaf in the main entry.

"Somebody been looking for this guy?" Artois asked the room of constables. They looked at him in shock before registering Leaf's presence, and they took the convict right to a cell.

"How did you find him so quickly?" the chief asked, appearing from a back room. He was called Louis, a name for kings and royalty. Raul knew Chief Louis to be a cunning man, capable of manipulating the system to enforce his will.

"The hounds did the real work; we just followed them," Raul told the chief, standing behind his massive, older son.

"If anyone else could train those pups, we could get rid of crime in Troyes overnight."

"Perhaps."

Chief Louis led the three men through the jail and into an adjacent courtyard, where he produced a sack of gold. "This is your payment, as we agreed," he said.

Raul opened the sack and counted the coins, while his sons looked on silently. Raul finished, looked at the chief, and then counted them again, his face reddening.

"We agreed on ten gold pieces. I count eight."

"Taxes," Louis shrugged.

"Pay my father what you owe him," Artois said, looming over Louis.

"Peace, Artois, peace. You can go home, and take Francois with you. I'll be here for a while yet."

Francois and Artois left the jail, glaring at everyone as they left. They both knew the reason that their father was being swindled. He was a descendant of Cathars, the religious sect that had broken away from the church years ago. Cathars were considered extremists and pagans, although they only differed from the mainstream church on a few matters of arcane theology. The Cathars were nearly wiped out during the Albigensian Crusade decades before, but their descendants were still treated as lower-class citizens. Fortunately, as half-Italian, half-French, Artois and Francois had escaped the label that their father's parents had died for.

"If he doesn't get his gold, I'm going to rip Louis' arms off," Artois said, as they neared their cottage.

"And then you'll share a cell with Leaf. Be calm, brother," Francois said, with a hint of fear in his voice. Like most of Troyes's populace, he feared his older brother's strength and temper. Artois had only lived with their mother for six years until he was given to their father, and Francois was still not completely comfortable around him.

Artois collapsed in his bed as soon as he got home. Francois grinned when he heard Artois' loud snores; he would be asleep for the next day, at least. With the strange energy that overcomes one who is fatigued, Francois changed into fresh clothes and went back to the city.

Compared to the lush gardens and solemn cathedrals of Italy, France was an animal pen. Troyes was known for its large hunter population, as most of the agricultural farmers lived on their land, well outside the city limits. The ground was sandy and the air reeked, a tribute to the thousands of dead carcasses stored in nearby warehouses. Despite Troyes's proximity to the mighty capital of France, Paris, the city was a hub of trade and commerce. Vikings from the north, Goths and Italians from the east, and Spaniards in the west often passed through Troyes, leaving their footprints on the wind-swept French town.

Francois took two silver pennies that he had been saving for a month and went to the market. Meat was everywhere: lamb, dog, deer, and moose hung from iron meat-hooks, their innards gone but the odor remaining. Sweaty merchants stood outside their kiosks, proclaiming the quality of their goods. Francois ignored them, moving on to the fruit and vegetable stalls. They were smaller and run by women, but Francois' mother had known the value of eating green foods, and she taught him about the benefits to his skin and composition.

"What's wrong, Fran? Are you too tough to say hello?" A feminine voice asked from behind him. Francois spun on his heel and smiled at the fair-haired, brash girl. She was Olivia, the daughter of a scribe and Francois' only female friend.

"I didn't see you . . . sorry," Francois said awkwardly.

"I saw you checking out the bananas, are you going to buy some?"

"Yes, I just, well. I don't know," Francois answered. He had not even noticed any bananas. Seeing his confusion, Olivia stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder, sliding close. She laughed.

"I'm just making a joke! You should relax. Hey, I heard about that bandit you and your brother tracked down."

"My father was there too, and the hounds. I think they're taking Leaf to Paris tomorrow, because he might try to escape again."

"Paris?" Olivia's voice became more girlish, shrill, even. Francois scratched his chin, looking past her at the other fruits and vegetables. Olivia was originally from Paris, and her father had moved away from the great city when her mother died. Her father said the city reminded him too much of his dead wife, and he never took Olivia to visit Paris.

"I'm getting some apples and lettuce. My father makes a stew . . ." Francois said, moving away.

"Are you going to Paris? I would give anything to go."

"I don't know . . . why would I? We just captured Leaf, and he's only going to Paris so they can lop his head off with a rusty axe, or else they'll tie a rope around his neck and drop him from a tree branch. There's no need for me to see that."

"Francois, you don't get it," Olivia said, sighing and turning away. Francois shrugged and purchased a banana, five apples, and two heads of lettuce. After they were safely stored in his pack, he caught up with Olivia down the road. She was walking toward her neighborhood, a smattering of large houses and cottages for Troyes's upper class.

"Wait, Olivia!" he said, finally reaching her.

"What?"

"I got you a banana." He pulled the fruit from his pack and handed it to her. She took the long, yellow fruit in her delicate hands and Francois' heart started pounding. Olivia was beautiful when her cheeks blushed.

"Thank you."

"It's nothing."

"You care about me," she said, almost accusatory.

"Well, I—" Francois never got the words out. A chorus of hoots and taunts came from the next street over, loud enough to interrupt him. Customers started drifting away from the market and toward the noise, and Francois and Olivia followed the uproar.

Francois' father, Raul, was facing off with a constable in the middle of the street. It was not Chief Louis, but a younger man, over six feet tall, with a massive chest and arms. Francois knew immediately that Raul's "talk" with Louis had not gone well, and the chief had probably recruited this oaf to do his dirty work. Even as the thoughts formed in Francois' head, the big ox shoved his father, sending him into the dirt.

"Oh my—" Olivia put her hand over her mouth, and Francois looked at her irritably. Didn't she have somewhere else to go; didn't all these people, rather than watch his father be humiliated? Francois wanted nothing more than to help his dad, but striking a constable, even with provocation, was a punishable crime—up to three days' confinement and ten lashes, actually.

Raul scrambled back to his feet, the sack of gold bouncing off his hip. Francois felt like vomiting. His father had tracked down one of the most hated criminals in France, on short notice, and this was his reward?
He could single-handedly stave off a barbarian horde,
Francois thought,
but it wouldn't matter. He's Cathar and will always be an outcast.
Unable to continue standing still, Francois shoved through the crowd and went to his father's side, just as the young constable threw a huge punch. Francois put his hands up and took the full force of the blow on his forearms.

"Get out of the way, boy, this don't concern you," the man said.

"This is my father!" Francois yelled, looking around. "If you wish to do this hero harm, you'll have to go through me!"

"Take this and go," Raul said hurriedly, pressing the gold sack into Francois' back. He took the sack, surprised at its weight, and looked at his father. "Take the gold and get Artois."

The constable lunged at Francois, but he had been fighting with his older brother for years and he saw the attack coming. He sidestepped the oaf and dashed down the street, the crowd parting before him.

"Artois, wake up!" Francois kicked him in the shin, and his eyes snapped open.

"What in the holy—?"

"Get up! Father is being harassed by a constable, probably over the gold reward. I brought the money home . . ." he said, opening the sack. Bright, French livre glittered back at him, and Francois quickly counted the coins. Nine.

"Who is it? Louis?" Artois asked, pulling his boots on. Thick, ropy veins coursed down his biceps, and Francois could tell he was angry, and not just from how he was woken up.

"A man I've never seen before, a younger constable, a big guy."

"I'll handle this," Artois said, rising to his feet. He alone cared what no one thought of him, and he had no fear of jail, either. Artois's quick temper and lack of concern for consequences was his most unique quality, and it was usually a bad one. Not today, though.

When they returned, Raul was still in the road with the constable. His nose was bleeding, and his pants were dusty and rumpled. He was breathing hard too. It was a strange situation, where Raul wouldn't attack the constable, and the man wouldn't let Raul leave. The crowd was still there, too, waiting to see how the scene played out. A low murmur began when Artois showed up, and he casually stepped between his father and the constable.

"Who are you?" the constable demanded. Artois didn't respond, sizing up the situation. Just because he beat up a constable wouldn't mean his Cathar-related father wouldn't be harassed in the future. There were witnesses too, so Artois couldn't kill the man, although that could happen accidentally. Artois had killed men with just blows from his hands before; he hated that he couldn't do that now. What was the point of winning a fight if you let the man live? He might rise up again in a few days, angry and vengeful.

"I'm taking my father home, you pig," Artois said, prompting laughter from the crowd. The constable's face reddened and he charged Artois, who ducked low and wrapped the man's legs with his arms. He effortlessly picked the enormous constable off the ground and walked over to a mud-pit. Fat pigs snorted a few feet away, watching the men. Artois dropped the constable in the mud and put his foot on the man's back, leaving him squirming, trying to stand. He couldn't, though, and Artois spat on him.