The Cross and the Dragon (49 page)

As he lunged toward his enemy, he tripped over a large rat scurrying through the rushes. He stumbled and cursed under his breath.

“A ghost would not stumble. You are alive!” Leaping to his feet, he snarled, “What black arts did you use? I stabbed you at Roncevaux, and you live. I put hemlock in your wine at Saint Stephen’s, and you live. I should have used mistletoe, but I needed all there was to slay a big man like Count Beringar.”

Hruodland swallowed back his bile, remembering the nightmares, the scrape of metal and the pain in his chest, the burning in his throat, his own paralysis.
It wasn’t a mere dream!
“One of us will die now,” he growled, drawing his sword.

Ganelon looked Hruodland up and down as he backed toward a table. “You are not so strong now, and my leg has healed,” he said, reaching for and drawing his sword. “I shall take great joy in smiting you.”

“Smite me?” Hruodland said, as he and Ganelon circled each other. “I doubt you even know how to fight a man who can strike back. You’re so cowardly you stab a cripple lying on the battlefield. I am not a cripple now. I’ve earned my scars.”

“Earn this,” Ganelon hissed. He rushed toward Hruodland, aiming his sword at his heart.

Hruodland parried the blow and then struck for Ganelon’s neck. Ganelon blocked Hruodland’s attempt with his weapon.

Sword clashed on sword, and the two rivals were heedless of what went on below.

* * * * *

Riding toward Ganelon’s castle, Alda heard a man calling, “Princess Alda! Princess Alda!”

Alda started and turned toward the voice. It sounded like one of the guards from the March of Brittany. She gasped when five guards emerged from the forest on horseback. Their faces wore looks of astonishment.

“Where is your lord?” she asked in Roman between breaths.

“He told us to wait out here, Princess,” one of the guards answered with a scowl. “He said a ghost would have no need of guards or servants.”

“Ghost or not, he has need of his wife. Come with me if you want him to live.”

“Thank you,” the guard said, beckoning the others to follow. “We are at your service.”

“Whatever happens, do not let Ganelon’s guards come to his master’s aid,” Alda said, first in Frankish, then in Roman.

Alda’s mind raced as she and her companions hurried to the postern. She had to think of a way to get inside with all these men.
A ghost would have no need of guards or servants.

She dismounted and told the guards to do the same. “Watch the horses and our belongings,” she said to the servant who drove the cart.

She pounded on the postern. When the shutter was drawn back, she recognized the castle guard from Ganelon’s visit to Drachenhaus. She stood on her toes to block his view of the men behind her.

“I am Alda, wife of Hruodland, the late prefect of the March of Brittany,” she said, masking her own terror. “Admit me, and Hruodland will haunt you no more.”

The guard was pale and trembling. “Are you a sorceress? Did you summon him here?”

“Yes. He is here to avenge the stain on my honor,” Alda spat. “Ganelon and those who helped him will pay.”

“Have mercy,” the guard cried. “I only did as I was ordered.”

“You will open the door at once,” she barked, “or I shall make your manhood shrivel and fall off.”

“No,” the guard wailed, “please, lady, I beg you…”

“Do as I say, or…”

Before Alda could finish the thought, the guard ducked and she heard the bar being lifted. Alda quickly stepped back and gestured to her warriors, mouthing “Now.” When the door opened a crack, her men thrust against it and forced it open. Alda rushed in behind them.

“Remember your promise,” Ganelon’s guard called after her.

Alda spat on him. The guard, shaking from head to toe, shrieked as if she had just sprayed venom.

“That is for your complicity in your master’s crime,” she growled. “If he had not escaped justice at Drachenhaus, my husband would not be here.” To one of her guards, she muttered, “Watch him.”

Alda and the guards from Drachenhaus and the March of Brittany barreled across the courtyard to the hall, whose door was wide open. Servants clothed in rags huddled against the walls. Ganelon’s guards, their backs to her, stood in front of a wolfhound, who bared his fangs and growled, barring the way up the stairs. She heard the scuffling of feet and metal scraping metal above her in the solar. She was too late. Always, always too late. But she had to try.

Ganelon’s bone-thin servants simply listened to the fight overhead and made no attempt to get past the dog and help their master.
The price of Ganelon’s cruelty,
Alda thought. She turned her attention to the guards in front of her.

One of Ganelon’s guards pointed to the wolfhound. “I tell you that is a hound from hell,” he said. “No living dog would obey a ghost. Try to slay him and your arm will fall off.”

“Sp-sp-spear it,” another guard sputtered. “I-it’s an ordinary dog.”

“Then
you
try to spear it,” a third man said, handing the weapon to the second man. “But it will be no use. You can’t kill it.”

The guards shifted their feet as if unable to decide if the snarling wolfhound before them came from this world or another.

A cry of pain came from the solar, and Alda’s heart rose.
Ganelon! Hruodland slew Ganelon!

“Guards! Come here!” Ganelon bellowed.

Before Ganelon’s guards could rush up the stairs, Alda’s men raced past her and attacked them. One hacked his enemy through the neck. Another ran a sword through one of Ganelon’s guards as he was starting to turn. The dog leapt into the fray, knocking down the man holding the spear, and stood on the man’s chest, growling and snapping at his face. The remainder of Ganelon’s men fought back but could not get to the stairs.

Alda sidled around the fighting men. Her attention was so fixed on the battle above, she hardly saw the bleeding woman she stepped over or the weeping maid. She hurried up the stairs.

Chapter 33

Surprised Ganelon would cry out over a flesh wound and torn sleeve, Hruodland did not see the dagger in Ganelon’s left hand until his enemy slashed at him. Hruodland jumped back, but the dagger skimmed his flesh and cut his forehead. Hruodland blinked back the blood and sweat that stung his eyes and drew his own dagger with his left hand.

Grunting, Ganelon raised his sword above his head and aimed for the middle of Hruodland’s skull. Hruodland blocked the blow with his sword and thrust his dagger at Ganelon’s gut. Ganelon sprang back, reeking of sweat.

Where are your guards, coward?
His heart pounding in his ears, Hruodland advanced, trying to hack his enemy’s neck from his shoulders.

Ganelon parried and thrust his dagger at Hruodland’s throat. Hruodland deflected the blow with his own weapon.

Baring his teeth, Ganelon raised his sword and again tried to split Hruodland’s skull. Hruodland blocked the blow and stepped back from the dagger pointed at his heart. His heel caught on an uneven plank under the rushes. He slipped and fell on his back, slamming his head against the wooden floor and losing his grip on his sword. Before Hruodland could react, Ganelon took a step and kicked him in the ribs.

“Beg for mercy,” his enemy sneered.

Hruodland gritted his teeth against the pain and rolled quickly onto his right side, the dagger in his left hand diving at Ganelon’s foot.

Ganelon stepped back and slashed at Hruodland’s wrist. Hruodland pulled his hand close to his chest as the sword sliced through the air.

Still holding the dagger in his left hand, Hruodland shifted his weight and reached for his sword with his right. Ganelon took a side step and tried to chop Hruodland’s hand. Hruodland pulled his right hand back and aimed to skewer Ganelon’s foot with the dagger in his left. Ganelon yelped and retreated out of Hruodland’s reach before the blow could connect.

Ganelon drew himself to his full height, turned, and raised his sword, aiming for Hruodland’s feet. “Go to hell in pieces!”

An unearthly shriek tore through the air. “No!”

“Alda!” Hruodland whispered.

Wearing the garb of a countess, she was standing at the top of the stairs screaming like an undead spirit. Ganelon’s head whipped toward the noise.

Calling Ganelon the vilest of names, Alda grabbed her eating knife and threw it straight at his heart, forcing him to lower his sword and duck. The knife sailed just over his head.

Hruodland tightened his grip on his dagger. He had to protect Alda at all costs.
If I die now, Ganelon will…
He didn’t dare finish the thought. Taking advantage of Ganelon’s distraction, he rolled out of his enemy’s reach. As Hruodland struggled to his feet, Ganelon looked back toward him.

“You sack of dung!” Ganelon shouted. He turned toward Hruodland and raised his sword again. “Your whore fights for you!”

“Muck-eating worm!” Hruodland spat, switching his dagger from his left hand to his right.

Screaming, Alda ran and grabbed the first object within reach, a candlestick with a burning candle, and hurled it. It hit Ganelon in the chest as he turned toward her.

“Bitch!” Ganelon yelled, looking toward her.

“Alda, get out!” Hruodland roared.

Hruodland lunged. Ganelon lunged as well, trying to impale Hruodland with his sword. Hruodland twisted to avoid his enemy’s weapon, but Ganelon’s sword ripped through his sleeve and bit into his left shoulder.

Barely feeling the pain, Hruodland saw only his enemy’s outstretched neck. “Yes!” he yelled. He plunged his dagger into Ganelon’s throat.

Blood burst from Ganelon’s great veins. Ganelon pitched forward, bearing Hruodland with him. They both crashed to the floor.

Alda raced to the fallen men. “Hruodland! Hruodland!” she screamed.

Hruodland pushed Ganelon aside and sat up, laughing giddily. “Alda, my dearling, my disobedient wife, did you think I was going to make you a widow?”

Alda knelt, kissed him, and held him close. “Don’t joke like that,” she sobbed. “I thought I was too late, I thought I was going to lose you again.”

“Don’t weep,” Hruodland said softly, holding her. She felt fragile. “I am here. I am well.”

“But you are bleeding.”

Hruodland looked at his shoulders and chest. He was covered with blood — Ganelon’s blood. He laughed again. “It isn’t my blood.”

He felt a trickle on his forehead and wiped it with his sleeve. The gash on his shoulder was not deep. He looked at Ganelon, lying face down in a spreading pool of blood. “I am better off than him. These are only flesh wounds, dearling.”

He had countless questions for Alda, but they could wait. A more urgent matter was at hand. He did not want to await the return of the guards who had left Ganelon’s castle earlier. They might decide to avenge their master’s death, and Hruodland was no match for all of them, even if he had his full strength.

“Let us leave the house of our enemy,” he said, as he and Alda rose to their feet.

Alda nodded numbly.

Retrieving his weapons, Hruodland realized he had another problem — how to get himself and Alda past the guards who had remained in Ganelon’s castle. When he had thought Alda was lost to him, he had cared only about getting into Ganelon’s castle and fighting him. He hadn’t planned an escape.

How in the world did Alda get past Ganelon’s men? There must have been ten of them downstairs.

Alda crept to the top of the stairs and listened for noises in the hall below their feet. It was eerily quiet.

Hruodland drew his sword and joined his wife.

“I don’t think that will be needed,” Alda said.

“Alda, if I cannot convince Ganelon’s men I am…”

“Our men might have already done away with Ganelon’s guards,” she interrupted.

“Our men?” he asked.

“You don’t think I came to Dormagen alone, do you?”

“I should have known. How many men did you bring?”