There Will Be Wolves (12 page)

“You
cannot
go, Father,” Ursula repeated. “The night air is foul with bad humors and dampness, and it will surely rain again before you can return. You must not go.”

The old man looked at Ursula helplessly. “But the count will insist. What am I to do?”

“I will go. Tell me how to do it, and I will prepare his medicine and take it to him.” Ursula reached into the tent and took up the bag.

“You? I don’t know … The count will not be pleased….” Master William’s voice faltered.

“It matters not one whit whether the count is pleased or not,” Ursula replied firmly. “If he
must
have his medicine, then he will have to take it from me.”

Determined as she had seemed, however, she did not feel so assured when she finally made for the count’s tent. She had not seen the count since the evening before they had left, except at a distance. The memory of his austere, formidable presence hung in her mind. It was with a great effort of will that she called out to the man guarding the tent flap when she arrived.

“Who goes there?” the man answered suspiciously. “What do you want here, wench?”

Ursula flushed with anger. “I am Master
William’s daughter,” she flashed back. “He is too ill to come to the count tonight. I have come in his stead to give the count his sleeping draught.”

The man peered at her, raising his torch high so that he could see her face. At that moment it began to rain again.

“Wait here,” he commanded. Sticking his torch into the soft earth beside the tent, he disappeared inside. It seemed like an interminably long time before he came out again. Ursula waited, getting wetter and wetter. To one side of the tent, a shelter had been erected and a fire burned underneath it. Several men crowded around it, but made no move to make room for her to shelter there as well. By the time the guard reappeared, Ursula was furious.

“You may come in,” he said grudgingly.

Ursula swept past him into the tent.

This tent was enormous. There was room enough inside for six men to stand and move around with ease. The count was alone, however. He lay relaxed on a pile of cushions at the back. Dry cushions, Ursula noted. Her chin rose and her eyes blazed as she stared at him.

“Where is your father, girl?” the count asked. His tone was insolent.

“He is ill, my lord. He cannot come tonight.” Ursula matched him insulting tone for tone.

“And am I, therefore, to be treated by a witch?”

“I am not a witch. My lord knows that as well as I.”

“You are saying the archbishop lied?” The count’s voice was now dangerously soft.

“I am saying the archbishop was given false information.” Ursula held his gaze, willing herself not to drop her eyes.

The count turned away contemptuously. “I will not be treated by you. Go, and send Master William to me.”

“He cannot come, my lord.” For the first time her voice wavered. “He
is
ill. Truly, my lord, he cannot come out tonight.”

He looked back at her. “You have my potion?” he asked.

“I have the herbs that he gives you with me. You can examine them yourself. All that needs to be done is to steep them in boiling water.”

The count held out one hand imperiously. Ursula reached into the sack and pulled out a packet of ground-up leaves. She gave it to him, furious with herself because she could not stop her hand from shaking. The count opened the packet and shook a small quantity of the powder into his hand. He narrowed his eyes, peered at it suspiciously, and then sniffed it.

“It would seem to be my usual medicine,” he said finally.

“It is, my lord. My father prepared it himself.”

The count hesitated, then seemed to come to a
decision. Ursula could see the desire in his eyes. The ground keck was a mild sedative, but Ursula knew that at the count’s insistence her father added a minute amount of ground field-poppy heads and their sap. Once a man drank of that, his need for it became greater and greater. Her father would not give it to his own patients, usually, but the count had become accustomed to receiving it from his own doctor and demanded it. Ursula had only found out about it when helping her father prepare the mixture that evening—now she knew why the count insisted on her father’s nightly visits.

  *  *  *  

When they finally reached the banks of the Danube, Ursula couldn’t believe her eyes. All her life she had heard tales of this almost legendary river. She had imagined it to be immense and powerful, dwarfing even the Rhine, but in front of her now was a mere trickle of water: a stream barely two men’s lengths wide and shallow enough to wade across with ease.

As they followed it eastward, however, toward the country of the Hungarians, the Danube began to grow. Other streams added their volume to it, the water deepened, and the channel widened until it became the impressive river that she had always believed it to be. It was wide and slow-flowing,
however, with fields on either side instead of hills. This made the going easier for them and provided them with good campgrounds at night.

Another problem arose, however. The mood of the villages they made their way through was gradually changing. Tales had gone ahead of them, warning the townspeople of the great numbers who were coming their way and of the destruction and waste they left behind. As well, the Crusaders were now running low on food and supplies and were no longer content merely to accept what was offered to them. In a few villages there had already been ugly incidents of theft and the use of force by members of the Crusade to get what they wanted.

One night, when Ursula returned from Count Emil’s tent, she found Bruno sitting up, waiting for her. There had been a strained tension between them ever since Ursula’s outburst over Elizabeth and Verity, but Bruno seemed to have forgotten it at this moment.

“There is evil news,” he said. They had been able to make a fire that evening in spite of a light rainfall during the day, and his face looked grim in the flickering shadows.

Ursula sank down beside him and stretched out her hands toward the warmth. She was exhausted and cold and hardly heard him.

“Do you remember that a nobleman named Walter Sans-Avoir, Walter-the-Penniless, started
out from Cologne with his own party a full two weeks before us?” Bruno asked.

“Yes, I do,” Ursula answered, still too full of her own thoughts to pay much attention to his words. Her father did not seem to be recovering, and Ursula had had to minister to the count every night. The coldness between her and the count had not abated, but she was gradually losing her fear of him. In its place was a growing contempt. The man’s weakness for her drugs demeaned him in her eyes. The long hours of driving in the wagon each day, and the time she had to spend ministering to his needs, however, were taking their toll.

“It seems that Walter’s men are suffering greater need than we are,” Bruno went on. “When they reached Semlin, in Hungary, some of his men robbed a bazaar. They were captured.”

Ursula looked at Bruno, suddenly alert. “Were they killed?”

“No, they were spared, but they were punished. They were stripped of their arms and even of their clothing. The men of Semlin hung the clothing on the walls as a warning, and to complete their humiliation, they sent the Crusaders across the river to rejoin Walter and his other soldiers naked. The townspeople of Semlin thought it a great joke, it seems, but Walter was enraged; he and his men are said now to be pillaging and ransacking the countryside mercilessly in revenge.
Not even good Christians are safe from their fury.”

“The townspeople will not welcome us when we arrive,” Ursula said thoughtfully.

And, indeed, as they progressed they found the villagers increasingly hostile to them. Not only were they no longer offering gifts of food or supplies, but doors were actually closed against them. Supplies dwindled alarmingly. Within the camp, robberies were occurring nightly. Matters became so desperate that, without telling Master William, Ursula and Bruno began taking turns staying awake during the night to guard their few possessions. Samson barked and raised an alarm whenever strangers appeared, but after Ursula discovered a piece of meat thrown on the ground by their fire, she began keeping him inside the tent at night. Meat was far too precious to be thrown away. A dog who protected his masters might well be deemed enough of a nuisance to poison.

There was worse to come. Walter and his men raided and murdered without pity when they reached Belgrade. The commander of that city fought back, however, and the townspeople, maddened with anger and despair, trapped several of Walter’s men in a church and burned them alive.

“In a church?” Bruno protested unbelievingly when they heard the news. His face was white and he looked sick.

Ursula’s mind immediately leaped back to the burning of the Jews in their temple in Mainz. Christians burning Jews, now Christians burning Christians—Crusaders! Was this what their holy pilgrimage was coming to?

“It seems you were right, Bruno,” she said bitterly. “And this is still the beginning. I would not blame you if you did leave us now.
You
are not bound to stay.” She honestly meant the words well, but they came out flat and cold. Bruno took them ill.

“You think I am so weak that I would leave you and your father as soon as danger threatens?” he burst out. “You must think badly of me for certain, then. I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me.”

“No! I meant not that! Please, Bruno …”

But this time it was Bruno’s turn to stalk angrily away.

  *  *  *  

Late one night, soon afterward, Ursula sat alone beside the remnants of the fire. It was her turn to keep watch. The rains had finally stopped and even the nights were warmer now, but in spite of that she shivered and drew her cloak close. Everything seemed to be going wrong, and the future stretched bleakly before her. Bruno had withdrawn further and further into himself and
would hardly speak to her. Every day, it seemed, there was word of fresh atrocities, and their own band of Crusaders was no exception. There had even been murder done within their own camp two nights before. And with every tale, Bruno’s face hardened and changed until she felt she could barely recognize the carefree boy who had helped her carry Samson home so long ago in Cologne.

Suddenly, a rustle in the bushes startled her. She leaped to her feet, ready to run, but a voice hissed out of the darkness.

“Please! Don’t be afraid. It is only I—Elizabeth.”

Heavily cloaked and hooded, a form emerged from the underbrush. Spilling out of the hood were long tendrils of golden hair. Ursula had heard the minstrels again in the evenings lately, but she had been too occupied with the count’s needs to go and see them. Now Elizabeth stood in the shadows before her. In her arms she held the body of the child, Verity, limp and, to all appearances, lifeless.

W
hat has happened?” Ursula reached for the child.

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment and then accepted Ursula’s help. Together they carefully laid Verity down on the ground and Ursula felt for the pulse of life that should be throbbing in the child’s neck. For an instant she couldn’t find it and her heart sank. Then her probing fingers felt a flutter. It was weak but steady.

“Ursula! What’s wrong?” Bruno had been awakened by the commotion and was standing over them.

Ursula immediately signaled him to silence. Elizabeth had startled at the sight of him and looked as if she was ready to flee.

“It’s all right,” Ursula reassured her. To Bruno she said quietly, “Bring me father’s herb bag out of the wagon. The child is hurt.”

As she worked over her, Verity’s eyes opened.
She looked up at Ursula and they widened with fright. Elizabeth whispered to her quickly in a language Ursula couldn’t understand. Verity clasped her mother’s hand tightly, watching Ursula fearfully, but she lay still.

“I’ll have to make a poultice,” Ursula said. “Bruno, will you put a kettle of water on the fire to boil?” She turned to Elizabeth. “She has a bad bruise on one side of her head. How did it happen?”

“She fell.” Elizabeth’s voice was defensive. She kept her eyes on her child and would not look at Ursula.

Ursula decided not to argue the matter at the moment. She busied herself making the poultice and applying it to the child’s head. When she finished she looked over at Elizabeth.

“Stay here with me tonight. I must keep watch over her to make certain she does not sleep too deeply. It’s dangerous, after a blow to the head such as she has suffered.”

“I cannot!” Elizabeth looked desperate. “Lemmet sleeps now—he doesn’t know I’m here. I must be back by the time he awakens.”

“Go, then, but leave Verity here with me.”

“But …” Elizabeth began again.

“She must not be moved any more than necessary,” Ursula said. “And she certainly must not be taken back within reach of that man.” For a moment the two young women almost glared at
each other. Then Elizabeth’s eyes dropped again.

“What shall I say?” she asked weakly.

Ursula’s patience gave out. “Tell him she’s ill,” she snapped. “Tell him anything you want, but leave that child here with me.”

Elizabeth looked as if she would argue further, but Ursula stared her down. Ursula might be the younger of the two, but it was clear she was the stronger. Elizabeth gave in. She bent toward her daughter and murmured a few soft words. The child immediately began to cry and clung to her. Elizabeth spoke to her again, gently disengaging her hands. When she rose, Verity made as if to go after her, but Ursula held her back. Just then Samson, alerted by the noise outside the tent, came out to investigate. He ambled over to the child on the ground, sniffed curiously, and licked her cheek. The child stopped in mid cry and looked at him in astonishment. Then she looked up at Ursula. In spite of herself, the wonderment in Verity’s eyes made Ursula smile.

“He’s just a dog, child,” she said gently. “Give him a pat. That’s what he wants.” She took Verity’s hand in her own and passed it over the dog’s scruffy head.

Verity flinched, but then, hesitantly, began to pat the dog on her own. Samson wagged his tail delightedly. Very slowly, a smile began at the corners of the child’s mouth as well.