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Authors: Karleen Bradford

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BOOK: There Will Be Wolves
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Ursula found her voice. “But Count Emil,
Father!” she burst out. “You cannot serve him. He is an evil man. He has brought untold misery to the people of this town. He helped the Crusaders kill David’s family!”

“I cannot believe that.” Master William’s face took on a stubborn look. “Bruno is a good boy and has helped me immeasurably, but I am certain he was wrong about that. Even if he were right, Count Emil is going on the Crusade, my daughter. The Crusade will cleanse him of his sins, too, as it will cleanse us of our sins to accompany him.”

“I am guilty of no such sins as he,” Ursula shot back. “I was unjustly accused!”

“Nevertheless, you were convicted. You were declared guilty of witchcraft by our own archbishop. If it was not for Count Emil, you would this very day be facing the stake.”

“I cannot go with that man! I
will
not! I’d rather—” Ursula stopped. Rather die, she had been going to say. But would she? The memory of the last few days rose bitterly into her mind. All at once she could smell the smoke again, taste it.

A knock interrupted them. Bruno peered in through the doorway. Ursula leaped to her feet, and Samson trotted over to greet him.

“Bruno! Have you heard …? But of course you have.”

“About the Crusade? Yes,” Bruno said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He reached
out both hands to Ursula. “I would that there had been some other way of saving you.”

  *  *  *  

The next day Ursula’s father started fussing the moment she awoke. He had been summoned to Count Emil and ordered to bring Ursula with him. It seemed that the count wanted to see this “witch” himself. Ursula was none too pleased with the tone of the message, but there was nothing to do but obey.

“We are invited to break fast with the count,” Master William said. “It is a great honor. Do hurry, Daughter, and make yourself presentable.” The main meal of the morning would be just before noon of the day.

When they were ready, they left the hut and walked toward the front entrance of the great house. Ursula steeled herself not to feel intimidated, but that was impossible. The size of the house alone was enough to frighten the boldest of people. She had no idea at all of what awaited her inside.

They were stopped at the door by a suspicious servant, but after giving their names they were led into an enormous dining hall. Ursula tried not to gape, although the magnificence around her was hard to ignore. Even the entrance to the hall was huge. Massive stone pillars rose on either side of
them, intricate mosaic tiling—reminiscent of the Roman villas from which the building materials had been scavenged—covered the floor. As the servant spoke to them, his voice echoed in spite of the tapestries and hangings that covered the walls.

The dining hall itself was even more grand. At one end stretched a long trestle table. Ursula could see the count and his lady seated there, with lesser nobles and friends to either side of him. Other long tables filled the room. As they entered, the count glanced up. He signaled them to draw near.

Master William swept off his cloth cap and held it in front of him as he approached the table. He seemed to shrink into himself as he got closer.

I am not frightened, Ursula thought defiantly. She held herself as tall as she could and walked with a steady step toward the count, chin high in the air. But, in spite of herself, she flushed as she realized that the people in the crowd around them were whispering, nudging each other, and pointing at them.

Even when sitting, the count gave an impression of dangerous strength. His hair was silvery gray, and he wore it long. His hands played constantly, nervously with the knife on the table in front of him. He seemed to be holding himself in—holding an immense reserve of energy in check. Ursula almost imagined him tensed to
spring at any moment. It was his eyes, however, that caught her. They were a very pale blue, almost gray, and they fixed on Ursula with a peculiar intensity.

“My lord,” Master William said with a small bow, “you do us great honor.”

“So this is your daughter, then?” the count answered, never taking those eyes from Ursula’s face.

It took every bit of Ursula’s willpower not to drop her own.

“Draw near, girl.”

Ursula stood her ground defiantly. Her father turned, flustered, and would have pushed her forward, but Ursula stood fast.

“I said, draw near. I would inspect more closely the witch who is to accompany us on our holy Crusade.”

Ursula’s hands clenched. She drew a deep breath. “I am no witch.”

There was a gasp throughout the room. The stuffing and cramming of food into mouths ceased momentarily.

“You were tried and sentenced by the archbishop himself,” the count answered smoothly. “Do you dare dispute the findings of the church? The church that, in its mercy, has allowed you the opportunity to redeem your sins?”

“I dispute nothing, but I know I am not a witch. I am a healer.”

The gasp grew into a murmur that swept through the room. The count frowned.

“Master William, it seems your daughter has learned nothing. Witch or not, the sin of pride spews out with every word she utters. Might it be I have erred in offering this salvation to her?” Although he spoke to her father, he stared still at Ursula.

Ursula’s father clutched her arm. “Forgive her, my lord. She is dazed. She knows not what she is saying. The events of the last few days…. The fear she has suffered …”

“Fear? I see little evidence this girl has suffered much from fear,” the count answered. His voice was silken, but cold. “Perhaps God in his wisdom will remedy that.” For a moment longer he held Ursula’s eyes with his own. That there was a battle going on here, Ursula had no doubt, but even if it were a battle she could not possibly win, she would not give in.

Suddenly releasing her, the count turned to her father. With a bored wave of his hand, as if tired of the conversation, he motioned them to a seat at the bottom of a nearby table. “Eat now,” he said.

By the time they sat down, the platters and bowls of food had been thoroughly picked over. Slices of stale bread were passed to them to use as plates. A bowl full of greasy broth, with a few unwanted lumps of fatty meat, was presented to them. Master William dipped in with his fingers and captured one lump. Then, seeing that Ursula
was not following his example, he procured another slab for her and put it on her bread.

“Eat, child. You must not insult our host.”

Ursula made no move to pick it up. “I do not eat leftovers at anyone’s table, Father,” she said contemptuously, but, although the food was less than appetizing, in truth her stomach was again knotted so tightly that eating would have been impossible.

That man is as evil as I believed, she thought bleakly. Perhaps even worse. What is to come of this?

The conversation, which had ceased when they sat down, began to flow again around them. No one addressed them directly. A few even made the sign against evil and edged discreetly away from them. If it had not been for her father, Ursula would have thrown her portion of food to the dogs that lurked under the tables and left.

  *  *  *  

It was late afternoon before they could get away and return to the stables. There they found everything bustling. The news had come that Peter the Hermit had determined to leave on the twenty-sixth of this month, April. Barely a week away! All must be made ready immediately.

For the next few days Ursula had little time to worry. All the herbs and ointments that had been
in their home had been lost in the fire, but the garden was untouched. She and her father gathered as much as they could, then scoured the hills and the fields around for whatever else they could harvest. It was the wrong time of year for picking plants that should be gathered in full bloom, but they had been given a horse-drawn wagon by the count and they transplanted many seedlings into boxes that could be stowed in it. With luck, some of them would flourish. On the last day at their house, Mistress Ingrid hovered around them like a pestering wasp.

“I’ll look after things here until you return, don’t you worry,” she assured Master William, ignoring Ursula.

I’m sure she will, Ursula thought sourly. She’ll be picking through the ruins for what she can steal the moment our backs have disappeared down the street—if she hasn’t already. Ursula tried to find the tabby cat, but there had been no sign of it since the fire, her father said, so she supposed it had found another source of milk. Fickle creature. But still, she reasoned, no different from anyone or anything else.

As they led the horse and herb-laden wagon up the street, Ursula turned for one last look at the rubble that used to be her home. When would she see it again? Would she ever see it again? The folk around the count’s house were talking as if Jerusalem were but a month’s trek away. A
month’s trek, a few weeks to chase out the Turks, and then, for those who chose to return, home again. Home by harvest time for certain, secure in the knowledge that they had done God’s will and God had forgiven them all their sins. And for those who had no home to return to, the promise of lands and properties such as they could never own here.

Nothing is that easy, Ursula thought warily. But she said nothing. No one spoke to her, anyway.

All was ready and the wagon loaded on the evening before the day set for their departure. Master William tended to the last-minute details in such a fluster of agitation that he nearly drove Ursula mad.

“Generous beyond all bounds, the count has been,” he kept assuring her. “He has given us provisions enough for a year, a fine cart, a horse! And I will have a sack of coins to pay me for my services. Silver coins! Enough to rebuild and set me up in my own business again when we return.”

Finally, Ursula exploded. “Coins! I have seen no coins! I’ll believe that when I see them.”

Her father fell silent. The stubborn look she was beginning to know too well stole over his face again. “I cannot discuss this now. I have things to see to,” he muttered, and left.

Alone save for Samson, Ursula stared morosely into the fire until a rustling at the doorway startled her. It was Bruno.

“May I come in? I have come to bid you farewell.”

At his words Ursula’s heart sank even lower. “You have not changed your mind, then.”

“You know I cannot join you,” he answered quietly. “This Crusade goes against everything I have ever believed as a Christian. There will be killing. Fighting and killing. In spite of what your father says, I cannot believe that to be right. I would to God there had been some other way to save you.”

Ursula poked at the embers without answering. They had been through this many times since her release. She could not argue with him.

Bruno threw himself down beside her. Samson crawled up to him and he scratched the dog absentmindedly behind the ears. “Where is your father?” he asked.

“He is off on some business of his own,” she replied. “He is so happy—so full of joy. He has convinced himself this will be a truly marvelous venture.”

They fell silent.

  *  *  *  

For a long time after Bruno left, Ursula remained by the fire. When the last embers finally died, she made no move to rekindle them. She was still there when her father returned.

“All is in readiness, Daughter,” he pronounced. “Tomorrow! Tomorrow we go on God’s journey!” He curled up on his pallet in the corner and his snores soon attested to the fact that, in spite of his excitement, he was asleep.

Ursula sat on. In the darkness Samson whimpered.

S
IX

T
hey were to meet by the river, outside the south wall of the city. Ursula and her father were up before dawn to feed the horse and finish loading the cart. When they were done and had harnessed the horse to it, Ursula lifted Samson and settled him into a kind of nest she had made for him from some old mats in the wagon bed right behind where she and her father would sit. Sacks of flour, bags of vegetables, oats for the horse, a quantity of other supplies, and their boxes of herbs took up most of the room. The wagon had no cover, but the count had also given them a sturdy tent; it occupied what little space was left over. Master William had been right on one account—the count had provisioned them well.

“You had better ride until that leg has finished healing, my friend,” Ursula said as she settled the animal down.

Beside the dog, two chickens squawked and flustered in a small wooden crate. Samson looked at them dubiously. Ursula took her place, her father gathered up the reins, and they were off. Neither Ursula nor her father had ever driven a wagon before, but the horse seemed to know what to do, so, except for guiding him where necessary, they left things up to him. He was plodding, but willing. Ursula’s father’s eyes were bright and he was still gripped with the excitement of the night before, but with every step the horse took, Ursula’s heart grew heavier. They were leaving the only home she had ever known. There was no place for her there now, but she could only think with dread of what might be to come.

She had known that many people were expected to join the Hermit, but even so she drew in a breath of astonishment when they passed through the Korn Gate and saw the multitude crowding the field below the city. There must have been thousands. Everything was in complete confusion. Nobles and their attendant soldiers milled around on horseback, shouting commands; carts and wagons were attempting to line up in some kind of order but with no apparent success. Cattle, terrified and lowing, were adding to the confusion. Donkeys brayed. As if the noise was not already enough, the bells began to peal for morning prayers. Ursula and her father drew
in at the edge and waited, wondering what to do. No one seemed to be in charge; no one seemed to be trying to impose any kind of order whatsoever.

Suddenly a cheer went up from those closest to the city walls. Peter appeared on his donkey. The cheer was picked up and echoed by the throng of people gathered there. A group of horsemen more splendidly garbed than the others, and armored in mail and leather jerkins, rode to meet him. Ursula recognized Count Emil. He and the other nobles formed a guard around the Hermit; their followers kept the others back. Peter surveyed the people gathered in the fields below him in the early morning dawn and stretched out his arms to them in blessing. He spoke a few words, but Ursula could not hear him. As the sun rose and the bells of Cologne pealed, priests passed through the horde of people. Mass was said. Ursula bowed her head to add her prayers to the rest but words wouldn’t come. For what should she pray? Success on their Crusade? Success would mean war and killing. The thought brought Bruno’s face into her mind, and she felt a pang of real, physical pain. He had become more than a friend to her in these last few days—would she ever see him again?

BOOK: There Will Be Wolves
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