“So it’s all on Maeve,” said Robert. “The whole damn history of Western civilization comes down to Maeve, on a horse, at midnight. She’s got to be the one to seal the bishop’s fate, and God only knows what she has to do, because I surely don’t have a clue…”
Chapter 20
She came upon the riders an hour later. Maeve had been picking herself through the gorse and thistle at the river’s edge, careful to steer wide of the thorns. Where was that damn ferry site? She should have found it by now, but the darkness and thickening clouds overhead confounded her effort. Then she saw a tree ahead, with a low bowed branch that leaned heavily over the river, and it stirred her with a moment of recognition.
She remembered turning south to evade any pursuit by the farmer, then coming upon the ferry shortly thereafter. Then she waded into the shallows and picked her way north, hoping to obscure her tracks. This tree, she knew, was the spot where she had stooped low to avoid the branch and emerged from the water’s edge to head inland again. She was very close now.
A moment later she was startled by a sound, a tinkling of a harness fitting and the neigh of another horse. Her heart leapt, thinking that the farmer had come all this way and was still fitfully searching the river’s edge for her—or worse, that he had managed to follow her tracks after all. Up ahead she saw shadows, perceived movement, glimpsed a brief glint of fleeting moonlight reflected off metal, and heard the muffled sound of horse hooves on the loamy ground. Who was this?
She looked around, thinking to hide herself in the heavy riverside growth, when another sound relieved her fears. It was a child, fussing at the edge of tears, then a woman’s voice speaking in soft, reassuring tones. Something drew her to face the travelers, and she nudged Kuhaylan slowly forward, singing to herself as she went so as to give the other party easy warning of her close proximity. Another part of her mind screamed at her. Why? What in the world are you doing? Be on your way and leave these poor people alone! Yet she felt herself pulled, as if by some strange magnetism that was more than idle curiosity or any desire to satisfy herself that there was no danger at hand. It was as if she simply had to go to them, greet them in the night, an appointment that was fated to happen long before she was born.
“Who is there?” The voice of a man quavered. “We are well armed!” he warned.
“Fear not,” she said in her best Latin. “Just another weary traveler in the night.” She drew closer, seeing a man and two women mounted on three horses. The women each held a child, one barely a toddler, the other a young yellow haired boy, eyes wide with apprehension as he looked at her. She instinctively smiled, throwing back her hood so as not to appear so mysteriously imposing. She recognized the man’s mount, the same old gray mare she had first purchased from the blacksmith and his livery, and it seemed to her the horse knew her as well, snorting quietly, its breath fogging the still, cold air.
“A woman alone at such an hour of the night?” said the man. Then his eyes searched about, with obvious uneasiness, a look of foreboding fear plain on his face.
Maeve knew exactly who this man was, for she caught a glimpse of his robe beneath the woolen brown riding cloak, and saw also the string of beads at his waist. She knew it was foolish to say anything more. Every instinct told her to turn and get as far away from these people as she possibly could, but she stared at him, transfixed for a moment, and somewhat breathless. “Landebertus?” she breathed.
The man started, as if he had hoped not to be recognized. “From whence have you come, woman? Have you seen other riders by the river this night?”
“No others,” said Maeve. “I was riding south seeking aid. My party was fallen upon by strangers and I alone escaped. Brigands and thieves they were. They have taken everything!” She had no idea where that story had come from, but it seemed convincing enough. “I was hoping to find the road again to seek lodging. It is very cold.”
The man smiled, noting the fine stature and well muscled lines of her mount. “You must be well off to afford such a horse as that one,” he pointed. “We are very near the river ferry, journeying east. Why not ride with us, my child, it is just south now, another mile further along the river. Then you may cross over with us, and we will lead you to safe quarters—see that you are fed and given to warm yourself by the fire.“ His voice was soft and reassuring. “It is not safe here, yes, other brigands are about this night, and they may be very near. You are certain you saw no other riders?”
“No one, your grace,” Maeve said, her voice breaking slightly. She looked at the women, one obviously a sister or perhaps even the bishop’s wife, who smiled, gently rocking her youngest where the child slept at her bosom. The other was a serving maid, her plump arms wrapped tightly around the waist of the young boy. These were the people she had come here to kill. Here they met death’s prophet on her white Arabian steed, and yet could think only of offering her safe passage and comfort. She looked at their faces, speechless for a moment, her mind and heart tormented by what she must now do.
“Most gracious thanks, father,” she whispered, “yet I must go south—to the main road. My companions will be seeking me out there in the morning. I cannot cross over with you…”
“Are you certain? It is very dark, a dangerous road at night for a woman alone.” Lambert extended an open hand. “Come with us, and you may return here in the morning; thence ride safely to meet those who wait for you.”
Tears began to well in Maeve’s eyes, and she could barely speak, throwing her riding hood up and over her honey red hair, hiding herself. “I cannot…” it was all she could say, as she pulled on the reins, turning Kuhaylan about. “Go with God, my bishop,” she said softly. “And may you rest in peace this night.”
She dug her heels into the horse’s flank and he leapt away, easing up to a canter as Maeve road swiftly south. Just a mile, she thought. The ferry was very near, and she must get to it in plenty of time to do what she had come here to do. She must get there before Lambert drew nigh, where darkness and silence would be her only companions, and the river would slip quietly by, unconcerned, unaware of her inner torment, and the yawning maw of guilt that opened to consume her heart.
Maeve reached the ferry, just north of the place where she had come upon the farm. It was still tethered to the low tree stump she had seen before. The Arabian had raced south like a banshee, eating up the last mile with a steady, powerful gait, but she had little time to spare. She slipped off the horse, throwing off the encumbering gown she wore to stand there in plain trousers, with a light leather jerkin top over a simple white shirt. Better, she thought, still holding the reins as she cautiously approached the edge of the river. The pale moonlight gleamed on the waters of the Meuse, and she was struck with the thought that this was not the same river she had seen here just a few hours ago, nor was she the same person.