Talisman was watching him closely. “At the moment, on the border of Brittany.”
Many places, many times. “And… that river down there?” The more the mist cleared and the light grew, the stranger the world looked. For example, there was a structure in the distance—farther than the broken tower he’d glimpsed earlier—that looked very much like an old factory chimney.
“The river is the Sevre,” said Talisman, in the tones of one cautiously giving guidance. He turned his head and nodded in the other direction, away from the edge of the bluff. “And if we were to walk a few paces that way, we will find ourselves standing on the bank of a moat.”
“A moat.”
“I told you that I have been touring castles. Not of my own volition, unfortunately. I nave even revisited, briefly, my own former residence.” Talisman sighed. “And, before that, the house of evil that is now reconstructed on the Sauk. I saw it in its original location, where the earliest stones were set in place by men named Comorr and Falerin—ah, you have heard of those names, at least. From Nimue, I take it.”
“I’ve heard of them.” Simon moistened his lips. “I don’t want anything to do with them, or Nimue either. What now?”
Talisman gestured in the direction of the ruined tower, now once more partially visible through mists. “Now this. This was once part of a great domain—the Chateau Tiffauges. Does that name convey anything to you?”
“The name? No.” But ancient horror, preserved in time, still drifted with the mist.
“It should, perhaps.” Behind Talisman, as the morning fog dissipated further, the broken tower was once more to be seen. It was immense, like the stump of some bombed office building. “But we are obviously too late to see this establishment at the peak of its fame—if fame is the proper word. I deduce, from various considerations, that we are now standing sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century.”
Simon didn’t doubt it. Many place, many times. Looking away from the river now, he could see the regular depression in the land that Talisman had called a moat; it was deeper and wider than Simon had imagined moats to be. Great trees growing on the bottom of it had their crowns at his eye level. Beyond it he could just make out the vague shape of the keep, more than half ruined, not quite deserted. In one exposed interior corner a thatched hut had been built, and the voice of the singing peasant seemed to come from there.
A picture of something silvery, utterly beautiful, came and went in Simon’s mind. Almost he managed to grasp where it was. But before he could quite do that it was gone again. He turned toward the ruined chateau, stretching out one hand and letting it fall. “The Sword,” he murmured.
Talisman came a step closer to him. “Yes, that is what we are both seeking, are we not? We have both been sent here for that purpose, even if the one who sent me did not do so consciously. At first I was surprised by the idea that the Sword might be here—of all places.”
The last three words contained an emphasis that made Simon look more closely at the speaker. “I don’t understand. What is this place?”
“If Joan the Maid,” said Talisman, “once truly had the Sword in her hand—as I have come to believe she did—then what more natural than for her to leave it to one of her trusted lieutenants, a powerful man who could be expected to survive the English wars? On the other hand, it might have been stolen from her by such a man, who really saw in it no more than magic to be turned to his own advantage. And once it was in his hands, by gift or theft, he might well have brought it here, to the seat of his power, his personal dominion.” Falcon paused. “He was a Marshal of France, and his name was Gilles de Rais.”
TWENTY-FIVE
During the long hike Margie had formed a more or less definite mental picture of the Strong Fort. In her mind she saw it as something like a miniature castle. The reality was quite different: a broad and gentle hilltop, fortified by two concentric earth-and-timber walls, each higher than a man. Lush grass covered the lower portion of the hill, and still grew in patches between the broad paths and roads and barren spots that had been worn over most of the upper portion by feet and hooves and wagon wheels. The area surrounded by the inner wall was several acres in extent and contained two deep wells, plus enough simple buildings to qualify the place as a small town.
When Artos and his party arrived, escorting Margie and the Ladies, tents were already going up between and beside the permanent buildings, to help shelter the burgeoning population. The place was badly crowded, but Margie gathered that no one expected that to last for more than a few days. A big, decisive battle was expected soon, one in which Artos would of course thrash the invaders, among them his own traitorous bastard son Medraut. There was also low-voiced gossip about Artos’ wife, whom Margie had not yet seen. Her infidelity was an open secret.
Margie had not yet finished helping the Ladies get settled in their temporary House—the usual occupants had been moved into tents for the duration—when a man came with word that Artos wanted to see her at once. She found the leader dismounted, surrounded by people wanting to make reports and/or ask favors. But his business with Margie had evidently a high priority in his own mind. As soon as he saw her he raised his voice, putting off the others, and came to take her by the arm. His first words were: “I’ve not seen him yet, have you?”
She had no doubt of who Artos meant. “No, I’ve no idea where he is.”
“I’ve managed to find out that much, at least.”
Artos led her to the main street of the miniature town, a rutted road going straight out through the main gate of the inner wall; after that they walked a quarter-circle between walls, then out through the main gate of the outer defense. Despite his relatively short legs, Artos set a pace that was hard to match. He paused twice on the way to shout orders to workmen about defenses. He and Margie dodged incoming wagons laden with what Margie supposed must be food to sustain a siege, or military supplies of some sort. When they had got outside the outer wall, the scene still bustled with activity. More tents had been put up out here, as Margie had noted on her way in; she realized now that these must be temporary storage facilities for non-essentials, and housing of a sort for various hangers-on.
On the outer rim of this suburb, a number of men were gathered around a small lean-to tent, one side of it supported by a wagon; from the sour smells wafting from the direction of the tent. Margie realized that it must be the establishment of an itinerant wineseller. When some of the men saw Artos approaching, the little crowd dispersed like morning mist.
But for once the leader showed no interest in what his troops might be doing. There was an aged and mellowed dungheap not far from the wineseller’s tent, and a crumpled figure in clothing once fine, now badly stained, was taking advantage of its softness. Artos marched straight to the figure and turned it over. To Margie the face of the old man, dozing and drooling, looked definitely familiar; though he was younger now than the last time she’d seen him, his hair and beard not so far gone in moldy whiteness, indeed still containing broad streaks of black. It was borne in on her that once even this man had been truly young; and somehow that was one of the most eerie thoughts of all.
“Wake up,” said Artos, gently cuffing the old man’s face.
Ambrosius woke up. He looked at Artos, whether with comprehension or not would have been hard to say.
Artos said: “People tell me that you have some plan of going to Londinium.”
The old man grunted. He hardly glanced at Margie. His red-rimmed eyes were still the color of storm-cleared skies, but not yet deeply hooded by age-carved lids.