The Songs of Adhartach

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

Level with the sign “The Falcon Hunt,” the man sprang from his horse and, with heavy blows of a gauntleted fist, roused all the inhabitants of the inn in the dead of night.

The host, a small, stocky man in a nightcap, with a torch in one hand and a kitchen knife—a clear close relative of a good sword—in the other, burst out at the noise, accompanied by four servants armed with the full arsenal of kitchenware.

The cause of the commotion heard scuffling behind the heavy wrought gates and shouted:

“Master Robien, open up. The Hound and the Torch, my good fellow.”

A small wicket in the gate opened, and a strip of torchlight lit the guest.

At once the gates swung open with a creak. Bowing frequently, the host and his household let the rider into the yard. A servant boy took the horse, wet from the run, and Master Robien led the night guest inside.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

All at once the broad passage ended, and Lucy walked straight into her companion’s back. A monastic service sounded so clear above them there could be no doubt: they were under the church, and ahead rose a gray stone wall.

“A dead end,” Amaury said, wrong-footed.

“What? Impossible! Did we miss a door in our hurry?” Lucy peppered him.

“I can’t make sense of it,” he muttered, baffled, and began feeling along the masonry.

Mark’s account · 4th century

Soaked and filthy, but alive, I reached the gates of Byzantion. The suspicious guards at first would not let me in—my appearance was too wretched.

I collapsed to my knees. Trembling and sobbing, I could not force out a word.

Still, fortune favored me.

Mark’s account · 4th century

I entered my thirtieth year as captain of the Little Goat, a merchant ship, in the port of Thessalonikeon, checking the progress of the loading before our morning departure for my native city.

Suddenly I heard a hail from the shore.

An old man, respectable yet somewhat sly in appearance, asked whether I was the ship’s captain. He fidgeted and glanced about nervously.

To tell the truth, I thought I was dealing with some criminal who wished to offer me a dubious bargain for stolen goods.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

Feeling the jester in his soul, the ruler of Novgorod slapped his chest, then drummed his soles with his palms so furiously—hopping from foot to foot—as if he were stamping out hellfire itself.

He was pure folk frenzy—singing, whirling like a swan, with hops and squat-kicks—beaming at himself the whole time.

He stamped, flung his arms wide, bulged his eyes, lolled his tongue—fixing himself in city memory as the local holy fool.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

On Christmas Eve, Mother struggled to free Zorya—just back from caroling—from clothes crusted with ice. She hurried a handful of nuts and rusks into the girl’s rosy hands and sternly ordered her to crawl behind the masonry oven into her sleeping nook and not show her nose till morning. To every question she only waved a hand: “Curiosity killed the cat.”

The girl snorted and a mischievous smile spread across her face. She was forever giggling, and Mother was always telling her, “You’ll laugh yourself into trouble! You can’t grin at the whole world—sorrow will fly right into your mouth”

But the little lass would just wave it off and keep on smiling.

If you spin on the holy night, pray as loud as you might— If demons sing their carols near, In the dark you’ll disappear.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

A line of tents, adorned with colorful ribbons, stretched along a wide road to a snow-white tent on a hill.

Along the way, mighty warriors in red cloaks, armed with spears and bows, glared sternly at the long procession of people who had come to bow before the grandson of the great Chinggis Khan.

At the foot of the hill, nine shamans, bells fastened to their robes, warded off evil spirits with their ritual motions.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

At last the signal was given.

Horses, held in till now, surged toward one another.

“The field is almost two thousand steps—room enough to work,” cried Thibaut of Navarre, the king’s young son-in-law, clapping with anticipation.

Riders yelled war cries and, at a full gallop, brandished swords, maces, and morning stars—tools for smashing, splitting, shattering: in short, for the efficient undoing of an enemy.

The crash of first contact.

The clash and ring of iron.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

Above a timbered platform rose a roughly hewn stake. Servants bustled round it with bundles of brushwood. Bernard de Caux, a great cross in hand, waited impatiently for the procession and gave last orders to the five monks with him.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

“And how am I to help you?” Doria asked, striking a playful pose. “Till I saw you, I felt as sound as a bull—though now my legs seem to weaken.”

He laughed at his own jest. Brother Guillermo did not.

“I’m afraid the news is grave, Signor Doria.”

“Speak.”

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

Exactly a month later, in midnight dark, a skiff cast off from a ship that had entered the bay and glided toward Castel dell’Ovo—Charles of Sicily’s residence in Naples—coming to rest on the swell beneath the looming walls.

The King of Sicily and Naples loved that grim stronghold, nicknamed “the Egg” by locals for its shape and rebuilt to meet seaborne attack. Its high sheer faces, its shadowed halls and secret passages, reminded the ruler of himself:

invincible, unbending, secretive.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

Trumpets sang, and a joyous cry flew along the strand: “Montjoie Saint-Denis!”

The king beckoned his younger brother, Alphonse of Poitiers, and the commander of the royal spearmen, Robert Malet de Graville.

“Gentlemen, no delay. Take your squadrons and storm that fortress of ancient Carthage. Surprise and shock will be your friends. The city holds the wells, without which this campaign will go hard for us. We will follow with the rest and make camp nearby.”

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

“Our men caught a Coptic Christian who swore there was an ambush in Mansurah. William Longespee, leader of the English Templars, the Grand Master Guillaume de Sonnac, and I went straight to the king’s brother.”

Hugues plucked a blade of grass, laid it on his calloused palm, and studied it while he gathered his thoughts.

“But Count d’Artois would hear none of it. He and the Englishman quarreled bitterly. Truth be told, there was talk they had already been at odds over spoil.”

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

“Perhaps. The Cathars did not rejoice for long. A few years later the French king’s troops entered the lands of Avignon—the last stronghold of our faith. I and two brothers of our community were taken prisoner. We prayed through the night, and at dawn they led me, blindfolded, to an empty tent nearby.”

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

Slowly making their way toward Grodno with the caravan, Zorya and Chetger Yarig began to talk, cautiously at first, then more freely, discovering how much they shared.

He understood her love of nature and the creatures of the forest. Whenever, lovingly combing his horse’s mane, he spoke raptly of the fresh steppe wind kicking up high whitecaps on the Itil River where sturgeon played, or of the songs of countless cicadas that lulled travelers in the cool of night—she caught herself thinking that behind the arrogant gaze was a kind, perceptive man.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

“And tell me, good man,” Amaury interrupted, surveying the empty dining hall, “do you have many guests?”

“No, Your Grace. Three gentlemen just departed. Perhaps you met them on the road? Wearing funny green caps? No? Well, no matter—nothing remarkable about them. You have the place to yourselves! Take any table you like. I’ll just see to the meal.”

The innkeeper had not exaggerated. Soon he returned, balancing a mountain of dishes and jugs. He deftly laid out steaming slices of venison and poured, into wooden cups, what he swore was the best ale in the district.

Chetger Yarig inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of meat, and set to with enthusiasm, while the others questioned the host about any recent oddities.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

On the brook’s bank lay a bound woman; long red hair spread round her like a crumpled, thin coverlet.

A long track scored the damp earth: she had crawled far to escape her tormentors.

Agnes sprang from the saddle, scooped cold water in her palms, and bathed the woman’s face and neck.

The poor soul moaned and writhed, trying to crawl farther.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

Two monks were dragging a balky donkey loaded with little casks.

Judging by the bees circling above them, they were coming back from the monastery meadow where they gathered the famed honey whose shortage Abbot Frisot had lamented in his letter. Now the stubborn animal flatly refused to leave the lush grass, and only brute force made it inch its way toward the abbey.

One monk was already drenched with sweat from trying to make the beast move to his will. The other, a novice by his age and habit, ran in circles and offered what he considered valuable advice.

“Brother Joseph, it seems to me you are not pulling this donkey, sent to test us, the right way,” the slender novice sang out yet again.

The characters’ journeys · 13th century

At last, through the curtain of rain, a small vessel appeared. Now soaring above the surging sea, now vanishing from sight, it drew steadily toward the shore.

Amaury picked his way down among the massive boulders to a narrow strip of beach, where, minutes later, a fishing boat shot out of the waves and buried itself deep in the dark sand.

Two shadows clambered out, gathered their few belongings, and headed toward the waiting knight.

Chetger Yarig’s childhood

In hushed stupor people watched the wild, unbridled power roar down on the boy, trailing a cloud of steppe dust.

There rose a common cry—or was it a sob?—and the women covered their faces in horror. The boy spun at the drum of hooves and, holding his left palm up, shouted at the onrushing horses:

“Stop, you there!”

A slender sun ray tore the unbroken cloud, and the child shone with glittering gold. Darkness drew back, and the light wrenched the crazed herd from half-gloom. Blinded by the sudden blaze—or stunned by so frail an obstacle as a human child—the great dun stallion screamed and reared. Then he shook his mane and turned the herd away from the brink.