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 Marge 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 Marge 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 Marge 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 Marge had not yet seen. Her infidelity was an open secret.
Marge 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 Marge 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 Marge dodged incoming wagons laden with what Marge 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 Marge 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. Marge 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 Marge 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 Marge. His red-rimmed eyes were still the color of storm-cleared skies, but not yet deeply hooded by age-carved lids.
Artos told him: “The roads are far from safe. And I can spare no escort for you. You understand that?”
“Understand that, of course I understand that.” Marge could recognize the voice at once. “But I do you no good by staying here. Not any more. And no one’s going to bother me on the road.”
