Chapter 7
The First Wager
They followed the river Po as it drifted to the east. The lands around Montferrat were rich and fertile. Green pastures filled with cattle, sheep, and horses covered the hills which rolled down to the valley and river. Bees hovered over the wildflowers returning to their hives hidden inside cleverly designed boxes. The boxes were tended by chandlers who lived with their families in small little wattle and daub huts. The bees provided honey which could be sold at the market and wax which could be made into high quality candles and sold to one of the many churches, the monastery of San Secondo di Terra Rossa, or the Benedictine abbey of Fruttuaria. The hive boxes and the chandlers’ huts bordered orchards where pigs rooted for windfall. Beyond the orchards wheat farms and vineyards clustered around tidy villages which were filled with small industries. Leather was tanned and made into boots and gloves. Wool was carded, spun, and woven into cloth. Logs cut in the forests floated down the river to be pulled into shore by men with hooks. They were hauled off by burly sawyers to be sawed into planks. The timber was turned into wagons, barrels, furniture, and house frames.
However, not all of the industry was for the quiet needs of the people. Some of the leather being tanned was turned into padded armor for infantry. Some of the wool would be made into a soldier’s sagum - a cloak to be worn on campaign. Some of the timber would be turned on a lathe and made into spear shafts. All the peasants were allowed to keep geese which provided eggs and meat for their owners, but the long gray goose feathers were the Margrave’s property. The best of these were carefully sewn on to quarrel shafts by fletchers who specialized in the art. Cyn came from a family of such craftsmen. His father was a fletcher and Cyn was as handy at the craft as any. Both of his uncles worked the wood which made crossbows, including the ones he carried. The March of Montferrat had a thriving cottage arms industry.
A duke ruled a duchy and of course a count ruled a county, but Montferrat was a march and therefore was ruled by a margrave. In most realms, a march was a territory which was on the border with a neighboring kingdom and therefore it typically saw a lot of conflict. The word itself, “march,” derived from Mars, the Roman god of war. Clever kings granted title of these contested areas to their most capable and trusted nobles, which was how the Aleramichi family, Margrave Guilhem’s extended clan, had some two hundred years ago risen to prominence in the Piedmont region of northern Italy. Their lands bordered the Holy Roman Empire which lay to the north and the Italian city states to the other compass points.
Margrave Guilhem was a vassal of Frederick Barbarosa, the Holy Roman Emperor. Barbarosa ruled Germany, but for almost thirty years he had been trying to extend his influence into Italy, sometimes through diplomacy, often through war. When the Margrave wasn’t actually fighting for his lord, he was supplying the Emperor’s armies with weapons, armor, horses, and food. In times of peace he also supplied the Italian cities - there was nothing wrong with their money. Both Conrad and Boniface kept a score of cavalry ready to hire out and make their own coin as well. As far as Margrave Guilhem was concerned, the long intermittent conflict was the best sort of war - not widespread and intense enough to disrupt trade, yet never secure enough for either side to stand down. As a result Montferrat flourished. Every barge poling its way down the river Po had to pay a percentage to the Margrave. Every wagonload of goods rolling through the hills of Montferrat on its way north or south was taxed.
The money came in useful. The Lord of Montferrat had ambitions. He wanted his sons to cease being vassals. His goal was for one of his sons to become a king in his own right. Which was why William Longsword’s marriage to the King of Jerusalem’s sister had been so perfect. After William fell ill and died Renier’s marriage to Maria Porphygenita had seemed promising. Now it had also ended with the death of one of Margrave Guilhem’s sons. Conrad and Boniface were both married to suitable, but non-royal women. His only hope for further ennobling his family now lay with his five year old grandson in Jerusalem. Baldwin V was heir to the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but would only be crowned if someone was able to look out for his interests.
Lord Guilhem's liege, the Western Emperor, was not at war with his neighbors, the Italian city states. Perhaps the shaky peace treaty signed five years earlier in Venice would hold sway. Pons was quite certain the Margrave would try to find an opportunity to travel to the Holy Land and see to his grandson’s future.
They were following a path along the side of a field full of placidly grazing milk cows when Cyn interrupted Pons’ thoughts. “So… where are we going?” he tried to sound as if he didn’t care where they were headed.
Pons shooed away a horsefly which was buzzing near his eyes. “Viqueria. We can spend the night at the red church. I know the priest. I’m going to make a little stop on the way there. I have some personal business to settle before we leave for God alone knows how long.”
Cyn frowned. “Si. We can make the red church easily by nightfall, but then where?” God alone knows how long. What did that mean?
“Then we keep going east. We’ll cross to the far bank of the river at Cremona, and then head to Venezia on the coast. I figure it will take about a week to get there. We’ll set an easy pace, no hurry. Not really.”
Cyn was delighted. Venice. He had heard about Venice, the canals, the cathedral, and most especially he had heard about the whores in Venice - and Lord Corrado had given him a bag of silver. For expenses. His face broke out into a huge grin. “I am going to get a lovely room at an inn with one of those big beds. Remember the one the Archbishop of Mainz had? As big as his. And then I’m gonna bring a girl upstairs with me. Maybe two.”
“No you won’t.” Pons interrupted. “That money has to stretch out for quite awhile. We’ll have to sell the horses and find passage on a ship. Take a couple of days.”
“Eh, so … we’re not going to Venezia?” Cyn’s grin faded.
“Oh, we’re going all right. But we’re only going to be there for one or two nights. I know some people there I need to talk to. Get some news.” Pons reached back to his saddlebag. One of the kitchen girls had given him a bundle as he was leaving. It contained a meat pie and a couple of hard boiled eggs. Good girl. Pons thought he’d save the pie for lunch and have the eggs now.
“Why, where are we going to go after we leave Venezia?
“Dyrrachium.”
“Dyrra-what? Where in all of Hell is that?”
“It is at the end of our boat ride. Durazzo. The Greeks call it Dyrrachium. It is the first imperial city we will come to.”
“The first?”
“Si. From Dyrrachim we will follow an old Roman road east across the mountains. There are some high passes, but it is summer so we should have no trouble. Eventually we will get to Thessaloniki on the opposite coast of Greece. Then we continue to follow the road along the coast all the way to Constantine’s City.”
Cyn looked dumbfounded, “You mean we’re going all the way to Constantinople. Christ Jesus. It must be a thousand miles from here.”
“I should think so.” Pons nodded. “Crossing the north of Greece has to be seven, maybe eight hundred miles. Sometimes you can see these little stone markers. They tell you how far you have to go.”
“Do you have any idea how sore my arse is going to be?” Cyn was an infrequent and indifferent rider. His tailbone was already starting to feel tender and he was still in familiar land not far from home. “It’s gonna take forever to get there.”
“Nah. Not forever. Be there in a month.” Pons was trying to peel a hard boiled egg but he required both hands. The reins were slack and he was guiding his horse with his knees.
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“So what’s the reason for our going at all? I mean why send us? Lord Rainier is dead. Nothing can be done about it. What task are we to perform there?”
Pons took a bite of the egg, chewed it carefully, and swallowed it. “We are going to be grave exchanging.”
“What’s that? Is it like grave digging’?” Cyn asked.
“Naw… you see, young Renier wasn’t given a Christian burial. Some fisherman planted him on a sandy beach outside of the city. This will be our first job. We’re to dig him up and see he gets a proper burial in a Latin church.” Pons put a finger into his mouth to fish out a fragment of eggshell which he flicked away.
“So… why send me with you? Why not travel south to Alba first? Fredrick is a priest and can even perform the funeral rite. Why is he not coming?”
“Make him dig up his own dead brother? No. Things will be far too dangerous for him in Constantinople. Besides, a man of faith is not needed for what comes after.”
“What comes after?”
“After the grave is empty - then we’re gonna put another body back into it.”
Cyn digested this in silence for a moment. He stood in the stirrups, adjusted his ass and then sat again. “Whose body are we going to put in the grave?” he finally asked.
“Well… This brings us to our second job. We’re going to put the man who killed our prince into that grave.”
Cyn paused to think for a moment as well. “Who then?”
“Dunno. But someone knows what happened. Someone will tell us.”
“Is that what the silver is for? In the bag he gave you? Bribes? To get men to talk?” Cyn guffawed. “Save Lord Guilhem some money. You need someone to talk? I can get them to talk. No problem. You cut someone’s nipple off and put it in their own mouth. Give ‘em a few minutes to chew over what is going to happen to them if they don’t start with some truth… right quick. And that’s just for starters. I ain’t even asked ‘em a single question yet.”
“Master torturer you are,” said Pons. “We won’t find out much if you go nipple slicing. No. These Greeks are a greedy lot - they won’t do a thing for you. Wouldn’t give you a dipperful of water if you had come walking out of the desert - unless you pay them for it. But… they can all be bought.”
“So - the reason for the coin? To give to some sneaky Greek so he will tell us who killed Lord Renier. Be reasonable, we are going to Venice, surely we can spend some of the money on whores.”
“No. You are free, however, to get a tumble based on your own charm and looks.” Pons paused to glance at Cyn. “If you can.”
“Oh ho. I reckon I can get the legs open on some girl before you, old man. Even without paying for it.”
“Doubt it.” Pons replied.
Cyn snorted, “Oh ho. You wanna bet?” The idea of Pons being able to attract a woman was laughable. Cyn was a fine looking man in his mid twenties. He had dark brown hair, a pleasing smile, and a healthy, broad shouldered physique. He was also quite proud of having a fetching smile featuring straight white teeth with no gaps. Pons on the other hand was a small wiry man well past his prime. His greasy hair, what was left of it, was almost always covered by a smelly leather cap with flaps which covered his severed right ear. He had lost the ear honestly enough in battle to a scimitar, or so he claimed. His wrinkled and weather beaten face seldom wore any expression other than a scowl, and the less said about his teeth the better.
“What bet? What you wanna bet about?”
“What bet?” Cyn said. “I’ll tell you what the bet is. I bet you I can get a woman before you?”
“‘Get a woman?’ What do you mean ‘get a woman?’” asked Pons.
“You know what I mean. Couple. Carnal, sinful knowledge. Fuck. And I’m not talkin’ about payin’ for it. Nor forcing her either. It has to be on her say so. On charm and good looks as you say.”
“What you gonna bet with, Lover Boy?”
“How about a silver bezant?”
“Ha,” Pons laughed. “I have a bag full, but you ain’t got any. That is Lord Guilhem’s coin in your bag, you may not go abettin’ with it.”
“What do I have that you want? Besides youth and good looks?”
Pons paused and rode a bit in silence as if pondering the question. What did Cyn have?
“How about labor? We have a long ride ahead of us. I say you must take care of the horses all the way to Constantinople. Feed and water them at the end of the day, saddle in the morning, unsaddle at night, set the pack horses, curry them all out at night, hobble, clean their frogs. For all horses all the way to Constantine’s great city.”
“Truly, you have gone as mad as wood if you think a decrepit old fart like you is going to get laid afore me. I’ll take your bet. I would love to have you as my groom. Each of us will care for our own horse and we’ll split care of the pack horses… until I get a skirt lifted, after which the job is all yours. I like it very much.” Cin toasted the bet with a swig of wine from a skin which my Lord Bonafachio had given to him before they left. He handed the skin to Pons. “So… on to Constantinople.”
“Si, but as of this moment, we are going to make a brief detour to stop at my mill.”
“Your mill. . ?”
“Si.”
“Since when have you owned a mill?”
“Oh, for many years now.” Pons reflected. “Ser Guilhem bestowed it and all of its income on me for saving his life.” He added a little glumly, “I do have to pay tax and tithe though.”
“When did you save his life?”
“Oh, ages ago. On the road to Damascus as it were. Or to be more accurate on the road back from Damascus.”
“And he gave you a mill?”
“Si.”
“But, you’re not a miller.”
“No. I hire them. I’ve had three since it came to me. One man, he worked for me for a long time, then he died. The next miller got his hand crushed, so he was no use. Now I’ve got this young fellow. I only ride out this way every now and then to kick his ass and make sure he isn’t robbing me too badly. It is a nice little bit of money for almost no work.”
The water mill stood on the bank of an unnamed little stream near where the Tani flowed into the Po. Quite a tidy little mill Cyn thought as they rode past the sheds where threshed grain would be stored. It was an easy wagon ride from at least a dozen large farms and a village. “Nice little bit of money indeed,” he muttered.
They dismounted and Cyn tied the horses at a post while Pons went to the mill’s door. The miller’s wife, a fine looking dark haired woman, opened it and explained her husband was upstream checking his fishing lines, but she expected him back shortly.
“Not too worry Love, we can get started and he can wait.” Pons indicated Cyn should remain at the door then he took the miller’s wife by the hand and led her inside to the loft.
Cyn was dumbfounded.
The bastard.
The randy old goat had tricked him. He had known he was going to get laid before he even made the bet. Cyn hoped the miller would wander home, find the two of ‘em at it and run the dirty bugger through with a pitchfork.
And then the miller was coming back. A brawny yokel in his early twenties ambling along the path by the stream. He paused, seeing Cyn in his livery, and asked if Captain Pons was with him.
Cyn pointed to the mill. A rhythmic banging noise came from within along with obvious moans. The miller sat down dejectedly on a bench outside the door. His shoulders slumped and Cyn thought he could see tears beginning to well in the man’s eyes. Cyn said nothing and the noise continued from inside the mill growing to a crescendo. The miller put his head in his hands and began to sob. Cyn felt distinctly awkward.
After Pons had finished in the loft with the miller’s wife he came outside. He mounted his horse and looked down at the miller. “I’m off for the rest of this year. Maybe next harvest as well, who knows.” The miller brightened a bit at this news.
“Before you get any ideas about how you can cheat me while I am gone, know my Lord’s steward will be looking in while I am gone. All the profits will go to him and then he will hold them for me until I return. If you cheat me of even one bushel of grain, I will know of it and you will answer to me when I return.”
The miller kept his eyes down, tugged his forelock and mumbled, “Yes, Capitini.”
They were about a mile down the road before Cyn remarked on what a lustful sinner Pons was and how his soul would stand in sore jeopardy on the day of his judgment. Pons smiled and looked not the least bit worried.
The travel was easy, even pleasant. They stayed in bed on rainy mornings rather than get drenched on the roads. In Cremona they lodged in a tavern owned by a retired soldier who had gone east on the ill fated Second Crusade to the Holy Land. Pons had been on the same campaign over thirty years ago. They were given a sausage, several jugs of wine, and the best room in the inn. They didn’t have to pay for anything. Cyn was delighted. Traveling with Pons certainly had its upside. Cyn pulled Pons aside and explained since they didn’t have to pay for the room or the wine… couldn’t that money then be spent on, perhaps a girl. After a few minutes of whining Pons gave in and consented to the expense, but only because he knew if he didn’t, he’d have to hear bitching about it all the way to Constantinople. The tavern owner even recommended a clean local girl. Pons sat up until late in the evening reminiscing with his old friend. The following day saw them both nursing hangovers and making few miles.