The Seeker - Finna's Quest Read online

  Brother Braylus stood as well. "After you scaled the wall, you opened a gate. Do you remember? Do you let the Crusaders in? When you return to the fighting, make your way to that gate and exit the city. From there, you can go to the hospital tent, which is far enough outside the walls to be safe. King Louis is staked out there with several of his men. They watched the conflict and will recognize you as the first Christian to scale the walls of Jerusalem. Until you board a ship bound for what we now call Italy, they will give you things to do that will keep you away from the fighting and therefore alive."

  “Do I die there?”

  “We have looked at some possibilities, but remember, when you left Jerusalem it was July 1099. We will live there thirty-eight years until your next mission begins. You and I have some time to work out the details of your redemption.”

  Knocking around for thirty-eight years? That was nuts. “Can you tell me where and when the next mission occurs?”

  Brother Braylus glanced at Father Horace who nodded.

  “Your real work begins in Vézelay, France, where you’ll meet this young woman during the summer of 1137.”

  1

  The Tournament

  Vézelay, France, 1137

  The destrier thundered toward her with Bromwell’s lance leveled at her heart. If this doesn’t kill me, my father

  will. Finna’s stomach cramped and her vision blurred. “No-o-o,” she growled through clenched teeth. She would not lose. She blinked to clear her vision, pressed her knees tight to her steed, and prayed to St. George to keep her arm steady. Bracing for impact, Finna held as tight her wooden lance as if it were made of precious Toledo steel.

  With an ear-splitting crash, the scene played out in slow motion. Her wooden lance splintered, and pieces of it flew before her like a shattered jug. White stars pirouetted in front of her eyes, and she listed to the right in her saddle. Bromwell, who always pinched, shoved, and yelled sexual insults at her, tipped sideways as well, only he didn't right himself. His horse reared and the bully, with arms flailing, continued his downward slide to land hard on the ground.

  She couldn’t believe it. She slowed her warhorse to a walk and patted herself all over, checking for injuries. I’m alive. She laughed out loud. She was alive, and Bromwell was face down in the mud.

 

  “What?” She looked around. St. George? She put her hand to her head, then shook herself and dismissed what she thought she'd heard. She'd beaten her tormenter in front of everyone. That was what was important. She'd shamed him. He'd have to leave her alone now. Joy filled her, and she guided her mount into a tight spin of celebration. Looking down at the muddy mess of humanity that had made her life hell every chance he got, she tried in vain to forgive him.

  He had tripped, hit, and taunted her not because she was a girl, but because he could get away with it. In his devious way, the sorry excuse of humanity had harassed everyone he could. Her lips drew into a grim straight line. He looked good down there, unconscious in a pile of horse shit. She’d dreamt of this day, of besting him, of humiliating him, and yes, of hurting him.

  She nudged him with the tip of her lance. He didn't open his eyes, and that concerned her. God’s Bones. She leaped from Trueblood to kneel beside him. Hovering her hand over his mouth as her father had taught her to do, she checked for his breath. Nothing. She'd wanted to beat the snot out of him, not kill him. Hoping he'd just had the air knocked out of him, she stood behind him and pulled him to a sitting position. She slapped his back until he coughed up something she didn't spend much time looking at. When he moaned and began complaining, she knew he'd live and dropped him back in the muck. Without a word, two of his friends appeared and carried him off.

  Preoccupied, Finna hadn’t registered the cheering, and when she looked around to see what was happening, it stopped. The silence somehow seemed even louder.

  A Templar in full armor and mounted on a white horse beckoned to her from the end of the list. The contrast of his shiny silver chain mail and pristine white outer shirt with the large red cross over his shoulder made her mud-encrusted squire's outfit all the more grubby.

  Father. He had expressly forbidden her to enter the contest.

  With little enthusiasm, she nudged her horse toward him. There would be hell to pay, and she wanted to run, but where? She raised her lance and lifted her chin. She was a champion. She had just won the squire's tournament. Although she knew it was a stretch to bother him again, she prayed to St. George, hoping he would smile on her.

  The crowd, sensing the drama, watched the unmoving Templar, whose protective face armor remained in place, giving him a sinister presence.

  For all she tried to avoid looking into the slit of his face armor, Finna could feel the weight of his piercing blue eyes. They drew her like a magnet. When he didn’t move, just held himself in check, he wasn’t just angry, he was furious. An infinitesimal hand motion directed her to ride next to him. He took her horse’s reins and drew her toward the reviewing stand. The sounds of cheers and whistles began slowly, as if from a distance, but in Finna’s head, only the words her father would use in telling her of his disappointment and anger buzzed in her ears.

  The knight remained mute, his broad shoulders and silence daunting as he guided their mounts slowly toward the covered viewing stand. When they stopped, he removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and bowed to the queen.

  Not father.

  She had been so sure that was who it was. The man had the same size and the same helmet as her father but was not him. Granted, it was only a short reprieve, but she breathed a sigh of relief, even knowing her punishment would be a sure thing.

  “Nod your head in a bow.”

  “What?” She’d been congratulating herself on her temporary escape and had not been paying attention.

  “Bow to the Queen.”

  Sarding eyes of Christ.

  Queen Eleanor and King Louis gazed down at her from the first row of the reviewing stand.

  She didn't know if she should get off her horse or not and eyed her companion for clues. Following the Knight's whispered instructions, she removed her helmet, and after taking off a glove and running a hand through her short-cropped golden hair, she dipped her head low in motion as close to a bow as she could manage astride her destrier. When the king snorted, she knew she'd blundered. He'd seen the delicate features of a young woman, not those of the emerging manhood of a young squire. Her heart stuttered in apprehension.

  She would be banned . . . or hung. She barely managed to raise her eyes apologetically to her queen. Again, her heart skipped a beat, only this time in surprise. The queen stood and applauded with a smile of delight.

  It would be all right. She had done what she had set out to do, to gain the admiration of the Queen.

  “Normally, the king and queen do not bother with the squire competition,” the knight beside her said in a voice only she could hear. “If the queen can ease the anger of the king at your transgression, you will be fortunate to have been seen.”

  At the queen’s signal, Finna lowered the point of her lance toward the monarch. She took deep breaths to quell her shaking hands and prayed her anxiety would not spook her horse, or unintentionally impale the queen. The queen. Her father couldn’t kill her now. Could he?

  Leaning forward, Eleanor tied a green ribbon to the tip of Finna’s lance from which a golden medallion hung. “Well done, champion.”

  Champion. Finna's heart sang. The queen thought she was a champion and the crowd roared in approval. She waved, and the crowd's roar grew in another wave of enthusiasm.

  It wasn’t until Finna left the rarified air of the fairgrounds that her euphoric state settled to practical matters. Now she would have to face her father.

  Godfrey’s wail drew her attention. “Finna, slow down.”

  After the knight had ridden off without a word, Finna entered the path into the woods that would take her south to her village and home. Godfrey, who had
squired for her, trailed behind. Giving him time to catch up, she dismounted and examined Trueblood's legs again. "You are my brave war horse, boy. You worked hard today." Rubbing his forehead and scratching his neck, she waited for Godfrey. As she hummed softly to her steed, her eye caught a movement in the woods off to the right, and her hand immediately dropped to the hilt of her knife. She continued humming while glancing carefully around until her eyes lit on what at first appeared to be a low gray boulder. It was not. It was a monk in a gray hooded robe sitting by the side of the road, apparently asleep.

  Strange.

  She checked on Godfrey, and when she looked back at the monk, he had vanished. Although she was tired and the day had been one filled with excitement and surprises, she was not prone to hallucinations. She scrutinized the area around her. Where had the man gone?

  “Wait for me.”

  Godfrey. She had momentarily forgotten him . . . And how slow he was. She waited for her short, somewhat chubby, companion to catch up.

  “I need a rest.” Godfrey stopped with his hands on his knees and bent over to take in needed air.

  She relented. After all, why should she hurry home only to for punishment? She’d disobeyed her father. God’s Bones He’d kill her. The refrain ricocheted around in her head until she shook herself.

  She took advantage of the stop, and she led her horse to the small stream that bordered the path. She thought Trueblood was limping and reached for his hind leg to check.

  Godfrey caught up and leaned against the trunk of a shade tree with the look of a sweaty, red-cheeked, boneless puppet. “I don’t know why we can’t ride double.”

  "I told you. Trueblood is tired, and I think he has come up a bit lame. We'll rest and imagine how pleasant ‘tis not to have Bromwell to worry about. Toss me the bag with my helmet. I’ll carry it.”

  With one arm, her squire pulled the bag from his shoulder and tossed it toward her feet as he shuffled to a moss-covered rock and, leaning against it, slowly slid to the ground. “You slammed that son of a swine to the mud. Bromwell never knew what hit him.” He laughed and continued regaling her on her victory. “Your father has taught you well. He was not the only one you downed, either. None of the other squires laid a lance on you in the jousting. Not in the archery competition, either. Your aim is nothing short of a miracle and—”

  “Tell me true, my squire, you go on as though you never wish to leave the soft moss and coolness of the boulder that has become your bed-board.”

  Godfrey's cheeks turned pink, but he persevered. "Not so. Your strength and speed defeated one and all. Your intelligence and ability with your left-hand turned their mistakes to your advantage." He pushed some dirt with his heel. "What happened to your knight? I thought he was taking you somewhere?"

  She waved a hand. "He went off, probability doing the Queen's business, but enough. You're in luck; I'll stay and rest." She smiled at him and gently punched his shoulder. "I must thank you for your help. ‘Twas you who borrowed three lances and you who shaved weight from them so I could hold them.” She poked him with her finger. “And you who thought of the strategy to deflect Bromwell’s lance so it would break rather than make a direct hit.”

  “But ‘twas you, Finna, who discovered that Bromwell always raised his chin just before contact allowing his helmet to shift and cover his eyes just before impact. You hit him proper.” Godfrey laughed aloud. “Yeah. I think you hurt him good, the bully. He deserved that and more for all the times he dumped me in the horse trough or sat me in a pile of cow shit.” His pained expression changed to one of pride. “If I were you, I’d brag to your father. I would think he’d be proud. After all, what was the point of all the training he gave you if not to use your skills?”

  She waved a hand in dismissal and stepped behind him to drag off her dirty squire’s tunic and gratefully pulled on the soft woolen shirt she wore when she did chores around the farm with her father. Her father. Now that she had won, it was certain he’d find out. She wanted to tell him first.

  2

  Finna’s Fear

  Reflection

  Finna exclaimed, ”That's stupid; he'll be proud of you. You won. You have a gold medal from the queen. She stood and applauded you.”

  There was no question Godfrey supported her. Finna slid her thumb under the green ribbon and lifted the shiny medal away from her chest so he could see it. “Yes, the Queen gave me this.” A grin spread across her face. “Did I tell you what she said?”

  “Only a thousand times.”

  “ ‘Well done, champion.’ That’s me. I’m the champion.” Joy seeped through her. She’d done it. She’d won.

  “So then, why would your father be angry with you? What’s his problem with you continuing in his footsteps as a fighter? He is, or at least he was, a Knights Templar. I thought once a Templar always a Templar.”

  “Well, yeah, sort of, but I’m a sarding woman, or haven’t you noticed. Besides, I’m not anyone’s squire. I lied when I applied to be in the tournament and claimed I was my father’s squire.”

  Godfrey’s eyes grew wide. “Then I’m blameworthy, too. I’m not a squire, but I pretended to be yours.”

  “Not the same, you don’t work for me. You are just a friend." She gathered the reins to Trueblood. "Are you rested enough? Can you keep up with me until we get home?"

  He frowned. “This moss covered stone is just the right shape to rest on. It gives me great back support, see?”

  “Only you don’t have back problems.” He was obviously reluctant to get started again. “Come on. Since you don’t work for me, I’ll carry another bag. Hand me the one holding my small weapons.” There wasn’t anything he got out the competition. She was lucky to have him as a friend.

  “All right. I’m ready if you don’t walk too fast and you tell me why this tournament was so very special to you, even when you knew you didn’t have your father’s permission. And no more about your father slitting your gullet. One way or another, you were going to do it.”

  “The tournament meant everything to me.”

  “You were in it for more than to get even with Bromwell.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “God’s Bones, Godfrey, of course.” Then she gave him a lopsided grin. “It was good, though, wasn’t it?”

  He returned her grin. “Yeah.”

  "All right, I'll tell you, but only if you swear not to laugh." She leaned down and put her nose practically on his face. "Do it."

  “All right. All right.” He raised his right hand. “I swear.”

  "I hoped my winning would come to the notice of Queen Eleanor and she would invite me to go with her on the crusade. I didn't know she would be watching."

  “The crusade?”

  "Don't be dense, Godfrey." She knew she wasn't fair. After all, he hadn't seen what she'd seen. "Queen Eleanor galloped through Vézelay with a group of magnificent women who were dressed like Amazons. It was to generate support for the coming Crusade. Did you get that? Women. They were amazing. Women warriors. They rode as one with their horses. When I saw that, I knew I wanted to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Are you paying attention? Has your brain dropped from your head? Don’t you get it? The queen is recruiting volunteers for her Women’s Crusade. Can you imagine it? The crusades. And I am going.”

  “Does your father know?”

  She scoffed. “Get with it, Godfrey. The queen said she would take three hundred women with her to be part of the crusade funded by the king. Don’t you think she would want a champion with her?”

  Godfrey scratched his head as he hefted his round body to his feet. “You want to go on a crusade and die?”

  She frowned at him. “I have no plans to die.”

  “Humph. No one does.” He reached behind him and picked up his bag. “And anyway, your father is going to kill you before then, isn’t he?”

  Before she could respond, something flew past Finna’s ear and bounced hard off Godfrey’s head. Grabb
ing her short sword from her hip, she wheeled around into a low crouch and searched the side of the road, looking for the culprit. Bromwell. She could smell his presence when he slowly advanced from under cover of the forest with two of his filthy cousins, whose halting gait and shifting eyes marked their uncertainty. All three wielded knives, a testament to expectations of a fight.

  “Too cowardly to come alone?” she asked.

  Finna was outnumbered. Blindly, she reached for Godfrey’s unconscious form and non-too-gently, put her hand over his mouth to see if he still breathed.

 

  What the hell?

  A voice rattled inside her head. Not understanding its origin, she nonetheless followed the directions. "What's the matter? Afraid of a girl?" Some brave front, yet the three adversaries hesitated, and Finna calculated an exit strategy. "Afraid you'll land face down in shit again, Bromwell?" Her eyes danced around the clearing as she evaluated the usefulness of each rock and tree, should the three gather their nerve and attack.

  Bromwell stepped forward and waved his blade at her, slashing the air close to her face.

  "That will cost you, Bromwell," Finna said, spinning away while keeping an eye on his despicable cousins, who bobbed around her. "Watch your back; this is a busy road."

  Bromwell turned to look, and Finna took advantage of his inattention to glance at Godfrey. He was breathing, but she didn't know how bad his wound was. There was a lot of blood. While her father had told her head wounds always bled a lot, she couldn't remember if that was a good thing or bad. She wanted to look more closely, but she didn't dare take her eyes off the three louts to check.

  Bromwell leered. “Three to one seems good odds to me, you little whore.”