#8b
Serbia : October 1419
They heard the horses splashing in the mud up the street. This interminable approach was the only sound to wade through the deep silence. Everyone was imagining the upcoming bloodthirsty army. The old Marya fainted, falling down right in the dirt. Her husband fell on his knees and tried to comfort her, but no one else really cared.
Finally, they appeared on the little place. Father Gorny quickly assessed their strength around a dozen horsemen. Their horses were surprisingly small in comparison with battle steeds. The soldiers themselves didn’t wear armours, but ample bright colourful, albeit stained clothes. Their sabres weren’t shorter for that, not to mention that creases of their coats divulged light chainmails. The priest was no fool: he knew these soldiers could probably dispose of fifth, or even tenth their numbers of amateur fighters.
The most surprising was the men themselves though. They had no salient cheek bones and their skin was more soft red than pale olive greenish as the villagers would have expected. In fact, these soldiers could have been their neighbours from the next valley. “Mercenaries” was the first thought to cross Gorny’s mind. But he did not know if it was good or bad news.
The small host stopped a few feet away from the shivering elders. Their leader, a colossus wearing a furnished black beard calmly took a look around him, peering through the wide open doors and progressively frowning his nose in disdain. Father Gorny would have bet that even a thorough plunder of the village could not gather enough to buy the equipment for a single mercenary. The visitors obviously came to the same conclusion.
“I suppose you’re the one in charge here?”
The mercenary’s serbian was approximate, but understandable in spite of a strong accent. Father Gorny tried to show assurance and dignity, but could not prevent a little voice in his head from repeating him that those infidels didn’t care about his status.
“Well, I assume this function in practice, yes.”
“It must be difficult to lead a hamlet where only decaying people live…”
The smile was not exactly friendly, but not truly evil either. Gorny smiled back, adding:
“We all have our personal cross to carry, don’t we?”
He immediately regretted his remark, but the infidel didn’t seem to care anyway.
“Indeed. Mine is that we are to spend a few days here. Are there decent stables in this… place?”
Gorny was relieved. The soldiers would not bother asking questions like this one if they had come for the killing. He decided that co-operation would be the best chance of survival for his community.
“There are stables in our lord’s manor. They’re in good condition and almost empty, but I’m not sure if they can shelter all your mounts at a time.”
“Where is this manor? Who’s your lord?”
“I have better lead you the way. Our lord is the Baron Gimnec. He’s brave, but ageing.”
The mercenary captain stared again at the elders and muttered:
“Oh my, no wonder that Europe is slumping. Let’s go, but watch your steps, I would show no mercy in case of treachery.”
Father Gorny did not bother to answer, he was just eager to leave the village before the men could have time to be back from the fields. He walked at a brisk pace in direction of the orchards, uphill. The horsemen came in his steps in a single file. They did not progress very fast for the ground was muddy. The path had been disrupted in a few spots by rain streams. The slope was steep but not to the point of being dangerous and dead leaves formed a mellow carpet. Still, the soldiers decided to dismount approximately half-way up the hill.
“Your lord surely doesn’t get out of his manor often, does he?”
“He has been unable to ride for years now, and his son… Well, his son is gone.”
The priest noticed that the threatening wall had finally collapsed, covering the trail with a heap of earth and rocks. They had to circle it and go through the apple-trees.
They finally arrived in view of the manor. The top of the hill surrounding the building was naked, allowing the view to freely encompass both valleys below. The column followed the narrow crest leading to the gate. Father Gorny took his walking stick firmly in hands and warned the mercenaries:
“Please, wait a minute, I have a detail to deal with.”
He stepped in the courtyard. The assault came swiftly in a blur of shrieks. But the priest was ready and his weapon hit the gander at the base of the neck. The beast turned tail, but Father Gorny chased him away with a few more blows in order to deter him for the whole day, hopefully.
The dumbfounded soldiers stood still a few seconds, watching the panting beardy priest in furs running after a big yelling white bird, both of them equally twirling. Then a burst of laugh ran through the beholders. Their commander stepped in and still laughing, put a hand on Gorny’s shoulder.
“You should become a soldier!”
“No way. I’m a shepherd of souls. And obviously, a shepherd has to handle a club properly.”
He took a few inspirations and pursued:
“Look, here are the stables.”
The captain dubiously sized the building up and finally nodded. He turned to his men and snapped a few orders that Gorny did not understand. It was Turkish, as far as he could tell.
“Now, I suppose we should pay a visit to your lord.”
“Of course.”
Father Gorny went to the main building’s door and knocked heavily. Light footsteps came from inside. Blood withdrawn from the priest’s face. Lena! He had completely forgotten Lena! Poor maid, what will befall of her with all this men at arms in the house of her master? She opened the door. Gorny just caught a surprised glow in her eyes before she bent her head as usual. The mercenary was surprised too. A saucy smile grew on his lips:
“Looks like your old lord has kept the only young woman for his own needs. Interesting…”
She stepped aside and both men walked in the main room.
Baron Gimnec looked at them, stood as quickly as he could, faced the mercenary captain and saluted:
“Çavuş!”