He recognized the vulture.
The Spanish called it quebrantahuesos. Bone smasher.
And he knew why.
He抎 watched in awe many times while the great raptor had dropped its prey from the air onto rocks, breaking the bones and making it easier to get at the rich marrow. Strange that someone had taken the time to so beautifully depict such a predator here. Below the bird were letters. Not of a language he knew, though he recognized the Arabic symbols. Around him the rock crannies groaned from the wind. He was deciding on what next to do when the stillness was disturbed by a low swoosh that quickly grew in intensity.
He knew the sound well.
Arrows piercing the air.
In the next instant three tips sucked into the earth just ahead of him.
His head whirled around.
The Moors had rounded a bend in the trail and were fast approaching. He urged his horse forward. Their first shot had been off, but they would be more accurate with the next folly. He allowed his right hand to drift from the reins to make sure that his battle-ax was still held by its leather strap to the saddle. He might soon need the weapon.
He entered the mountain pass.
To his left rose glaring white cliffs. Box brush clung to every crevice. An inky-black forest loomed to his right. He almost diverted the horse into the trees, but his lead on the Moors was good and he thought he might be able to outrun them. He had to be either over or near the border, and he doubted the Moors would follow him into French territory.
He rounded a bend in the trail and ducked beneath an outstretched limb. His horse was in full gallop, the hooves skimming across the hard ground. He saw another of the carved vultures in a trunk ahead, along with more Arabic symbols. Just as he passed the tree the horse抯 front legs found a soft patch of shale and together they plummeted toward the ground. He knew what was coming, so he leaped as the animal pounded the earth and hoped his suit of mail would protect him from the worst of the fall.
He slammed into the hardpan next to the horse. While he rolled left, the horse tumbled on, a sickening whelp signaling that the animal was in pain. He somersaulted several times. Chain mail dug into his sheepskin shirt. He brought his arms to his head and shielded his face from rocks as he careened off the trail. He continued to tumble until finally coming to rest against the gnarly roots of one of the beeches.
He sat still for a moment and assessed the damage. There was pain, a multitude of cuts and scrapes, but nothing excruciating. He tested his arms and legs. Nothing seemed broken. He moved his head from side to side. His neck was unaffected. Jesus, almighty God. He抎 been lucky. The smell of mold and moss filled his nostrils. He immediately listened for sounds of the Moors.
But there was nothing.
The thought of his pursuers roused him to his feet.
He pushed back the coif and allowed the hood to droop onto the nape of his sweaty neck. He swiped blood from his brow, then staggered back to the trail. The horse was on its feet, ready.
What a tough stallion.
He looked to the right.
The Moors were farther down the trail, still atop their mounts, simply watching him. Thankfully, they were far enough away that their bows would be useless. He waited for them to charge. He would be easy prey since both his sword and ax were with the horse. Good thing. He might not have survived the fall with those strapped to his waist. He stared at his enemy and decided that if they advanced, he would flee into the woods and take his chances. Perhaps he could disarm one of them and gain a weapon.
揟hey will not come forward,?a voice said from behind him.
The language was Occitan.
He turned and spied a black-garbed nun who stood alone in the center of the trail. No feature on her face betrayed a shred of fear or anxiety. Odd. He could not decide which was the greater threat梩he known antagonists or this out-of-place character.
揥hat do you mean??he said, staying with Occitan, then turned his attention back to the Moors.
揟hey will not come forward,?she said again.
He did not take his eyes off the riotous band.
揟here is no danger,?the nun declared, the words calm, like the echo of a voice from heaven.
揟hey are a mighty danger,?he made clear.
揘ot here.?
But he was unconvinced.
So he decided to test the declaration.
He took a few steps forward and raised his arms above his head. He crisscrossed them back and forth and screamed at the horsemen in the language of Aragon, which they would surely understand. 揅ome forward, you cowards, and do battle.?
They did not accept his offer.
揂re you afraid of a single man, unarmed? Of a nun??
No response came from their dark, scathed faces.
He lowered his arms.