Iron Heart

“Once more, Dardaine,” commanded a voice with authority.

Four strong hands dunked my head beneath the water and held it there for a good while. All I could hear was the rush of water in my ears, and when my lungs could bear it no longer, I began to thrash weakly. At last, they allowed me to breathe.

“He's sputtering like a cat,” a girl's voice rang out with laughter.

“And he even puked into the trough. Animal.”

“I'm blind,” I lamented, for through the slits of my eyelids, all I could see was an occasional flicker of darkness. I hadn't drunk myself into oblivion, but into blindness! I knew this day would come.

“What did he say?”

“He says he's blind.”

“It is night,” the commander announced laconically.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” lamented a pleading, raspy voice, which even in my state I recognized as Jauvert, the servant. “You cannot do this, drowning our guests! This is the house of Master Olben, the esteemed and wealthy merchant and patron! I shall call the watch!”

“Call your master instead, bondsman. I'm surprised the commotion hasn't roused him already. Is he even home?”

“I am a free man, if you please,” Jauvert retorted coolly. “The master is… ah… indisposed.”

“Ah, whatever that means, it likely involves wine,” the commander surmised. “Stand here, man, do not call the watch. Captain LaLande, at the behest of Lord La Trémoille, Count of Poitou. See? We are no rogues, but the extended arm of the nobility. Dardaine, have a look at our friend here; perhaps he has regained his senses.”

I received a slap that made my ears ring.

“Are you awake now? What is your name? Your name,” Dardaine enunciated impatiently.

“Nothing. He's full as a tick. It'll take until morning,” sighed the girl.

“We don't have that much time, the count is in a hurry,” Dardaine reminded. “Back in the water?”

“No violence!” Jauvert shrieked. “You burst into a stranger's house in the dead of night, drag out the guests, beat them in the courtyard… are you knights or bandits?”

“If he could walk, we wouldn't have to drag him, thank you very much. He weighs as much as two barrels of beer,” Dardaine grumbled irritably.

“Do not stand in our way, good man, we must make certain we have the right guest,” LaLande moderated the dispute in his own manner.

“I told you, it's Master Harald!” Jauvert exclaimed.

“Harald the Norseman?”

“My master hosts no other Harald.”

“Still, I'd like to hear it from him,” LaLande decided. “Dardaine?”

“Built like a bear, nearly bald head, full beard. Matches the description. And look here, a pagan symbol.”

I felt Dardaine pull open my tunic, revealing the golden Mjöllnir hanging around my neck.

“God’s wounds!” LaLande muttered. “He cannot see, he cannot stand, and he speaks nonsense—he's no use in such a state. And we certainly don’t need him dying on us… Gal, run to the ponthouse and fetch the draught… you know where it is. Here’s the key.”

LaLande’s voice approached, and he grabbed me by the chin.

“And you, drunkard. Do you remember anything at all? Damn you, you’re nothing but trouble!”

***

Minstrel Desiens scowled at his lute, clearly dissatisfied with the verses that were slowly taking shape, and bolstered his muse with a generous gulp of wine. He completely missed the fact that he had spilled it all over his open velvet cloak. He had been nurturing his muse since the evening bell of the previous day, but inspiration remained stubbornly elusive. What was meant to be a continuation of Le Chanson de Arnulf de Reims, the artist's famous song, was proving difficult to bring forth. I had known the bard only since the start of our drinking bout, but thanks to his innate loquacity, I already knew that the continuation was being composed on commission for a rapidly approaching celebration.

“I shall name the ballad Enfances de Arnulf de Reims,” Desiens mumbled, murmuring the verses to himself and counting on his fingers. “And then I shall compose a continuation... the conclusion... Fin d’Arnulf...”

I was sprawled on a massive cross-backed chair in Olben's wine cellar, supporting my head with one hand and holding a goblet in the other, slowly drowning my senses. The last few days had passed in much the same manner. I was taking a well-earned break after a long and arduous expedition to the Burgundian mountains, where my life had been at serious risk. I had made it out on my own two feet, but many others had not been so fortunate. Since the memories left a bitter taste, I chose to wash them down.

My old acquaintance, the merchant Olben, knew well how to treat us. At that moment, I was drinking Saunoir vintage from Olben’s vineyards in Montargis—the year of King Charles's ascension to the Frankish throne. Few men in my life have I been able to call friends, but Olben belonged to that lean company. He had once pulled me from the gutter, and in return, I had saved his livelihood. Since then, we had indulged in such revelries whenever the opportunity arose.

Olben’s heavy hand fell on my shoulder, and only then did I realize that the corpulent merchant had been noisily rummaging through some junk in the back of the spacious cellar. Somewhere behind the barricade of barrels that had been sustaining us.

“Harla… Harald!” he called out as if seeing me for the first time today, his tongue tripping. “Look at this!”

With the hem of his quilted tunic—which would have cost an average craftsman a season's earnings—he wiped the layer of dust from a black bulbous bottle sealed with yellow wax. The bottle was made from cracked glazed clay, giving it an air of rarity. I extended my empty goblet, nudged the dozing troubadour with the tip of my boot, and waited while Olben and his knife struggled with the cork.

“Gentlemen, you have the honor of tasting the drink of kings! This elixir hails from the time of our illustrious and late Emperor Charles, known as the Great, which, as you know, had nothing to do with the size of his…”

“Shame on you! To think and speak thus of the greatest ruler since the fall of the Roman Empire!” The minstrel, stirred by a zealous historical fervor, plucked a protest note from his lute.

“…the size of his generosity,” Olben finished wryly. “Nevertheless, apart from expenses on campaigns, education, and faith, he occasionally dropped a coin or two on more noble and useful endeavors, such as viticulture.”

Cautiously, I sniffed the dark red, nearly black liquid. I wasn't yet so inebriated that I would trust something fermented so many years ago.

“I’m not so sure about this,” I doubted. “Are you saying this wine is one hundred and fifty or however many years old?”

Desiens stared into his goblet with the same distrust as I just had.. I wondered if the drink of kings would finally have the desired effect on his creativity.

“I may have embellished that a bit… the wine, no. The vineyard, yes.” Olben shrugged. “The drink itself is probably half that.”

“This is not ordinary wine!” the minstrel exclaimed after cautiously tasting it.

“Fortified and preserved to perfection. My grandfather was a genius.”

Olben smiled triumphantly and filled our cups with the thick, heavenly-scented liquid. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be getting out of bed tomorrow, but it never crossed my mind that I was on the brink of days that I would come to remember as the most hectic of my life.

***

“I remember,” I managed to say, my words slurred.

“I thought he was done for,” Dardaine muttered under his breath

“Captain, here.” Galswinth finally arrived, panting, and LaLande forced something between my teeth.

“Open your mouth! Or I’ll pry your jaw open with my dagger… hold him still...”

I was in no state to resist. The foul potion, tasting like boiled pond scum, instantly made me gag. I doubled over, retching. It took a while, but slowly, some sense of coordination, speech, and even a bit of clarity returned to me. The world around me stopped blending into strange, shifting smudges and settled into the shapes of two men, a fair-haired maiden, and Jauvert. They all watched me closely—the girl with a hint of amusement, Jauvert with worry, and Dardaine and LaLande with expressions that promised a good thrashing if I didn’t pull myself together. I splashed some water on my face, rinsed my mouth, and sat on the edge of the horse trough where they’d just been dunking me.

“Hel herself owed me that rude awakening,” I cursed. “Couldn’t you have waited until morning?”

“It is morning,” LaLande pointed out laconically.

“Ah,” I said, scratching my head. “So, what do you want?”

“Can you walk, Master Harald?”

“I’ve not forgotten how,” I guessed. “Where do you mean to drag me at this hour?”

LaLande turned and pointed above the rooftops of Paris, where, under the moon’s glow, the towering walls of the Conciergerie stood. The narrow windows of the royal fortress gleamed from the shadowed, silver-washed stone, like the ghostly lights of marsh spirits lurking in a dark fen.

***

The Parisian night was pleasantly mild, and it must have rained earlier, as the ground squelched underfoot. A sudden summer downpour had briefly cleansed the streets, whose edges served as one vast open sewer. The stench of the city was something I could usually tolerate only for a limited time.

Despite the concoction—the ingredients of which I preferred not to question—the surroundings still wavered slightly before my eyes, so I kept my focus on the solid outlines of my escorts. It was hard not to notice that Dardaine, Galswinth, and their captain bore a striking resemblance to one another in their unassuming appearances. They wore snug breeches and long-sleeved tunics, with knives and common pouches hung from sturdy belts. Their saies, short Frankish cloaks, were fastened at the left shoulder with plain bronze brooches for easy access to swords they did not carry, and they also served to conceal long daggers strapped horizontally across their backs. Everything was in ordinary, dark, faded hues—worn, but not to the point of disrepair or disrespectability.

I had to smile. They moved with military efficiency—the captain close behind my right shoulder, Dardaine to my left a few steps ahead, and Galswinth further in the lead. They knew their craft, trained and practiced in working as a unit. They blended in seamlessly and would pass unnoticed in both the countryside and most of Paris’s neighborhoods. In a crowd, they would be difficult to pick out.

We made our way through the center along the cobbled rue Saint-Jacques and crossed onto the Grand Pont, Paris’s largest bridge. Like many places in the city, construction was underway here as well. Half-built walls, pulleys, stones, and other building paraphernalia bore witness to the seriousness of the ongoing projects. To own a house on the Grand Pont was no small thing these days; even Olben fancied the thought. From the bridge to the royal castle on Île de la Cité was but a stone’s throw, and the nobility gladly flocked to the heart of the fray.

The Conciergerie was an unsightly, austere fortress, built for function from the bygone days of the Merovingians. I glanced at the narrow slits of the arrow loops, the round towers of black granite, the heavy iron grates, the walls several fathoms thick, and the ever-present piles of refuse beneath them. I wrinkled my nose. Did I really need this? I could have been sleeping like a babe without a care in the world.

“What did you say?” LaLande asked.

I waved dismissively. Whatever was on La Trémoille's mind, it had better be damned important.

***

We passed through numerous castle guards using a password that LaLande kept from me, making sure I didn’t overhear. We weaved through a maze of corridors and eventually found ourselves waiting in a chamber adorned with an impressive hunting tapestry, depicting three alaunts mauling a stag in a serene forest setting. Before boredom could set in, the low oak doors creaked open, and an elderly nobleman of slight stature entered. LaLande approached him, and I caught only snippets of their conversation—something about “fox” and “swine.” It wasn’t hard to fill in the blanks. As the captain left, we exchanged cold glances.

“Count La Trémoille,” introduced the old man, his neatly trimmed white beard lending him a dignified air. He was wrinkled, thin as a reed, with a bald head worn bare by a helmet, hands scarred and weathered. His tailored attire exuded subtle luxury, avoiding the usual garishness of the nobility. The only concessions to vanity were a massive signet ring and a silver brooch adorned with orange carnelians. “Thank you for coming at this late hour, Master Harald. As you shall soon discover, there are reasons for it.”

“I didn’t have much choice. Are those your men?” I nodded toward the doors through which LaLande had exited.

“They are,” the count affirmed, tactfully ignoring my lack of decorum when I didn't bow. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm curious. They don’t seem like your usual retainers… not flashy or boastful enough for that. If they aren’t knights, then what are they? Scouts?”

“They are whatever they need to be,” La Trémoille replied cryptically. “You have a keen eye. What did it tell you about them?”

“Are you testing me?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed. Feedback never hurts.”

“It’s hard to say; I only saw them for a short while. They know their way around and can handle themselves, likely with more than just weapons. They’re efficient, undoubtedly thanks to training. Nothing else could account for that kind of coordination.”

“Thank you for your insight. Training is their life,” the count confirmed. “Quite literally. Do you like them?”

“They give me the chills,” I admitted. “Keeping a retinue of cutthroats and investing in their education is an expensive pastime. I doubt they just idle about the court and poke dummies with the sharp end of a sword.”

“I suggest you refrain from using that particular term in front of the captain,” La Trémoille advised. “And now, please change out of those… soiled clothes.”

Without protest, I took the fresh tunic from a servant and squeezed myself into it. It was tight, but better than nothing. There was no point in arguing that the vomit on my old one had already dried and lost its stench. The count appraised me with a critical eye, nodded, and placed his hand on the door handle.

“Master Harald… the company you are about to join is among the most distinguished in the land. I must ask two things of you. From all accounts, you are a sharp but plain-spoken man. For the sake of a smooth discussion, please forebear making any jests or insinuations. Not every nobleman is accustomed to common folk as I am.”

“I understand. And the second thing?”

“Keep everything you hear to yourself without exception.” The count emphasized his words in a way that clearly warned of a forced stay in the castle dungeons if I did not comply.