Chapter 5 - THE MOUNTAIN VILLAGE
The mountains looked like salvation from a distance.
Cold stone.
Dark forests.
Villages too small for armies.
Roads too narrow for wagons.
Thomas understood why Aldren chose them.
He also understood, after two days climbing, why the governor’s soldiers did not.
The horses struggled.
Marta’s mount went lame.
Rain became sleet.
Food spoiled faster than they could eat it.
Agnes developed blisters that bled through her shoes.
Thomas’s injured hand swelled until he could barely close his fingers.
Every step upward seemed to trade one danger for another.
Still, no bells rang.
That became their hope.
No bells.
No smoke.
No plague carts.
No soldiers.
On the third evening, they saw lights between the trees.
A village built along a mountain shelf.
Stone cottages.
A timber chapel.
Terraced fields.
Goats moving behind walls.
Aldren stopped.
“Too peaceful.”
Agnes groaned.
“You distrust breathing.”
“It has disappointed me.”
Thomas looked at the village.
A wooden gate blocked the road.
Three men stood behind it with bows.
Not soldiers.
Farmers.
One called,
“Names.”
Aldren answered.
“Travelers.”
The man raised the bow.
“Names.”
Thomas stepped forward.
“Thomas Vale. Aldren. Agnes. Marta.”
The man looked at each.
“From?”
Thomas hesitated.
“East.”
“Which town?”
Aldren whispered, “Lie.”
Thomas remembered Luc.
When fear tells you cruelty is necessary, ask who benefits.
He was tired of lies.
“Saint Aldric.”
The bow came up.
Agnes cursed.
Thomas raised empty hands.
“It fell days ago. We have no fever. No swellings.”
The man shouted toward the houses.
More villagers appeared.
A woman carried a bell.
Not a church bell.
Warning.
Marta called out.
“We only need shelter.”
A gray-haired woman came through the gate.
Everyone stepped aside for her.
She wore a leather apron and carried a knife used for cutting herbs.
Her name was Mistress Beatrice.
Midwife.
Healer.
Possibly the closest thing the village had to a physician.
She examined them outside the walls.
Not like Camp Four’s surgeon.
She washed her hands in vinegar between people.
She burned cloth after using it.
Thomas noticed.
“So you think it spreads by touch?”
Beatrice looked at him.
“I think dirty hands spread many things.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer made Thomas trust her.
She checked glands.
Tongues.
Breathing.
Skin.
No plague.
Luc’s death felt suddenly close.
She looked at Thomas’s injured hand.
“This will rot if untreated.”
He stared.
“It’s just bruised.”
“It’s full of dirt.”
She lanced the swelling.
Pain shot up his arm.
Pus came out.
Thomas nearly vomited.
Beatrice cleaned it with wine.
“Painful?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Dead flesh complains less.”
They were allowed inside under one condition.
Seven days in the outer barn.
No contact with villagers except Beatrice.
Aldren considered refusing.
Thomas said yes first.
The barn was dry.
There was straw.
Soup came twice a day.
Agnes called it paradise.
Marta slept twelve hours the first night.
Thomas did not.
He kept listening for bells.
On the second day, a boy from the village brought bread and left it at the barn door.
He was about Thomas’s age.
Thin.
Bright-eyed.
Name: Peter.
He returned that afternoon.
Then the next morning.
Eventually he began talking from ten feet away.
“You really came from Saint Aldric?”
“Yes.”
“Is it gone?”
Thomas looked at the mountains.
“Yes.”
Peter swallowed.
“My aunt lived there.”
Thomas did not ask her name.
Too many names.
Peter asked, “Did you see the church?”
Thomas remembered the bells.
“Yes.”
“Was Father Jonas alive?”
“I don’t know.”
Peter nodded.
He seemed disappointed in himself for asking.
On the fourth day, Beatrice brought news.
Governor’s soldiers had entered the valley below.
Aldren sat up.
“How many?”
“Thirty.”
“Looking for us?”
“Looking for grain.”
That was almost worse.
The plague reduced every kind of power to food eventually.
Beatrice said the mountain villages had refused taxes.
The governor’s men now called it theft.
Marta laughed.
“Stealing your own grain.”
Beatrice shrugged.
“Men with banners invent words.”
Thomas liked her.
By the fifth day, villagers debated whether to hide the travelers or expel them.
Some feared plague.
Others feared soldiers.
Thomas heard shouting from the chapel.
Aldren listened too.
“They’ll choose us.”
“What?”
“As payment.”
Thomas understood.
Handing fugitives to soldiers might spare the village.
Maybe.
People often sacrificed strangers for promises.
That night, Peter slipped into the barn.
Aldren put a knife to his throat.
Thomas stopped him.
Peter whispered, “Soldiers arrive tomorrow.”
“We know.”
“They asked about four travelers.”
Aldren’s eyes narrowed.
“How?”
Peter looked frightened.
“Someone from the valley saw you.”
Captain Bale.
Or another camp.
Thomas asked, “What will the village do?”
Peter stared at the floor.
“My father says turn you over.”
“Your father?”
“The headman.”
Of course.
Peter continued.
“Beatrice says no.”
Aldren smiled grimly.
“Midwife has more spine.”
Peter ignored him.
“I can show you a goat path north.”
Thomas looked at Agnes and Marta sleeping.
“Why?”
Peter hesitated.
Then held out a small wooden toy horse.
“My aunt made this in Saint Aldric.”
He looked at Thomas.
“I don’t know if you saw her. But I don’t want the men who let her die to decide who else gets taken.”
Thomas almost corrected him.
Nobody had let the plague kill anyone.
Then he remembered Camp Four.
Maybe Peter was talking about soldiers, not disease.
They left before dawn.
Beatrice met them at the upper path with food.
Aldren frowned.
“You knew?”
“Peter tells me everything he thinks he hides.”
Peter looked offended.
Beatrice gave Thomas a pouch of dried herbs.
“For fever. Not cure. Comfort.”
Thomas nodded.
No false promise.
Again, trust.
She gave Agnes a needle.
Marta a knife.
Aldren a bottle of wine.
“You look like you need it.”
He smiled.
Then Beatrice turned to Thomas.
“You look like people are starting to follow you.”
Thomas laughed.
“No.”
“Aldren watches you before deciding.”
Aldren scowled.
“Do not encourage him.”
Beatrice ignored him.
“Agnes watches you when frightened. Marta watches you when angry.”
Thomas looked uncomfortable.
“I’m sixteen.”
“So?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Good leaders often start there.”
Aldren said, “Bad ones too.”
Beatrice nodded.
“True.”
Then bells rang below.
Not death bells.
Alarm.
Soldiers.
The village gate opened.
Riders entered.
Thomas saw Captain Bale.
Red beard.
Governor’s crest.
Alive.
Beatrice shoved them toward the path.
“Go.”
Thomas stopped.
“They’ll punish you.”
“They may.”
“Come with us.”
She smiled.
“This village has delivered every child I ever held.”
“I thought you were the midwife.”
“Exactly.”
She turned back.
Thomas grabbed her arm.
“What if they kill you?”
Beatrice looked at him.
“Then remember I chose to stay.”
Choice.
Again.
Thomas released her.
They climbed.
From above, they watched soldiers gather villagers in the square.
Captain Bale shouted questions.
Nobody answered.
A soldier hit Peter’s father.
Peter flinched beside Thomas.
Another soldier searched the barn.
Empty.
Bale looked toward the mountains.
He knew.
He pointed up.
Ten soldiers dismounted.
Started climbing.
Aldren cursed.
“Move.”
The goat path narrowed along a cliff.
Snow covered stone.
One wrong step meant death.
They moved fast.
Behind them soldiers gained.
Marta slipped.
Agnes caught her.
Thomas’s injured hand tore open.
Blood stained bandage.
They reached a wooden bridge spanning a ravine.
Old.
Rope.
Boards missing.
Aldren looked at it.
“Wonderful.”
They crossed one by one.
Peter first.
Agnes.
Marta.
Thomas.
Aldren last.
Soldiers appeared on the trail.
Captain Bale with them.
He had climbed too.
Thomas stared.
Bale shouted.
“Thomas Vale!”
The mountain carried the name.
Thomas froze.
Aldren looked at him.
“He knows you.”
Bale continued.
“You think Saint Aldric forgot you?”
Thomas’s stomach tightened.
Why would the governor’s captain know a baker’s son?
Bale stepped onto the bridge.
Aldren cut one supporting rope.
The bridge dropped sideways.
Soldiers shouted.
Bale stopped.
Thomas called across.
“What do you want?”
Bale smiled.
“You.”
“Why?”
“Your mother hid something.”
Thomas went cold.
Elena.
“What?”
Bale reached beneath his cloak.
Held up a leather pouch.
Thomas recognized it.
His mother’s.
Bale had been with her.
After Thomas left.
“You touched her.”
Bale smiled wider.
“She was alive when we found her.”
Thomas moved toward the broken bridge.
Aldren grabbed him.
Bale shouted.
“She gave us nothing.”
Thomas screamed, “What did you do?”
Bale shrugged.
“She was already dying.”
Thomas fought Aldren.
“Let go!”
Bale held up the pouch.
“Come back and I’ll tell you what she carried.”
Thomas stopped.
His mother had never mentioned anything.
Aldren whispered, “Trap.”
Thomas knew.
Did not care.
Then Beatrice appeared behind the soldiers.
Nobody saw her at first.
She carried a torch.
Thomas stared.
Beatrice threw it into a pile of dry brush beside the trail.
Flames erupted.
Smoke rolled across the bridge.
Soldiers turned.
Peter shouted, “Beatrice!”
She drew her knife.
Captain Bale backhanded her.
She fell.
Thomas screamed.
Aldren cut the second rope.
The bridge collapsed.
Bale jumped back.
Two soldiers fell into the ravine.
Thomas watched the bridge vanish below.
No return.
No way to reach Beatrice.
Peter sobbed.
On the far side, Bale dragged Beatrice upright by her hair.
He looked across the ravine at Thomas.
Then slowly put the leather pouch back inside his coat.
“West,” he shouted. “Run.”
His smile was terrible.
“We’ll meet again.”
Thomas stood at the cliff edge until Aldren pulled him away.
He had thought the plague was the thing following them.
May you like
Now a living man knew his name.
And his dead mother had apparently carried a secret worth hunting across mountains.
