Book of Water

Chapter 13

13

Rinaldo’s mind whirled. He felt the strong arms of his sister around him, but meanwhile a second stranger had entered the tent. At first Rinaldo took him for a woodsman with his rugged appearance and tattered clothes, but then something about the man’s face seemed strangely familiar. Could it be?

“Astolpho?”

Astolpho gave him a nod and a quick smile. “It’s good to see you well, my friend.” Then he immediately began tending to the redhead, making sure that she had some cushioning beneath her head and that she was comfortably covered by Rinaldo’s blanket. Before her feet were covered, Rinaldo noticed that they were bare.

“Naldo,” Bradamante whispered. “Are you really well?”

“I think so,” he answered.

She released her hold on him and sat back on her heels. She smiled with unconcealed joy and relief.

But Rinaldo still felt confused, unsteady, as though he were a hundred steps behind understanding anything that had happened.

He watched Astolpho tuck the blanket all around the sleeping woman. “You… know her?” Rinaldo asked.

“He brought her,” Bradamante murmured. She was watching Astolpho now, too, but without the look of elation that Rinaldo had so recently seen on her face.

“Who is she?” Rinaldo asked.

“Her name is Michaela,” Astolpho said. He finished smoothing the blanket across her shoulder and then sat down close to her side.

“But who is she?” Rinaldo asked again. “How did she heal me?” For though the knowledge had settled over him slowly, he now had no further doubt. Every time he looked at the young woman he felt it again: that there were traces of her still inside his body, like ripples in a lake after someone had thrown a stone.

“She’s one of the nomads,” said Astolpho. “I began having visions of her last year. That’s why I left Abincort. My god sent me to find her.”

Rinaldo thought he saw some look pass between Astolpho and his sister, but if it had been there, it was instantly gone. Bradamante shifted further away from the group until she sat with her back against the tent wall. Rinaldo remained where he was, still kneeling beside Michaela. Despite the sound of their voices, she still had not awakened.

“I searched for her for a long time,” Astolpho continued. “My visions were never very specific. But finally I found her a few months ago, and now she’s agreed to come back to Abincort with me. We were hoping for safe passage by traveling behind you and the rest of your army. Then yesterday I saw a vision of you injured, and…” His gaze wandered to Bradamante. “I asked Michaela to help.”

“Then I have you to thank,” said Rinaldo, “as well as her.”

Astolpho gave a modest nod. “I was happy to do what I could.”

“How does she do it?” Bradamante asked quietly.

“She has a power,” said Astolpho. “I can’t explain it beyond that.”

“Try,” said Bradamante, clearly dissatisfied with his answer. “Does she use spells? Sorcery?”

“No,” Astolpho said, “nothing like that. She touches a wound and… you can see for yourself what happens. It robs her of all her strength. It’s a dangerous power to have.”

Michaela made a small sound then, like someone troubled by a dream. Astolpho adjusted the blanket again, pulling it higher over her throat.

Rinaldo gazed at the small area of her face not hidden by cloth or hair. He could see a crease between her eyebrows as though even in sleep she were feeling some pain. I caused that pain.

But soon his guilt gave way to awe. What must it be like to have a power such as hers, to save a life with the touch of her hand? And to know that she had given her gift to him, someone she had never met—how could he ever do enough to thank her?

“We need to protect her,” Astolpho said then, as if in answer to Rinaldo’s unspoken question. “Please, I’m asking you both. Say nothing about what you’ve seen here or what Michaela can do.”

Bradamante scoffed at that. “And how do you imagine we’ll keep it a secret?” Rinaldo was surprised to hear a note of anger in her voice. “People saw Naldo after the battle. His men carried him back. Everyone knows he’s been lying in here close to death. What do you expect us to tell them?”

“You can say that she has skills,” Astolpho answered. “Special knowledge. Things she learned from the nomads.” To Rinaldo he added, “Say that you weren’t as injured as everyone thought.”

Bradamante scoffed again, and this time Michaela stirred at the noise.

Astolpho continued his appeal in a whisper. “Don’t you see it’s dangerous for her, if anyone knows? A power like that… who wouldn’t want to control her?”

“Then why are you bringing her to Abincort?” Bradamante said. “Why not leave her wherever you found her?”

“Because I saw a vision of her there,” said Astolpho. “Standing before the king. I know it’s where we have to go.”

“Of course,” Bradamante said. “You must always obey your visions, no matter what the cost.”

Rinaldo turned to look at his sister. There was a hardness to her face which he couldn’t understand. Was she still angry with Astolpho for what had happened at the tournament? Everything had ended in her favor because of it. And even if she were still bitter, didn’t Astolpho’s role in saving Rinaldo’s life outweigh any offense? He knew his sister could be stubborn, but this time it made no sense. “Brad—”

“I know where we have to go,” she said. “Out there where your men can see you. They deserve to know you’re alive. And Jara needs to know it, too. She’s hardly left your side. She’d be here still if Michaela hadn’t sent her away.”

“She’d be sitting beside a dead man,” Rinaldo reminded her, “if Michaela hadn’t come.”

Silence fell in the tent. Bradamante seemed shamed by the rebuke. She lowered her eyes for a moment and drew in a long slow breath. “You’re right,” she said at last. Her tone toward Astolpho became much gentler. “I thank you for my brother’s life. I’ll thank her, too, when she’s awake. And of course I’ll keep your secret to the best of my ability.

“But,” she added with crisp efficiency, “I still think I’m right. Naldo should greet his men. That way we can test the lie right away.” She began crawling toward the tent flap. Rinaldo remained where he was.

“I’m staying,” he said. “I need to thank her first. I’ll wait until she’s awake.”

“She won’t want that,” Astolpho said. “She needs rest now, and quiet. I’ll see to her care. Bradamante’s right, you should go.”

Rinaldo thought he glimpsed one last flash of anger on his sister’s face before she pushed her way through the flap. He followed her then, reluctantly, out into the light.

Rinaldo blinked in the bright sunshine. When had he last enjoyed the sun? “How long—” he began to ask her, but then he heard a yelp of joy.

Jara bolted to her feet from where she had been crouched near the side of his tent. She leapt toward him, laughing, her eyes wet with tears. “Oh, Rinaldo!” she cried, throwing her arms around him and hugging him with all of her might. “I heard everything,” she confirmed breathlessly. “I’ll keep the secret, too. I’m so happy you’re alive!”

There were other voices now, shouts of surprise, men calling, “Commander!” Word seemed to spread quickly. Men were now coming toward him from all over camp.

“You must be starving,” said Jara. “You haven’t had anything for two days.”

Two days? No wonder his belly felt hollow.

“I’ll go find you something to eat and drink,” Jara said. She smiled again and gave his hand a quick squeeze before running off toward the cook tent.

“Commander!” someone shouted. “What happened to you?” Others were calling out questions of their own.

“Healing herbs,” he heard Bradamante telling someone without the slightest conviction in her voice. Rinaldo’s mind churned with possibilities as he tried to concoct a more convincing lie of his own, and that’s when a familiar whicker reached his ears.

In the midst of the commotion Rinaldo whipped around to see Bayard tied to a sturdy tree. The wounded stallion had limped to the length of his rope and now stood patiently waiting for his master. Even from a distance Rinaldo could see that the thick bandage around the horse’s front leg looked stained with a fresh gout of blood.

As Rinaldo raced toward him, he marveled at his ability to do so: My leg. My hip. Everything completely healed.

“Bayard.” He embraced his horse hard about the neck and felt Bayard lean his weight against him in return. Now that he was closer, Rinaldo could see that the bandage bore another color besides red. An ill-looking yellow had seeped through, too, which could only mean one thing.

He knelt at Bayard’s side and quickly began unwrapping the bandage.

Bradamante was here now, too, and once the leg was exposed they both winced at the smell. The wound was clearly infected. A yellow pus seemed to bubble at the sides of the gaping flesh, while bright red blood oozed from its center.

“What’s being done for him?” asked Rinaldo.

“They’ve cleaned the wound several times,” his sister answered. “They can’t stop the bleeding.”

Rinaldo could feel heat radiating from Bayard’s swollen leg. The horse flinched at even the lightest touch near his injury. He seemed to have spent the last of his energy calling to his master. Now his head drooped listlessly and his eyes looked unfocused and dull.

“He has a fever, too, I’ll wager,” Rinaldo said, and now his worry joined with frustration. “Why is he standing out here all alone? Why doesn’t he have water? When is the last time someone changed his bandage?”

“Naldo—”

“I’ll tend to him myself,” Rinaldo said. “Make a poultice, give him something for his fever—”

“And I’ll help you,” Bradamante interrupted, taking hold of his arm. “But you have to understand. Bayard has been dying, the same as you. Your men—” She paused for a moment as if to compose herself, then cleared her throat and went on. “Your men thought they would be burying both of you together this morning.” She looked at him with shining eyes. “I thought so, too.”

Rinaldo absorbed the news. The idea seemed gruesome to him, now when he felt so alive. Bayard was alive, too. He could feel the horse’s pulse against his palm and warm breath against his face. But of course he understood. It was right that his men would honor their commander that way.

Those men were now standing at a respectful distance, most of them laughing and talking amongst themselves. But there were also more than a few who stole furtive glances at him, as though there were something unsettling about seeing him alive.

“I should speak to them,” Rinaldo said. “Though I still don’t know what to say. Some of them look scared.”

“Wouldn’t you be, to see someone rise from the dead?” Bradamante smiled and patted his arm, but Rinaldo heard the seriousness in her words.

He could see Jara coming from the distance carrying a basket he knew would be filled with food. Rinaldo wanted nothing more right now than to take care of his horse and to eat a warm meal. But he was not a simple soldier with the luxury of keeping to himself. He was the leader of the men in front of him, and they had the right to know how he survived.

“Friends,” he said, stepping closer to the crowd. “I want to thank you for everything you did. Those of you who protected me on the battlefield, those who cared for my horse, those who carried me back here to camp.” With each function that he named, he could see different faces react to his praise.

Some of the soldiers in the crowd were Orlando’s, no doubt as curious as his own. Rinaldo wondered whether any of them would have felt any remorse if he had died. He remembered his own men fighting alone for too long before Orlando’s soldiers finally joined the battle.

“I have been given a gift,” Rinaldo told them. Without any preparation, the lie came easily to his tongue. “A gift more precious than I can ever repay.” He saw Bradamante pass him a questioning look, as though he were about to break their promise. “The king’s prophet Astolpho has returned, and now by the grace of his god I am well again. My deepest thanks to Astolpho for his healing prayers. My thanks to any of you who were praying as well. I need to tend to my horse now, but I look forward to speaking to all of you later.”

Bradamante stared at him in surprise, though the men seemed satisfied with his short speech. A few lingered behind, perhaps waiting for a fuller explanation, but most dispersed back toward the main part of the camp.

“I suppose it’s as good a lie as any,” murmured Bradamante, and by then Jara had arrived with the food. Inside her basket were a small loaf of bread, some hard dried meats, and a large jar of what Rinaldo assumed was wine.

“Thank you,” he told her, “but I can’t eat until I’ve tended to Bayard first.”

“What does his need?” Jara asked.

“Water and fresh bandages.”

“You eat,” she said. “I’ll get them.” She picked up the empty bucket that had been tipped over onto the ground and hurried off to fill it.

Rinaldo stroked Bayard’s drooping neck. The horse still appeared dangerously listless. “I’ll take care of you now,” he promised. “I’ll have you well as soon as I can.”

Bayard’s ears flicked and he blew out a sighing breath. There seemed a little more life behind his eyes.

“Manat taught me how to make a certain kind of poultice,” Bradamante said. She handed Rinaldo a chunk of bread. “It might be enough to heal his blood. Draw out the infection.”

“Anything,” Rinaldo said. “Anything you can do.” He had saved this horse once before when Bayard was a colt. He would save this horse again.

“But Naldo, what about you? Tell me now, just the two of us. How did she really heal you?”

“You know as much as I do,” he said. “I awoke healed. That’s all that I know. You heard Astolpho. He said she touches the wound.”

“But even Manat can’t heal like that,” said Bradamante. “She knows secrets—techniques—but to heal with a touch…” She shook her head. “I’m grateful she saved your life. More grateful than I can ever say. But… Naldo, hear me. I know you think I was hard on Astolpho—”

“You were,” Rinaldo said. “I don’t understand why.”

“Because what if this is some kind of sorcery?” Bradamante said. “What if she has something to do with Rogero?”

“No. Astolpho would never—”

“But what if he doesn’t know?” Bradamante insisted. “What if he’s wrong, and this is some kind of trap? How can it be a coincidence that someone with a power like hers finds a way into our camp at the same time we’re under attack from a sorcerer?”

Rinaldo valued his sister’s counsel. He knew her to be brave and loyal, and often obstinate, with a quick and strategic mind. She was better than he was at some things, his equal in many others. He trusted her above anyone else and knew she would fight to the end to defend him. He knew that she trusted the same about him, and he did everything he could to deserve it.

But part of that trust had to include telling the truth to each other, especially when the other was wrong. And he knew that she was wrong. He could still feel the warmth of Michaela’s healing grace washing through his veins. An enemy never would have given him such a gift. An enemy would have wanted him dead.

“The only reason I’m alive is because of Michaela,” Rinaldo said. “If it’s sorcery, then we’re fortunate she’s on our side.”