Indomitable, Roger came back. He sacked Capua and forced Naples to acknowledge him lord. Then, at the end of October, he met Rainulf at Rignano. . . .

  “You’ve settled in pretty well, I see,” Everard remarked.

  “I have learned to like it here,” Volstrup answered quietly. “Not everything, no. Much is gruesome. But then, that is true in every age, not so? Looking uptime after all these years, I see how many were the horrors to which we Victorians smugly closed our eyes. These are wonderful people, in their fashion. I have a good wife, fine children.” Pain crossed his face. He could never confide in them. He must in the end watch them grow old and die—at best; something worse might get them first. A Patrolman did not look into his own future or the futures of those he loved. “It is fascinating to watch the development. I will see the golden age of Norman Sicily.” He stopped, swallowed, and finished: “If we can correct the disaster.”

  “Right.” Everard guessed that now going straight to business would be kindest. “Have you gotten any word since your first report?”

  “Yes. I have not yet passed it on, because it is very incomplete. Better to assemble a coherent picture first, I assume.” As a matter of fact, it was not, but Everard didn’t press the point. “I never expected an . . . Unattached agent . . . so soon.”

  Volstrup straightened where he sat and forced firmness into his voice: “A band of Roger’s men who escaped from the battlefield made their way to Reggio, got a boat across the strait, and continued here. Their officer has reported at the palace. I have my paid listeners among the servants there, of course. The story is that Rainulf’s total victory, the slaying of the king and prince, was due to a young knight from Anagni, one Lorenzo de Conti. But this is mere hearsay, you understand. It is gossip that reached them after the fact, in fragments, as they straggled homeward through a country in upheaval, full of people who hated their kind. It may be worthless.”

  Everard rubbed his furry chin. “Well, it needs looking into,” he said slowly. “Something that specific ought to have some truth behind it. I’ll want to sound out the officer. You can fix that up for me, can’t you, in a plausible way? And then, if it seems this Lorenzo fellow may be the key to it all—” Again the hunter’s tingle went through his skin and along his backbone. “Then I’ll try to zero in on him.”

  1138 α A.D.

  To Anagni on its high hill, some forty miles from Rome, came a rider one crisp autumn day. Folk stared, for horse and man were uncommonly large; bearing sword and shield though at present unarmored, he was clearly of rank; a baggage mule followed on a tether; yet he fared alone. The guards at the city gate to which he came answered respectfully when he drew up and hailed them in rough Tuscan. Advised by them, he passed through and wound his way to a decent inn. There he got his gear unloaded and his beasts stabled and fed, while he took a pot of ale and a gab with the landlord. He was affable in a gusty German fashion and readily learned whatever he wanted to know. Presently he gave a coin to one of the boys and bade him carry a message to the right place: “Sir Manfred von Einbeck of Saxony sends his respects to Sir Lorenzo de Conti, the hero of Rignano, and would fain call upon him.”

  They brewed a grand local beer at Einbeck in those nineteenth and twentieth centuries that Manse Everard remembered. He needed a little whimsy to keep him going, keep him from too much silent crying out to his ghosts.

  The title he used, Italian “Signor,” German “Herr,” bore a less definite meaning than it would later, when the institutions and orders of chivalry had fully developed. However, it bespoke a fighting man of good birth, and that sufficed. Eventually, on the Continent, it would merely signify “Mister”—or would it, in the strange world uptime?

  The boy sped back with an invitation to come at once, Outsiders were always welcome for the news they could convey. Everard changed into a robe, which a Patrol technician had judiciously given the wear and tear of travel, and accompanied his guide on foot. The streets were cleaner than most because a recent rain had washed their steepness. Narrow between walls and overhanging upper stories, they were filling with gloom, but in a strip of sky he glimpsed evening light ruddy-gold on the cathedral that reared at the summit of the hill.

  His destination was lower down but near where the Palazzo Civico stood forth from the hillside on arches. The Conti and Gaetani were the chief families in Anagni, which had gained importance during the past several generations. This house was large, its limestone little marked as yet by time, which would at last obliterate it. A fine colonnade and glass in the windows relieved its ruggedness. Servants in blue-and-yellow livery, all Italians, all Christian, reminded Everard how far from Sicily he had come, in spirit if not in miles or years. A footman took over, conducting him through halls and chambers rather sparsely outfitted. Lorenzo was a younger son, rich only in honors, still unmarried, staying here because he could not afford Rome. Decayed though the great city was, landowning nobility in the backward, agricultural papal territories preferred to inhabit fortress-like mansions there, visiting their rural properties occasionally.

  Lorenzo was in a two-room suite at the back, easier to keep warm than the larger spaces. Everard’s first sense when he entered was of vividness. Even quietly seated, the man somehow blazed. He rose from his bench as a panther might. Expression went across his face like sun-flickers on water where a breeze blew. That countenance was sharply, almost classically sculptured, with big eyes whose gold-brown-russet seemed as changeable instant by instant; it appeared older than his twenty-four years, yet also ageless. Wavy black hair fell to his shoulders. Beard and mustaches were trimmed to points. He was tall for the era, slim but broad-shouldered. His garb was not the usual robe of a gentleman indoors, but blouse, tunic, hose, as if he wanted always to be ready for action.

  Everard introduced himself. “Welcome, sir, in the name of Christ and this house.” Lorenzo’s baritone rang. “You honor us.”

  “The honor is mine, sir, thanks to your graciousness,” Everard responded, equally polite.

  A smile flashed. Teeth that good were a rarity nowadays. “Let’s be frank, shall we? I itch for talk about faring and fighting. Do you not? Come, make yourself easy.”

  A buxom young woman, who had been holding her hands near the charcoal brazier that somewhat staved off chill, took Everard’s cloak and poured wine, undiluted, from a pitcher into goblets on a table. Sweetmeats and shelled nuts had been set forth too. At a gesture from Lorenzo, she genuflected, bobbing her head, and retired to the adjacent room. Everard noticed a crib there. The door closed behind her.

  “She must remain,” Lorenzo explained. “The infant is not well.” Plainly she was his current mistress, no doubt a peasant girl of the neighborhood, and they had had a baby. Everard nodded without expressing hope for its quick recovery. That was a poor bet. Men didn’t invest much love in a child till it had survived the first year or two.

  They sat down, across the table from each other. Daylight was waning, but three brass lamps served vision. By their shadowful glow, the warriors in a fresco behind Lorenzo—a scene from the Iliad, or maybe the Aeneid, Everard guessed—came half alive. “You have been on pilgrimage, I see,” Lorenzo said. Everard had taken care to display a palmer’s cross.

  “To the Holy Land, for my sins,” the Patrolman told him.

  Eagerness leaped: “And how fares the kingdom? We hear ill tidings.”

  “The Christians hold on.” They would for another forty-nine years, till Saladin retook Jerusalem . . . unless that part of history was also gone awry. A torrent of questions rushed over Everard. He’d briefed himself pretty thoroughly, but had trouble with some, as shrewd as they were. In several cases, where he couldn’t well admit ignorance, he invented plausible answers.

  “Body of Christ, could I be there!” Lorenzo exclaimed. “Well, someday, God willing. I’ve a mort to do first, nearer home.”

  “Everywhere I stopped, on my way up through Italy, I heard how mightily you’ve wrought,” Everard said. “Last year—”

  Lorenzo’s hand chopped air. “God and St. George aid our cause. We’ve well-nigh finished driving the Sicilians out. This new King Alfonso of theirs is a bold rogue, but lacks his father’s cunning and skill. We’ll chase him onto his island soon, I vow, and finish the crusade. But for the moment there’s scant action. Duke Rainulf wants to make sure of his hold on Apulia, Campania, and what we’ve won of Calabria before he proceeds farther. So I’ve returned, and been yawning till my jaws ache. Man, it’s good to meet you! Tell me about—”

  Perforce, Everard related the adventures of Sir Manfred. The wine, which was excellent, smoothed his tongue, soothed his impatience, and conferred inventiveness as to details. Having duly visited the sacred places, bathed in the Jordan, et cetera, Manfred had gotten in a little fighting against the Saracens, a little boozing and wenching, prior to embarkation for his homeward voyage. The ship landed him at Brindisi, whence he continued on horseback. One servant had succumbed to illness, another in a skirmish with bandits; for King Roger’s ruthless warfare, year by year, had left much desolation and desperate men were many.

  “Ah, we’ll clean them out,” Lorenzo said. “I thought of spending the winter in the South, scouring for them, but travelers are few that time of year, the outlaws will withdraw into whatever wretched dens are theirs, and . . . I am not fain to play hangman, however necessary the task be. Go on with your tale, I pray you.”

  Nobody else had molested Sir Manfred, which was understandable considering his size. He planned to visit the shrines of Rome and there engage new attendants. Anagni was hardly out of his way, and he had longed to meet the illustrious Sir Lorenzo de Conti, whose exploit last year at Rignano—

  “Alas, my friend, I fear you will come back to evil,” sighed the Italian. “Do not cross the Alps without strong escort.”

  “I have heard somewhat. Can you give me fuller news?” was natural for Sir Manfred to say.

  “I suppose you know that our valiant ally, the Emperor Lothair, died in December while homebound,” Lorenzo explained. “Well, the succession is disputed, and factional strife has led to open war. I fear the Empire will be troubled for a long time to come.”

  Till Frederick Barbarossa at last restores order, Everard knew. If history runs the same course that far uptime.

  Lorenzo brightened. “Yet as you’ve seen, the cause of righteousness is prevailing without its help,” he went on. “Now that the blasphemous devil Roger is fallen, his realm crumbles before us like a sand castle under a rainstorm. I take it for a sign of God’s grace that his eldest son and namesake perished with him. He would have been almost as able an enemy. Alfonso, the successor they got—well, I’ve spoken of him.”

  “Ah, that became a famous day,” Everard attempted, “and you carried it. How I have thirsted to hear the tale of it from your very lips.”

  Lorenzo smiled but rushed ahead on the tide of his enthusiasm: “Rainulf, I told you, is making the southern duchies his own; nobody else counts for much any longer in those parts. And Rainulf is a true son of the Church, loyal to the Holy Father. This January—have you heard?—the false Pope Anacletus died, leaving none to dispute Innocent’s right.” In my history, Roger II got a new anti-Pope elected, but that one abdicated within a few months. However, Roger had the personal and political strength to keep on defying Innocent, and eventually took him prisoner. In this history, Alfonso was unable to field even a feeble rival. “The new Sicilian king does continue to claim the apostolic legateship, but Innocent has denounced that mistaken bull and preached a fresh crusade against the house of Hauteville. We’ll cast it into the sea and bring the island back to Christ!”

  To the Inquisition, when it gets founded. To the persecution of Jews, Muslims, and Orthodox Christians. To the burning of heretics.

  And nonetheless Lorenzo came across as a decent sort by the standards of his epoch. Wine had set him aflame. He sprang to his feet, paced to and fro, gestured wildly, spoke in trumpet tones.

  “Then we’ve our brother Christians in Spain to aid, driving the last Moors from their soil. We’ve the Kingdom of Jerusalem to fortify for eternity. Roger was gaining a foothold in Africa; already those conquests are falling away, but we’ll get them back, and more. That too was once a Christian land, you know. It shall be again. There is the heretic emperor in Constantinople to humble, the true Church to restore for his people. Oh, boundless glory to win! I own to it, sinful I, my lust for a name like—let me not dare say Alexander’s or Caesar’s—like Roland’s, the first of Charlemagne’s paladins. But of course it’s the reward in Heaven we must think of, the infinite reward for faithful service. I know that isn’t won merely on the battlefield. All around us are the poor, the afflicted, they who mourn and they who are oppressed. They shall have comfort, justice, peace. Only give me the power to bestow their due on them.”

  He leaned down, clasped Everard’s shoulders, said almost imploringly, “Abide with us, Manfred! I can well judge might in a man. Yours must be the strength of ten. Go not back to your hopeless home. Not yet. You’re a Saxon. So you surely hold by your duke, who holds by the cause of the Pope. You can better aid it here. Charlemagne sprang from your country, Manfred. Let us stand ready to be knights of a new Charlemagne!”

  As a matter of fact, Everard recalled, he was a Frank, who massacred the Old Saxons with Stalin-like thoroughness. But the Carolingian myth has taken hold. The Chanson de Roland won’t be composed for a while yet, the romances not till later still. However, popular stories and ballads are already in circulation. Lorenzo would be bound to seize on them. I’m dealing with a romantic, a dreamer—who’s also a warrior as formidable as they come. Dangerous combination. I can almost see a nimbus of destiny around that head.

  The thought hauled the Patrolman back to his purpose. “Well, we can talk about it,” he said cautiously. Given his bulk, he felt the wine much less, just a glow in his veins which the tightly trained mind kept channeled. “I do wish to hear of your deeds.”

  Lorenzo laughed. “Oh, you shall, you shall. My pridefulness is the despair of my confessor.” He took another turn around the room. “Stay. Sup with us this eventide.” That would be a light repast, soon served. The main meal was at midday, and given the poor illumination, people rarely sat up much past nightfall. “You’ve no business at a lousy inn. What must you think of my hospitality? A bed here shall you have, for as long as you wish, beginning at once. I’ll send boys after your animals and baggage.” With his elders at Rome, he was obviously in charge. Flinging himself back onto his bench, he reached for his beaker. “Tomorrow I’ll take you hawking. We can talk freely then, out in the wind.”

  “I look forward, and thank you greatly.” A tingle went through Everard. This looks like the moment to try my luck. “I have heard extraordinary things. Especially about Rignano. They say a saint appeared to you. They say that only by a miracle could you have charged through the foe as you did.”

  “Ha, they say whatever comes onto their tongues,” Lorenzo snorted. “Commoners’ gabble.” Quickly: “Not but what God alone gave us our victory, and I’ve no doubt St. George and my patron watched over me. I’ve lighted many candles to them, and when I’ve won the means, I intend to endow an abbey at least.”

  Everard stiffened. “But nobody saw . . . anything supernatural . . . upon that day?” That’s how medieveal people would look on a time traveler and his works.

  Lorenzo shook his head. “No. Not I, and I’ve heard no such claims from anyone else who matters. True, it’s easy to get confused in a fight, outright delirious; but your own experience must have taught you to discount that.”

  “Nothing remarkable earlier, either?”

  Lorenzo gave Everard a puzzled glance. “No. If Roger’s Saracens were attempting witchcraft, the will of God thwarted them. What makes you ask so intently?”

  “Rumors,” Everard mumbled. “You understand, being a pilgrim, I’m especially interested in any signs from Heaven—or from hell.” He rallied himself, tossed off a mouthful, and managed a grin. “Mainly, though, as a soldier, I’m interested in what did happen there. It was no ordinary battle.”

  “It was not. In truth, I felt the hand of God upon me when first I lowered lance and spurred horse toward the prince’s standard.” Lorenzo crossed himself. “Otherwise everything was of this world, tumult and turmoil, hardly a moment free for awareness, let alone any real thinking. Tomorrow I’ll be glad to relate what my memory keeps of it.” He smiled. “Not now. The story has grown stale in our household. Indeed, I myself would rather dwell on what we’ll do next.”

  I’ll ask, I’ll get every detail I can from him and everybody else, before Sir Manfred regretfully decides that duty calls him back to Saxony after all. Maybe, maybe I’ll pick up a clue to somebody who came out of time and disrupted fate. But I doubt it. The knowledge was freezingly cold.

  1137 A.D.

  30 October (Julian calendar).

  Beneath a pale sky, those few cottages that were the village of Rignano huddled by a road running from the mountains in the west to Siponto on the Adriatic coast., Low above stubblefields and in woodlots and orchards going sere, sunrise mists blurred the horizons of North Apulia. The air was cold and still. Banners drooped, pavilions sagged wet, in the opposing camps.

  A mile or so of mostly bare earth separated them, divided by the road. Smoke rose straight upward from a few fires, but only a few. Clang and clatter, shout and shriek of readymaking violated silence.

  Yesterday King Roger and Duke Rainulf had conferred. None less than Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux, revered by whole nations, strove to avert bloodshed. But Rainulf was vengefully determined on battle and Roger flushed with victories. Moreover, Bernard was of the party of Pope Innocent.