Rogue Sword (12 page)

“The word has gotten about,” said Lucas, “that Catalans are ten feet high, with iron skins and fiery breath, and that they eat soldiers for dinner.” Earnestness descended momentarily on him. “I think they lack leadership here, En Jaime, and a reason to fight, rather than true manhood. What is this Empire that anyone should die for it? Should even live for it? How can there be courage without devotion, or loyalty to masters who offer nothing but oppression?”

Asberto looked still more disgusted. Before he could complain at such maundering, the headiness of the scheme took Lucas back. He pointed at the beached leny and said, “Well, gentles, do you want supper now, or shall we take refreshment in Pera?”

They did not tarry long. Leaving four disconsolate men--chosen by lot--to guard the horses, the rest floated the leny and scrambled aboard. Lucas had cheap mantles ready, to hide armor. Theirs might have been any boat, rowing up the Bosporus on a casual errand. There was considerable water traffic at this end of the sea.

Constantinople rose clifflike in the sunset, but Lucas continued on to the suburb of Pera--a wealthy place, where many foreign merchants dwelt and where the Byzantine overlords owned much property. Just about eventide, the boat docked. Lucas’ line of Greek banter and swearing had given the harbor guard no reason to mistrust this late arrival.

The Catalans crossed the gangplank and threw off their disguise. For one horrible instant, the watch saw mailed men confront them, grinning faces, long Frankish swords. Then the cry rang out:
“Aragon! Aragon!”
The watch dropped their weapons and bolted.

Up into Pera, Lucas led his troop. The intelligence from the Greeks he had questioned was good. He almost could have made his way blind through this town, though he had never been here before. In a few minutes, they stood in front of an uncommonly sumptuous house. A sailor threw a grapnel over the garden wall, swarmed up the rope and released the portals from within. By that time the gatekeeper had fled to warn the dinner party within the mansion. But he was too late. The Catalans entered behind him.

Lucas looked over the throng with a calculating eye. Everyone here was rich; he wanted the richest for himself. Quickly he decided that the fat middle-aged Byzantine in green silk was a high noble. He thrust through the crowd and clapped hands on the man.

“You belong to me,” he said cheerfully. “Come.”

“You wretch!” stormed the other. “This will cost you your--” Lucas prodded him delicately in the stomach with a sword point. He subsided into red-faced gobbling.

Lucas gave him a sack. “Now come,” he repeated. “You’re old enough to labor for your keep, Kyrios. I want this, and this, and this.” His blade flicked around to point out articles of gold and silver. “You, there, give me those rings you’re wearing. Ah, and I’ll have your purse, my friend over yonder behind the couch. Toss it here, then you may play hide-and-seek as much as your heart desires. . . . Let’s look in the next room. Forward march!”

The raiders needed but little time to fill the sacks their prisoners carried. En Jaime took a lamp from its chains and led the way out. Night had fallen. The empty roads echoed to their boots. Faintly, through the twisted streets, they heard a trumpet and the shouts of men.

“The garrison’s gotten the news,” said Asberto. “They’ll be on our necks in two Aves. I told you we should have cut down everyone in that house.”

“It would have taken longer to play the butcher, and made more noise, than simply helping ourselves,” said Lucas. His exultation was wearing a trifle thin, his mouth felt dry and his pulse hammered. He didn’t want that. He wanted adventure. When he saw light seep from the cracks in a door and heard voices, he stopped. “Hold! I’m as thirsty as a German herring. And here’s a tavern.”

“What?” choked En Jaime. “Have your senses departed?”

“That’s what you asked me when first I broached this plan.” Lucas opened the door and stepped through, prodding his captive along. Silence took hold of the smoky room. Men gaped at the armed newcomers. One cup crashed to the floor, but nobody stirred.

Lucas swung his sword so it whistled, thumping the flat of it on a table. “Landlord!” he shouted. “What sort of place is this? Wine!”

Shaking, the boniface came forth with leather bottles. Lucas stuck his sword in a bench and raised the skin. “Wine for everyone!” he ordered. “Each man a bottle! Throw ’em out--on the table there--so! Now, valiant friends, I trust you’ll drink with me?”

Still they regarded him with stunned expressions. A few moved, mouse cautious. Lucas waved his wineskin. “What sort of courtesy do they teach you here? Hoist bottles, I say! Open your mouths--squeeze--squirt the juice down your gullets! A toast with me: to the Lord King of Aragon!”

They drank. Lucas flung some coins on the floor. “There, Innkeeper, the score and a bit over. Take the money without fear. I came by it as honestly as the former owner. Now, my friends, goodnight. Sweet angels guard your dreams.” He drew his sword from the bench and strode back to the door, waving the steel in salute. “Until we meet again!”

The childish demonstration had returned his gaiety to him. The watch could now be heard very close, but none of the Catalans protested further. A reproach to Lucas would have been an admission that they feared those Greeks.

The boat waited untouched. They clattered aboard, tripping over the thwarts and cursing in the gloom. Lucas called for help, emptied three barrels of oil over the side, and pitched the lamp when the leny was clear. Fire sprang up among the docked ships. The light painted his companions’ faces Hell color.

“That’ll delay them awhile. They can sit down to warm their feet and roast chestnuts while they brag how they repulsed us.”

“We’ve a long way home yet,” warned someone.

“Oh, but we have En Berenguer de Entenza’s mistake to guide us. We’ll not go far by water. Row, lads!”

They went swiftly, driven by the knowledge that war-craft would soon be out in search of them. Well before midnight, they were back at the hamlet. They loaded treasure and prisoners onto the extra horses and started home--overland.

That was a joyful trip. Lucas spent much of the time bargaining with his aristocrat prisoner. They settled on the ransom and despatched a messenger. Suddenly Lucas was wealthy.

He determined to give a feast. By now, the efforts of such conscientious officers as En Ramon Muntaner had restored some order. Word of the situation had gone abroad and merchants were beginning to arrive at Gallipoli harbor with grain and other supplies. The Catalans had good means of payment--Greek slaves for the Turkish traders, inanimate loot for the Christians. They expected business to grow brisk in the next several weeks. They felt able to live lavishly.

Djansha still maintained Lucas’ apartment, but he set about finding a house of his own, and native servants. Meanwhile, he used En Jaime’s dining chamber for his banquet. A delicate parade of courses awaited the knights, nobles, and their ladies; musicians had been hired to play as the feast progressed; there was no limit to wines of good vintage. Looking about the colorfully clad assemblage, listening to spirited conversation and to compliments both fulsome and blunt, Lucas thought how fortunate he was. This was something else than being astray in the windy world.

“A few more such exploits, Maestre, and we’ll have no choice but to make you a knight,” said Muntaner.

“If he’s not made himself a duke first,” said En Jaime, somewhat drunkenly. “This youngster has verve, I tell you. I knew it the first hour we met.”

“Ah, yes, be a duke,” purred the high-born Byzantine mistress of one officer. “You’d keep a cheerful court, I’ll wager. No vinegar decorum where you are.”

A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up into Na Violante’s flushed countenance. She leaned against his chair, smiled down at him, and ran her fingers through his locks. “He’ll not be a nobleman,” she said. “What, and grow roots like any tree? No, our friend here is too good for that.”

Her words were a little blurred with the wine that had also brightened her eyes and moistened the full red mouth. He stopped himself just short of throwing an arm around her waist and dragging her down on his lap. “I’d ask you to spare my modesty,” he said, “but hearing such words from such a vision is far too great a pleasure to let any puling virtue get in the way.”

“Indeed?” she murmured, and leaned forward. He smelt her breath, musky with the grape. When he turned his head sideways, her lips were near his and the deep white cleft of her bosom was before him. “Pray, what other virtues would Maestre Lucas consider mere obstacles in the path of what other pleasures?”

He didn’t think it would be wise to answer, though the drink buzzed in his own brain. She regarded him through drooping lashes. Her smile was not quite like the ones of their past teasing.

“Yes,” she said, “you are too good to become a
rich hom
. Would that have suited Lancelot, Amadis, Ogier? Though I believe, myself, you are Huon of Bordeaux, he who became a lord in Faerie.” She felt his tunic. “If I looked closely, I might see a little dust of Faerie clinging to this. Like tiny stars.”

Asberto Cornel had gone out a few minutes ago. Now, beyond Violante’s bare plump shoulder, Lucas saw him reenter. He froze in the doorway. Even by candlelight, Lucas discerned the redness and the fury which mounted in him.

Swiftly, he covered the length of the room. The others paid no heed until he stood looking down on his host. His fists were jammed against his hips, doubled so tightly the knuckles stood bloodless.

Violante straightened. The color left her cheeks. In the silence which began to fall, flute and harp shrilled idiotically.

“Before God,” said Asberto. The sound exploded against the farther wall. “Were I not a guest here, you would be dead this moment.”

En Jaime half rose from his chair. “Nasberto,” he warned.

“Yes. Yes.” The lesser knight continued to stare at Lucas. He swayed a little on his feet. He had been drinking heavily and joylessly all evening. “Peace among us,” he said. “For now. Oh, yes. Come, Violante, bid these people goodnight. We must leave.”

Her lips made the word of denial, but no voice came out.

“Come, you filthy harlot!” screamed Asberto.

Lucas got to his feet. “Micer, that’s not the way to address a lady.”

“I should kill you, Asberto,” said Violante, syllable by syllable. “I should have killed you long ago.”

The Catalan snatched her wrist. She raked the nails of her free hand across his arm. Blood oozed in the scratches. He didn’t seem to notice. The noise of his breathing filled the room.

“Nasberto, are you possessed?” demanded Muntaner. “I beg you, no, I order you--”

“She’s mine!” Cornel shouted at them all. “My concern alone! Is she not? Who’ll deny it? Who’ll claim rights over her? Is she not my whore?”

Violante struck him across the mouth. Her rings cut. His grip on her wrist tightened. She cursed in a whisper. He let her go and cracked his palm against her face so she staggered.

“Well?” he rasped. The blood coursing into his beard was somehow less meaningful than the sweat which stained his doublet and ran down his countenance. “There she is. She’s no slave, I admit. She may appeal to any of you gentles if she wishes.”

Rarely had Lucas heard so much pain.

Violante touched the bruises already beginning to show on arm and cheek. The light glittered off half-shed tears, turning her eyes blank. As if guiding itself, Lucas’ hand reached toward her.

Asberto’s tone became merely a snarl again. “There they are, slut,” he said to the woman. “Choose any of them. Go with him. You’re free to do so. If you come with me, you’ll taste my cane on your back once more.”

“Signora--” began Lucas.

She didn’t seem to hear. Asberto spat on the floor, whistled for her, and went out. She followed him.

Lucas might have hazarded action, for Violante’s image kept him sleepless all that night. But the next morning, heat in his skin and an evil flavor on his tongue showed that more than wine had attacked him. By afternoon he lay abed, and that evening he passed into delirium.

It stretched on, endless as damnation. Now and then he was aware of Djansha holding him in her arms and wiping the greasy moisture off him. Twice he glimpsed En Jaime’s lean anxious visage. But they were dim, unreal visions, seen through a waterfall that roared. He lost them quickly among skewed pagodas, where his mother fled singing from a fat man who hurled his teeth at her. The sky was red. When it began to press inward, he saw that it was made of iron and the red was its fiery glow as St. God hammered on it with a hammer as heavy as the world. The sky closed around his skull and he shrieked.

An eon after Judgment Day, the first morning light grayed the windows. Lucas opened his eyes. With thin clarity he saw Djansha thrust a Catalan surgeon out the door. She had a dagger in her hand and was wild enough to frighten any man; could this be his little Circassian? “No!” she yelled. “You will not bleed him! I know what he needs! Go before I kill you!” She slammed and bolted the door. Lucas watched her stoke the brazier, cut the throat of a white cock, and begin some heathen chant. He smiled with a tender kind of exhaustion and drifted asleep.

Whether or not her witchcraft saved him, he never knew. He told the saints he was not responsible, having been helpless at the time, but would nonetheless light many candles when he recovered. That, however, took a weary pair of weeks. Even after the last fever was gone, he seemed bonelessly feeble.

En Jaime was often in to visit him, which greatly relieved the tedium. Others came too, but they sat about, uncomfortable, and groped for words. “By Heaven, Maestre, you’re looking better. Indeed you are. The rest of us, we’re all fine so far, God willing. If I had a mistress as handsome as yours to tend me, I think I might get sick, too. Haw. Well, you’re looking better. Take care of yourself. I, ah, I’d best be going. Work to do. Take care of yourself.”

En Jaime crossed one long, black-hosed shank over the other, leaned back, and asked how the astrologic learning of the Saracens in Asia differed from that he had encountered in Spain.