Swords From the West (95 page)

"So the khan gave thee to me," he observed at length.

"Aye-hush! Thou must sleep."

"He did well, for otherwise I would have sought thee in all Cathay-aye, and kept thee. Why dost thou weep?"

"I-I do not know. My Lord of the Cross, when I first saw thee I thought thee a sluggard and a coward. Then when I would have fled from the wall, I hated thee for standing in my way. But when we rode together into Cathay, I saw thee take thy stand at the side of poor Sonkor. And 0 my lord, never did man so bear himself as thou that day. And I besought the khan to give me to thee." Her voice ceased and then whispered hastily, "Because I did not wish to be a Tatar's slave."

"Yet," Sir John pondered aloud, "I am a captive and a broken man."

She was not crying now, and there crept into her voice the murmur of music.

"And what am I? Nay, my lord, I do not think there is any power of human might that can make thee captive."

He stretched out his right hand, and his fingers fell across the girl's warm throat. She did not draw away and her hand pressed softly upon his. Under his fingers he felt the swift throbbing of her heart's blood.

And so he lay silent, with the scent of flowers near him, and caring nothing for the world, since all was well in Cathay.

In the early hours of that morning, Rob made his way into the forest. The bitter cold of the night left the snow hard underfoot, and over his head the wind rattled the bare branches. Rob kept to the paths, ever watching out for men and listening for dogs. He was seven years old and he had no fear of anything except the Boar's men. And the forest belonged to the Boar.

When he came to a clump of firs the boy gathered sticks, breaking them into even lengths and laying them in a pile. When he saw bare patches of ground he searched for acorns and black chestnut burs, putting what he found into the sack that swung from his belt. He shivered as he ran on, because his leather jacket was too big for him and did not keep out the bite of the wind. He wanted to hurry out of the forest with his firewood and nuts. For tonight would be Christmas Eve.

His blue eyes gleamed in his chilled face as he thought over what he would do that evening. First Ellen would finish the cake, after she had ground up the acorn piths and chestnuts; then she would roast the half of the goose the bowman had promised to bring in. At the sunset hour they would carry two candles, Ellen and he, to the stone church where they would light the candles; and Father Jehan would hold Christ's Mass with singing and music ... Perhaps he would see mummers at the inn yard, or even a dancing bear.

Excited by the thought, the boy tossed his tousled head, trying to whistle the way the bowman did. And then he turned swiftly, crouching in his tracks. Within bowshot of him three men were walking swiftly along another path. They wore steel caps and leather jacks-the one in the rear, looking straight into Rob's eyes, carried a bow ready strung.

The boy knew they were three of the Boar's men, so he scurried to a pile of brush and flung himself down behind it. As he did so, he heard the arrow crash through the branches above him, and he peered out to see what they were doing, before starting to run.

To his surprise, they hastened on past him. They were going toward the highway that ran through the forest, and the boy's heart throbbed painfully. He was afraid of them-even the bowman gave them a wide berth-and he wanted to run. More than once he had watched them halt a wayfaring merchant and strip wallet and gear from the man.

When they had vanished, Rob followed beside the trail, running from thicket to thicket. When he saw the clear lane of the road, no wider than a spear, he climbed to the top of a ridge where he could lie and watch unseen.

Below him the three Boar's men had their heads together, standing in the middle of the road, which ran through a gully at this place. They were looking toward the turn of the road, and Rob knew that they had seen something coming up, from their watchpost in the upper branches of a lone tree. After a moment one of them drew his short sword and laid it on the trodden snow, then stretched himself out upon it, as if sore hurt. The second fellow, who had only a stout cudgel, knelt beside him, while the third leaned on a long poleax. So they covered the narrow road.

As they did so, around the turn came a rider. A stranger, Rob thought-a solitary man in a faded gray mantle and a squirrel-skin hunting cap. Behind his fine, long-limbed charger plodded a loaded packhorse. The three rogues in the road looked up as if seeing him for the first time, and the one with the cudgel rose to his feet.

"Look 'ee, my lord," he begged, "here is a poor wight wi' a broken knee."

Coming to the prostrate man, the stranger reined in. He glanced idly about the gully, and bent forward to scrutinize the fellow in the snow. The fellow with the cudgel edged forward, and raised his stick slowly behind the stranger.

Rob's blood burned in his veins and he could not keep silent. "'Ware ye, sir! " he cried shrilly.

But as he cried out two things happened. Dropping the rein, the stranger thrust out his left arm; catching the rogue with the cudgel under the chin-sending him staggering back. And the stranger's right arm plunged beneath his loose mantle, coming forth with a long sword bared. The sword whirled and struck to the right, and it splintered the shaft of the poleax that-unnoticed by the boy-had been swinging down upon him.

Catching up his rein, the stranger wheeled his horse to the right, striking with the flat of his blade the iron cap of the wight, who stood amazed, the broken shaft in his hand. Then the stranger looked to the left, but the chap with the cudgel was showing his heels down the road, and the one who had shammed injury was leaping for safety like a rabbit. And in a moment the third got up, holding his head and stumbling into the forest, leaving his bow where it had fallen.

The stranger was fairly under Rob, his gray eyes questing into the thicket. "Come out, whelp," he said grimly. "Show thyself."

Rob had lain hidden from fear of the fleeing Boar's henchmen, but now a great excitement seized him, and he slipped down the bank to the horseman's stirrup.

"Art thou the cub of the pack?" the man laughed. "Well, I give thee thanks for thy warning-though late it came."

The boy lifted his head angrily. "Can you not see, my lord, that I am no cutpurse churl? Nay, they hunt me with arrows when I am i' the forest." He laid his hand eagerly on the worn saddle. "What a good blow it was you gave them! Are you not-my lord father?"

The stranger had a scar down one cheek, so that when he smiled, as he did now, his lips twisted curiously. "Now that is not easy to say," he responded, "unless you will even tell me your mother's name."

"My lady mother," said Rob gravely, "lieth i' her grave these three years. But my lord father is Errart of Dion."

To Rob, afire with excitement, it seemed that he never would speak. "What manner of cub art thou," he muttered, "not to know thy own sire?"

"I know him not, for good reason," the boy maintained stoutly. "Five years ago my father went with the crusade beyond the sea, to set free the tomb of Seigneur Jesus from the infidels. Yea, he went with the host of our good king, and we have had no word of him. Are you not-my father?"

The gray eyes of the stranger dwelt upon the lad, noting his erect bearing and his misfit jacket.

"Speak!" cried Rob, stamping his foot. "This is the road to Dion-are you not lord of Dion?"

"I know not."

Rob drew back, staring. "Know you not your name-is it mocking me you are?"

Bending down, the stranger lifted him bodily to the saddle horn; then, taking off his fur cap, he raised the boy's hand to his head, and bade him feel the scarred bone above his temple. "A sword dealt me that beyond the sea," he said, "and now a mist of magic lieth upon my thoughts. I have no home, and I know not what road to take. Sure it is that I fought in the war at Jerusalem, where so many good men lost life. Sure it is that we have come home like sparrows scattered in a storm, one by one, stripped and hare. Now," he smiled his twisted smile, "this is verily a strange meeting, between a son who knoweth not his sire, and a man who knoweth not his mind."

Avoiding the intent eyes of the boy, he pondered. "What is thy name, cub? Robert-of Dion? Show me the way to Dion, and we may there find the truth."

"Nay," said Rob promptly, "the Boar is now in Dion castle."

"And who might he be, this Boar?"

"He weareth the head of a boar upon his own, yea, with tusks."

Quietly the stranger plied the boy with questions, until he understood that this Boar was the leader of strong bands of henchmen who patrolled the roads, laying tribute upon merchants and pilgrims, and at times seizing people for ransom. No mercy was shown to those who did not pay. The Boar said that the money went to pay for guarding the roads and taverns from robbers. But the countryside evidently went in fear of the Boar for good reason.

Rob took little heed. Clasping his hands proudly on the saddle horn, he peered at the packhorse, which carried leather sacks and two covered shields and even a spare sword. For years the boy had watched the road, to see if his father would not ride back to Dion. Now this mindless man had come, and had driven off the Boar's men like rats-and Rob wished that everyone could see him, riding in this glory upon a real war horse. But the road was empty, and the short lane that led to the boy's home-a hut with a thatched roof under the pines.

The stranger looked about him. "And what is this hovel?"

"Know you not Ellen?"

A girl was standing in the door, a girl in a coarse dress, with heavy tresses gleaming upon her slender shoulders. Too thin her checks, the stranger thought, too dark her eyes-and yet she should have been beautiful. She might be sixteen years.

"This girl is your sister?" he asked.

"Aye," cried Rob his tongue tripping with eagerness. "You do remember! Ellen, is-is not this one my lord father?"

Coming out to them, the girl helped Rob down from the saddle, and the stranger dismounted. "Nay, Rob," she said gently. "Not this one."

"But, look how tall he is, and his mind is gone from him, so belike he knoweth us not."

"Surely," a smile touched her lips, "I would know my father, who was older than this lord-much older, and dark like myself." Then to the man she added, "I ask pardon, Seigneur, for this whim of my brother, and I bid you welcome. Rob, take the led horse to the shed."

When he had vanished around the hut, the girl spoke to the stranger, low voiced. "Two years ago, my lord, Sir Errant of Dion, my father, died in battle before Jerusalem, beyond the sea. But Rob knoweth not. I have kept it from him, for he hath set his heart upon having his father come home again. Nor do they know it for certain in the village, although they have heard tales."

This girl, the stranger thought, was half wasted with hunger, and yet the lad looked sturdy. She had not stinted him food. In her eyes and lips lay the sign of hurt, yet her voice was clear and she had greeted him, a wayfarer, as if a great house stood behind her; instead, here was a peasant's hutch without serving women, or a man to defend her.

The stranger could not take his eyes from her face. For years he had not talked with a girl of his own race. He knew the long ache of hunger and the empty hours of prison; he knew the dull bite of wounds and the fever that followed. On his body he bore the scars of defeat. Now he had said farewell to the war, and he sought but one thing. . . everything else was a mist of magic. One thing he knew: the very elves of this forest must have woven an invisible thread that bound him to this solitary girl.

"Why are you so fair?" he whispered. "I had not thought a girl could be so fair."

Her dark eyes met his without flinching. "Well do I know that I am grown a forest girl, with a rough skin."

"Then you have but a poor mirror."

"It is a pond," she laughed, "and when I look into it I see the great clouds passing."

"Why, then, are you not at Dion-you the maid of Dion?"

She told him what all the countryside knew. How after Sir Errart had gone forth with the men-at-arms upon the crusade, her mother had died and she at thirteen years of age had been left with the steward to care for the lands and cattle. Sir Trigault had come by with a following of jackmen and had stopped as a guest at the castle. At first he had craved hospitality, then, when more of his men came up, he had told her bluntly that he would abide as protector of the place. Yet he had quarreled with the few retainers of Sir Errart and had slain the steward, and Dion had been his. In these troubled times other lords did not bother about the fate of a crusader's castle and children, and the good king was dead beyond the sea.