The Dragon Throne (9 page)

Sir Jean nodded, too excited to speak.

“Employ a well-mounted army,” continued the prince, sitting back but continuing to speak in a low voice. “That is what you'll require, to kill these men.”

“My lord prince,” began the knight, as eager to bargain as any housewife, “I look forward to my reward for this service to you.”

Only a Chartrian would put the matter so coarsely, thought the prince. Money was as important to a knight as to any man, but what a knight of real ambition sought was to be promoted to the ranks of the
milites de familia regis
—knights of the royal household.

“I am sending the four knights and their lady charge by way of the Alps,” the prince said. “Seagoing ships are few, and the mountain route can be quicker for capable travelers. See that they lose their lives in some wasteland, where no one will associate our person with the bloodshed—and not on English soil.”

Besides, thought the prince, if Sir Jean failed, some alpine brigand might well finish the job. Or perhaps a tumble of mountain boulders, or a killing frost. The route through the alpine pass was tended by a brave band of monks founded by Bernard of Aosta. Many travelers died despite their help.

“My father was Sir Beaumont le Brun, my lord prince,” the Chartrian replied in response, “and his father kept a sword that had belonged to King Pepin le Breve.”

“You have a family of treasured name,” said the prince, regretting that such bargaining could not be left to some steward's clerk. “Bring me back the severed sword hands of the four offending knights, and you'll hold a high station in my court.”

If my brother Richard does not return from his Crusade.

Sir Jean of Chartres drew his sword. He knelt before the prince, kissing the hilt of the weapon as a man would kiss the holy cross.

Prince John lifted a finger. “But see,” added the prince, “that the young lady Ester completes her pilgrimage to Rome.”

It would not be wise to offend Heaven.

THE CHANNEL WATERS WERE A STRANGE, liverish color, dark and troubled. Ester told herself she did not mind.

“Why did our Lord God,” asked Nigel, “bother making so much water? The oceans are too full of it.”

There was a good deal of sea, it was true, and yet Ester began the journey convinced that their pilgrimage was protected by divine will, and that no harm could touch them.

Their travel would take them across the Channel, and then down a landlocked route, through the grape-growing estates of minor barons, toward the life-threatening barrier of the Alps. But Ester was not afraid, she reminded herself. With Ida at her side, in the company of her companion knights, the young lady-in-waiting thrilled at the rocking of the salt-cured cog.

The
Saint Veronica
was a stout-timbered ship, fit for ferrying horses and pilgrim folk across the wind-battered body of salt water between France and England. Ester had voyaged many times before, as a part of the queen's company, and with her father on his way to consult the learned men of Aachen and Paris.

And she had endured hardship in her life before now, too. Despite the artful conversation and well-sung ballads of court life, there had been many days of leathery salt-whiting and watered wine in the castle of the queen. Old King Henry had tended to bicker with his wife, and send her to virtual durance—imprisonment—in pleasant but remote castles. Ester had been a member of the queen's court since her girlhood, and had known days when the noontime meal was nothing but a pigeon's egg and day-old bread.

Now Ester carried an amulet in a soft kidskin pouch, hidden in her clothing. It was the special token that the pope had, years before, given Eleanor—the relic of Saint George. Ester had been cautioned by the queen to keep this holy object secret—it was too valuable and sacred to be exposed rashly.

As the stout ship rose up over the Channel swells, and sank down into the sea trough, Ester blinked back tears of gratitude at the queen's kindness.

 

They set foot on the sandy shore of France after a voyage of less than two days, and at once set forth along the rutted market paths of Normandy.

It was true that aside from Wowen Wight there were no other squires, but the queen had provided the pilgrims with an experienced retainer from her own household: a burly Kentishman named Clydog, along with two young assistants, Hervey and Eadwin.

Clydog had been a steward to the queen for many years, chastising serving lads with his glance. Ester had seen him straighten the long handle of a waffle iron with his bare hands, and as chief servant on their pilgrimage he could build a fire from a spark and a pinch of damp wood mold, and prepare kettle-poached fish in a pouring rain. If there was one flaw in the man's character, it was that he tended to have a low opinion of any man or woman less capable than he, whether lowborn or high.

Even now, the stalwart retainer was hurrying the travelers up the sandy slope. “Come along now, worthy knights,” he said, motioning them onward with an ill-disguised impatience. “Ride steady on your mounts, my ladies,” he added, as though without his urging, she and Ida would surely fall off.

Ester and Ida both rode the best palfreys, with soft saddles and leather-bound bridles. The geldings had been bred for travel and they were quick to answer both the rein and the soft word of encouragement. Ester rode astride, as was proper for a traveling lady—only in the most elaborate pageants did a lady ride sidesaddle.

 

In the passing days, Ester modified her skeptical attitude toward knights.

Sir Rannulf, a darkly bearded man, was a silent figure as weathered as a tanner's boot. He rarely spoke. But he stood sentry at night without complaint, and once Ester woke to see the warrior's scarred visage bending near, as he threw another blanket over her against a sudden night mist.

As they had passed through the fabled town of Gisors, Sir Rannulf traded his moody mount for a fleet horse with a long, graceful neck. On this animal the bearded knight ranged back along the highway they had already traveled, hunting for possible trouble. His sable-brown charger was called Strikefire, and no other horse could run as fast or travel as far.

Sir Nigel of Nottingham she found a knight of pleasing spirits, a man her father would have enjoyed calling a fellow pilgrim. He was quick to laugh, full of pleasure at the sight of children playing football with an ox's bladder, or a flock of swans rising overhead. He did drink more deeply than anyone else from the wineskin, but he was civil to beggars and itinerant songsters, and more than once let a farthing spin into a cripple's cup.

Hubert of Bakewell she liked well, too, a good-natured knight overflowing with talk of his lady-love, who awaited him in Rome. He was quick to goad his friend Edmund into laughter with wry comments and imitations of millers and cowherds they passed. Feelings gave quick color to his cheeks. Such a young man, Ester believed, could never strike a deliberate killing blow. Hubert's victory during the joust must indeed have been an act of Heaven's will and due to no particular fighting skill on his part.

Edmund stirred stronger feelings in her.

He was the one she sought first with her eyes each morning, and last at night, in the flicker of the dying fire. He was bigger than the rest, and often given to quiet song and prayer. Whether he was a sworn man of violence, or a prayerful and gentle soul, she could not decide.

 

One noon as they rested their mounts, she knelt beside a fast-running stream and drank out of her cupped hand.

“You are wise to do that, my lady,” said Edmund, his shadow falling over her.

“To drink water?” Ester asked, half playful, half in doubt regarding his intentions.

It was widely known that to drink still water, from a slow-flowing river or—even worse—a pond, was to court death from cramps and fever. This water was fiercely cold and fast, as though plunging down a long way, from some yet-unseen mountainside.

“To not lower your mouth into the running stream,” the tall knight was saying.

“Like a doe, you mean—or a cow,” she said, hoping that the play of conversation could win the young knight's regard.

“It's best to be watchful,” he said. He spoke English with the accent of the northern shires, musical to her ear if perhaps a little hard to understand at times.

Ester was forced by his remark to glance around at the pleasant scene of grapes heavy on the rows of vines. Peasants walked the vineyards, plying hoes and testing the readiness of the harvest. Yet another pretty little castle, the stronghold of some local family, perched on a modest hill, little more than a tower and a draw-gate. Ester's party had traveled for several weeks through a land where one sort of Frankish or another had been spoken, and they had dined on the most expensive white bread and fat cheese, purchased from the local farmers.

If this was a typical pilgrimage, Ester had begun to think, she did not know why folk considered travel such a hardship.

“Is there a great need of such watchfulness?” she queried.

Edmund gave the question more thought than she had expected. “Rannulf thinks we are being followed,” said the knight at last.

Ester admitted to herself that she was ignorant of the world of knighthood, but she was not an innocent. She knew that women of name, and men, too, were sometimes captured and held for ransom.

“You need not guard me like a newborn lamb, Sir Edmund,” she replied. “You must think me an unweaned fool.”

To her surprise, the comment made the suntanned knight falter, and even blush. “My lady Ester,” he said at last, “I would not permit any churl or knight to utter such a slur.”

 

Later that afternoon Rannulf rode hard, catching up with the mounts of his companions.

“There's no mistaking him,” said Rannulf. “Sir Jean is riding with five knights, each with a squire and a shield bearer, all hoof-hard. And with enough steel to butcher an army.”

ESTER MADE AN EFFORT TO HIDE HER ALARM.

Her own party of travelers, while richly dressed and well nourished, was outfitted for a seemly pilgrimage, but not for battle.

Each of them wore a neatly sewn cross near the right shoulder, the traditional insignia of folk on a pilgrimage. Packhorses carried the knights' helmets and shields, but only Rannulf and Hubert were supplied with fighting lances. A pilgrimage to Rome was not a Crusade.

 

The travelers posted double sentries that night, and when Ester chided them for not thinking that a young woman had eyes and ears, Nigel laughed. He appointed her to help stand the third watch, just before dawn.

She had hoped to stand guard with Edmund, but instead stood guard with Rannulf, a man who often did double watch as a sentry after a long day of travel, as though he did not need sleep.

“No force would attack at night, or am I mistaken?” she asked the darkly bearded knight.

Rannulf stirred, his travel armor making a musical whisper. He considered a long time without speaking.

Ester grew a little weary of waiting.

“I have heard poems of fighting all my life,” added Ester, feeling regret now that she had troubled to inquire. “Most war ballads speak of the sunlight off shields and the scarlet scales of the dragon. I never hear of pilgrims being slaughtered.”

Rannulf was disturbed at the prospect of speaking to this young lady of quality. He looked on neither man nor woman with desire, but believed that no good came from trading words with a female of any sort.

Nevertheless, Rannulf was loyal to his cohorts, be they squire or lady. More than once he had been careful to see that fire sparks did not breathe harm upon Ester and her lady friend. And he was still touched by the notice Queen Eleanor had given him all those weeks ago. To have a royal lady of such fame and personal dignity speak to him of his own faded triumphs altered Rannulf's view of womankind in subtle ways. He had felt gratitude.

Perhaps this young woman had more than a little of the queen's virtue and grace, he privately admitted. Surely Ester was well spoken, and Rannulf could see no spite or mischief in her—without extending the same confidence to Ida.

And yet, what could he say, with his scarred lips, that would be wise, or strike such a lady—accustomed to conversation with a queen—as remotely polite?

Well, he told himself, he had to say something. Rannulf gathered his will. Heaven had yet to present him with a challenge he could not equal.

“Harm, my lady,” he said at last, “can come at any hour.”

A long while passed, and Rannulf gave an inward, stoical sigh. Perhaps conversation was, for him, a too-long neglected art.

Just then a fox across the fields spoke up, a query answered far away by a vixen. It was an alarm, one hunter to another. There was trouble out there under the stars.

ALL THE NEXT DAY THEY KEPT THEIR moderate pace—Nigel had emphasized that sapping the strength of a horse was cruel to both steed and traveler.

Outwardly, they were the same band of earnest pilgrims, but Ester was aware of little ways in which the knights betrayed their readiness.

Edmund fell back from time to time, eyeing the road behind for the approach once again of Rannulf, and Hubert drew his blade often as he rode, making practice sweeps at the air.

 

At last Rannulf rode up, shaking his head.

“I see,” said Nigel, “that we have run out of peaceful hours.”

“They are upon us,” said his companion-in-arms.

“How much time do we have?” asked Nigel.

“Use your ears,” was all Rannulf would say as he let Strikefire drink from a fast-moving stream.