Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “To ride for the mountains. I see no reason to implicate you in my affairs.”

  “A noble thought, but a foolish one. In those mountains lurk brigands who await travelers. Remain with us. You are one of us now, and your troubles have become our troubles.”

  He changed the subject. “Lucca informs me you know the Baron de Tournemine. Do you know his castle?”

  “I know it. I rode there with my father when he told the baron the limits of his power. The baron did not like it.”

  “An evil man, but a strong one. Under the pretense of keeping order he rides far afield to demand tribute, and he makes war upon merchants.”

  “I shall seek him out.”

  “We will talk of this again, in the meantime be assured that our company stands with you.”

  The gray towers loomed ominously through the rain. I had no doubt that we were watched, for such a body of men would be immediately reported.

  Beyond the village, which was a cluster of houses, was a huge old inn. There was a court with a strong wall and wooden gates that could be closed against attack. Our burdens would be taken inside the court while the animals would, for a time, graze upon the meadows. On such a night as this all would stand guard in groups of twenty men each.

  Prince Ahmed, Lucca told us, was rarely here, and he had protected the caravans that passed through his domains, occasionally trading with them.

  The Hansgraf drew up by the gate and sat on his powerful horse. He rarely made gestures, but each was a command. I have never known a man who better understood his role. He accepted rights due him without comment or apology, and he made the responsibilities of command seem a privilege.

  The pack animals were stripped of their packs and led at once to the meadow, but the horses of the guards were kept inside and grain fed, ready for instant use.

  The Hansgraf, erect upon his horse, directed all arrangements with movements as skilled as those of an artist at his canvas. “You,” he said as I passed, “the four hours after midnight.”

  They were the only words he spoke during the whole process of arrival.

  This was a nightly affair for these men, and few directions were necessary. Many had visited this inn before, and the business of arrival, unloading, storing, and disposition of the animals was simple indeed.

  By now I knew most of the company, but aside from the easygoing Lucca the one I knew best was a lantern-jawed man named Johannes, from Bruges. His history as a merchant was typical. A landless man, born in Bruges and left an orphan by the plague, he had begged, struggled, and fought his way to manhood. On a voyage at sea he helped in the capture of a prize and came ashore with a little money in hand.

  Inland there was famine; at the port there was grain, so he bought both mules and grain and carried them inland and sold his grain for a good price. Everything was raised on a local scale, and there was no transportation away from the rivers, so famine might exist only a few days’ travel from an area of plenty.

  A new class of citizen had come into being in what had been an exclusively agricultural society. The old ways when a few strong chieftains held all the land about them, and serfs worked for them, were changing. A new kind of wealth and a new means of creating wealth were being evolved. Merchants thrived on discontent. They brought to people things they needed but also created new desires by displaying cosmetics, fabrics, silks, jewels, and many simpler items.

  Guido was a peasant from the Piedmont. His family had been wiped out by war. A young boy at the time, he had drifted with the refugees before an invading army and had come at last to Florence. For the first time he saw a ship, saw men coming ashore with modest wealth, so he shipped out.

  His voyage ended in the Greek isles, his ship sunk, a few castaways reaching shore. They had stolen a boat, raided a village, and gone off to sea again. His second voyage ended in failure, but the third was a success. He gambled, lost all but a few pennies, but with that small sum he bought candles to sell to pilgrims and went from that to furnishing others with goods to sell. A few years later he joined a merchant caravan.

  The first companies of merchants I had been told had been little better than brigands. Made up of ne’er-do-wells, vagabonds, and thieves, they robbed and pillaged as they traded. Order entered the enterprise; the fairs were organized, and companies of merchants became a recognized institution.

  The inn was large, but when we crowded into it, forty strong plus our five women, the room was no longer spacious. One third of our men were with the animals in the meadow or on guard about the walls. Other travelers were present. A friar on a pilgrimage, the prioress of a convent with a small escort and two nuns, a pair of soldiers returning from the wars, and a cattle drover who had just sold his stock.

  It was hot and stuffy inside. The wet clothing of our men steamed. The room itself was none too clean, but the food was, and there was plenty of it.

  I approached Safia as she sat resting. “To bring you to this? I am sorry.”

  “I have known this before, Kerbouchard. Not here, but in Persia, in my own land. Do not worry, all will be well.”

  The door opened suddenly and we all looked up. Quickly, I looked down again. Several soldiers had come into the room, and the officer commanding the soldiers was Duban. I glanced about for a way to escape. There was none.

  In a moment he would see me.

  He turned his eyes and stared directly into mine.

  And in his look there was recognition.

  Chapter 26

  *

  HE CROSSED THE room, and I arose to face him. As I stood, Johannes placed his sword upon the table before him, as did Guido. Duban did not fail to see them.

  “You have friends,” he commented. His eyes were not unfriendly.

  “Good friends,” I replied. “And you, Duban?”

  “I am a captain. I serve and am served. It were a better thing if you did not stop here this night. There is a small inn at the entrance to the pass. I would advise it.”

  “Duban, I am now a merchant, and a merchant travels with his hanse. Your prince threatened me. He imprisoned me, but I am a patient man.”

  “You do not search for Aziza?”

  “No.”

  His eyes searched my face for the truth, and it was there if he was the man to see it.

  “Your prince has chosen to be my enemy. So far I am not his. But tell him this, if you will: that if I become his enemy, I shall not rest until he is dead, but he must await his turn. I have an older enemy.”

  “You are a bold man, Kerbouchard, a fit son for the father.”

  I bowed. “I have far to go to equal Jean Kerbouchard, and far to go to find him. Meanwhile I am your friend.”

  Duban held out his hand. “Farewell, then. May fortune favor your sword.”

  As he walked away from me there was a sound of sheathed blades; then for a moment I thought them sheathed too soon, for the door of the inn opened and Aziza entered.

  She was not alone. With her were several women and a half-dozen eunuchs. She was beautiful, a little rounder, and possibly even lovelier than I remembered, but her face had a stillness I did not remember.

  Duban had no opportunity to warn her, and her eyes met mine across the room. Met mine, hesitated briefly, then passed on. Aziza had made her peace with her new life and had forgotten the Castle of Othman.

  And I? Well, not exactly. I remembered the Castle of Othman. This tribute have I always paid to women. I have not forgotten.

  What greater tribute than to remember a woman at her loveliest? And in her moments of enthusiasm?

  When I seated myself beside Safia, her eyes twinkled slyly. “She was, well, restrained.”

  “Why not? I am a vagabond in dusty armor, and she the wife of a prince.” Pausing a bit, I added, “I hope all the women I know do as well.

  “Safia, I think no man should ask more than the moments. He should accept what the gods offer and make no demands upon the future.”

  “I think a day will come when you
will make demands, Kerbouchard.”

  On that I had no comment, for the future is the future, and I place no trust in the reading of the stars. And do we not all look for the time when there is one girl, or for women, one man, who does not pass on?

  Safia? She alone was unreadable, beautiful again, and a mystery forever. She was soft and lovely as a houri out of paradise, yet quiet, with much of the queen in her presence. There was steel in her, a command of herself and those about her such as I had seen in no other woman. For the first time since the death of her Bengali prince, she was now cared for, protected, and I believe she liked it.

  On the next morning as we rode away, I turned in my saddle and glanced back at the sullen gray walls of the castle. On the west side of the tower I could see some blue domes and near them a flat-roofed dwelling.

  Farewell, Aziza, farewell…what was it my acquaintance in the Cádiz tavern had said so long ago? Yol bolsun! May there be a road!

  *

  HOW PASSED THE days? How the weeks? Northward we moved, ever northward, occasionally pausing at fairs, occasionally trading at castle or town. Twice were we attacked by brigands, and once there was a swift raid when a Raubritter swept down upon us.

  We lost a man that day, but we had seen them coming and had twenty bowmen waiting in a ditch and behind a hedge. Seven attackers left their saddles at the first flight of arrows, and then we closed with them.

  The Raubritter, a huge man in black armor, charged my part of the line, and I rode to meet him. He dealt me a mighty blow on the helm that swept me from the saddle, the first time I had been unhorsed. Shocked and raging, my head ringing from the blow, I sprang at him. He missed a hasty stroke, which left him off-balance, and I jerked him from the saddle. On the ground, blade to blade, we fought on the wet sward, rain falling upon us.

  He was a strong swordsman and sure of victory. My Frankish upbringing had taught me much, but the Moors were adept at single combat, and soon I was pressing him hard. He thrust at me in a feint, then flicked his sword up at my eyes and nicked my cheekbone, showering me with blood.

  Our blades engaged, then disengaged, and I thrust at his throat. My blade laid open his face, and with a quick twist, not bringing the blade back to guard position, I cut across his throat, but only a scratch.

  My head was throbbing from the blow I had taken, and my legs, strong as they were, were tiring. He missed a strong blow at me, and I cut back with my Damascus blade, which was steel that was truly steel, and the edge bit through his helmet. He staggered back as a final thrust finished him.

  Turning, I saw we were surrounded by our men, and they gave me a round cheer.

  My legs were trembling, and Safia came to stanch the blood from my cheek, where ever after I would carry the scar. The blood worried me less than the realization that had he dealt me such a blow with a sword like mine, I would now be lying dead upon the wet grass. I had been careless, dangerously careless.

  With the Raubritter dead we attacked the castle, rushing upon it before the drawbridge could be lifted. It was my first opportunity to see how my companions functioned as a fighting unit, for compared to this our other fighting had been mere skirmishes. Sweeping through the castle halls, they put to the sword all who resisted. We found several village women who had been captives there and freed them. We left the pigs and fowls for their enrichment but thoroughly looted what else there was of value. The Raubritter had long terrorized the country around, and the villages greeted us as saviors.

  *

  DAY AFTER DAY we moved north. The fair at Montauban lay behind us, and the next was far away. We would cross the Seine, von Gilderstern told us, at Mantes.

  It was a place I knew, for William the Conqueror had been killed there when his horse tripped on a burning brand. William had massacred the male population of the town, which he then claimed for his own.

  We camped on the Vilaine not far from Rennes on a pleasant night with scattered stars. Looking about me I thought, This is my land; these are my people.

  A peasant squatted by our fire and his face had a vaguely familiar look. Finally, it came to me. He was from the holdings of Tournemine. There was a shifty look in his eyes, his hair matted and dirty.

  As he had not noticed me, I walked quickly to where the Hansgraf sat over a glass of mulled wine.

  “Unless I mistake him, he is a spy. I suggest we have half a dozen of our men appear sick and appear careless. If so, we may draw an attack by Tournemine.”

  The Hansgraf considered while he drank, then agreed.

  Within minutes twenty of us were rolled in our beds, and we watched the peasant as he nosed about, then saw him slip silently away. Later, we heard a horse galloping into the night, a horse he must have left waiting for him.

  My admiration for the Hansgraf was never greater than now, for he moved with swiftness. How far off the enemy awaited we did not know. We laid our bundles of goods out to appear as sleeping men, and the fires were supplied with wood to keep them burning.

  Men were sent out to warn of Tournemine’s approach while several of us guarded the women, our goods, and men wounded in the fight with the Raubritter.

  They came with a rush.

  We heard the thunder of their hooves, coming with a suddenness intended to overwhelm at one stroke. All must have appeared serene and simple to them, for they charged pell-mell, thrusting swords or spears into what they thought were sleeping men. In that moment when all was confusion our men let fly a flight of arrows.

  Tournemine, veteran fighter that he was, saw the trap at once, and even as the arrows were loosed he shouted for a withdrawal.

  The arrows struck home, and we charged from a copse where we had been hiding. A huge man in armor loomed over me, swinging a battle-ax. His blow, enough to have cut me through side to side, missed. My swift Arab horse darted past him, and I swung a wicked backhand blow with my sword.

  It caught him where intended, on the side of the neck where there was no armor. The ax dropped from his dead hand, and his horse galloped away, the man’s head dangling. The shouts of men and the clang of weapon upon weapon were loud in the night.

  How long? A minute? Two minutes? In all this time I caught no glimpse of Tournemine.

  We gathered together as planned, thirty strong, and pursued, overtaking two stragglers whom we cut down, then fearing another attack, we circled back to our camp.

  We lost no men and had but four with minor wounds. The attackers lost four men at camp and two out on the plain. We captured three wounded prisoners, and five horses were taken.

  The Hansgraf strode among them. He was a monumental figure of a man, and now he stared at the prisoners, glaring first at one and then another. “Now, thieves,” he said, “I have it in mind to hang you for the ravens. There are strong branches here, and we came provided with rope. It is hanging long delayed.

  “Or shall it be fire? What think you, Lucca? Shall it be fire?” He pointed a finger. “The fat one yonder would make a merry blaze. Can you not see him frying in his own grease?”

  “You might run a lance through him,” Johannes said seriously, “and turn him over the fire as on a spit. I saw it done in the Holy Land, and you have no idea how long it takes them to die.”

  “Perchance they have something to tell,” Guido suggested. “No use to burn them if they talk.”

  “Bah!” Lucca said. “They know nothing? Burn them!”

  The fat man stared from one to the other, his features twisted by fear and horror. The second kept shifting his eyes, glancing from side to side, licking his dry lips. The third was a sullen rascal who glared his contempt. We would have nothing from him.

  “What could they tell? Tournemine’s castle is impregnable.”

  “Hang them, or burn them and be done with it,” I said, “Tournemine’s castle is too far from here to be worth the riding. Open their bellies and leave them. They will die slow enough then.”

  Our talk was having the effect we wished. Two of them were thoroughly frighten
ed. The fat man kept swallowing as if he felt the noose tightening.

  “There would be nothing at the castle worth the riding,” Lucca said, “and we haven’t time for a siege.”

  “There’s loot!” the fat man said suddenly. “There’s the goods of two caravans taken last week and of a household raided. I tell you there is plenty!”

  “Shut up, you fool!” The sullen one spoke in a fury. “I’ll smash your skull for this!”

  “You will smash no skulls,” the Hansgraf said. “If you live out the hour, it will be because of my whim, and I am not given to whims.” He thrust a finger at the fat man. “Hang him!” he ordered.

  “Please!” The fat man screamed, wetting himself in his terror. “I told you! And there’s the postern—”

  The sullen one sprang at him, but the Hansgraf, with amazing speed, grasped him by the hair and flung him back into place. “If you move or speak, I shall run you through myself.” He drew his sword. “Now then”—he spoke to the fat man—“you mentioned the postern gate?”

  There was a postern gate needing repair. It could not be closed properly, and it was on a dark side of the castle near the woods.

  The fat man talked freely, as did the other. When they were through we had a clear picture of what lay before us.

  “How many are in the castle,” I said, “who plundered the manor of Kerbouchard?”

  There was instant stillness, the eyes of all three were upon me. If frightened before, they were doubly so now.

  “Kerbouchard is dead,” the fat man said.

  “He lives,” I replied, “and soon he returns. Now an answer to my question.”

  “It was long ago. Several years ago. It was before my time.”

  The surly one was staring at me, his eyes alive with alarm for the first time.

  The second prisoner pointed at him. “He was there. Ask him.”

  “You were not?”

  “I was left behind at the castle.”

  The sullen one was staring at the ground now, but sweat stood out on his neck and brow. “Kerbouchard is dead,” he muttered.