by Harold Lamb
The nameless man was fighting silently, viciously, and to kill. His horse shouldered the flank of Richard's charger, and the point of his shield ripped across the king's face. Richard struck back, covering himself with his shield. The other's sword point went under the shield, and broke the links of the king's chainmail.
Feeling the bite of the steel, Richard twisted his body. The blade slipped across the leather covering his body and Richard, with his shield arm, tried to hold the other's sword against his body with all the strength of his great shoulders into the grip as he struggled for life.
The white horse was reined back, his sword was wrenched away. But in the seconds before the other got clear of him, Richard smashed the pommel of his long sword at the man's head. And deftly, the other's shield came up. This time it was beaten down against swordsman's head.
Hurt, the other lashed out blindly at Richard's head. Richard bent under the blow, his legs clamping the saddle, gripping the roan horse. As the horse leaped forward he swung his sword in low, beneath the shield. He felt the steel snap as the blade cut over the man's hipbone deep into his body.
The other shouted a curse, and lifted his sword weakly. Knocking it to the ground, Richard reined forward and pulled the helmet from the head of the dying man.
Peering into the face draining of blood, he knew it and said, "Cadoc, you have earned your death."
The captain of mercenaries clung to his saddle, the blood rushing out of his body as his horse backed up in fright. Richard heard the beat of hoofs behind and turned to meet the onset of Cadoc's followers.
They rode at him warily, trying to circle him. He backed the roan to the river edge, jeering at them, bidding them watch Cadoc die. They knew they faced Richard, and they pressed against him slowly.
Then over the rise came one of Richard's knights. At sight of them, the king flung himself at the pack of mercenaries, followed by Mercadier on a wearied black horse, and others behind him.
Richard reined his horse into the fray as his followers came fast to the ford. They drove the mercenaries headlong into the water and across the river.
When the English turned back in the twilight they counted eight men dead and eleven horses captured. They had taken no human prisoners. They found Richard inspecting the pavilion, fitted up in royal style, with wine jars waiting on the carpet. He filled a silver goblet and drank, saying that Cadoc had never paid for all this finery. "Look about, my lieges," he urged, "and see if any French gold be hid away here."
Tasting the good cool wine, he felt pleased and excited-almost as if he stood again on the field of Arsuf or at the broken wall of Acre in Palestine, where thousands had waited his command-
Torches flared in the mist. From the ford, Achard of Chalus approached warily with a strong following of men-at-arms. In the castle they had heard the clatter of steel down the road. "He smells gold," muttered Mercadier, "as a hound scents out a hare." Although the English had ransacked all the trappings of the pavilion, they had found no money.
Recognizing Richard, Achard reined back and dismounted hastily. "Majesty!" Coming upon Cadoc's body covered with the blue cloak, he paled visibly.
"My lord of Chalus," Richard laughed, "you sent me no warning of this ambuscade on your land."
"Sire," Achard stuttered, "I did not know-I was busied with another matter."
Richard silenced his mouthings with a contemptuous motion of his hand. The exultation of the fight left Richard. What had it availed him to risk his life? A soiled pavilion and a baker's dozen of horses-the death of a soldier who had merely tried to earn a payment. Richard had craved more than that. "Did this hireling leave aught of valuables with you, for safekeeping?" he asked Achard.
The man's thin face puckered as if in pain. "I swear by the Holy Three," he protested, "that Cadoc left no gold coins with me."
Richard studied him, the blue eyes curious.
"I swear no other gave me gold," cried Achard.
Filling two goblets with wine, Richard said, "Did I speak of gold? Faith, Achard, we'll drink together till you resolve me the riddle of what gold you have, and for what."
And out of that drinking by torchlight came the doom of Chalus.
Peter Basil felt it coming like the wind in the treetops before a storm. He whispered it to Marie the next afternoon at the haystacks in the field where he stopped her on her way to the mill. "The gold, little Marie. Achard smelled it out. The churl who found it told of it. Achard e'en took the coin from me. Then worse befell. Richard the King looked around for hidden gold, and my lord Achard lied to him, swearing he had not a florin-aye, while he had the trove locked in his coffer, the skulking fox!" And the Gascon swore at his liege lord.
He told her, too, that the English king demanded the treasure-trove be yielded up to him, as Achard's overlord, or he would tear down the walls of Chalus to get at it himself.
"Come away," he begged. "Fetch your gear and goods here on the morrow-we'll go while we can."
How could she go? The next day she waited at the hayfield to tell Peter she couldn't, but although she waited until dark, he did not come.
Frightened, she went around to the street gate to hear the talk of men coming in, and she learned the fate of Chalus.
The English were attacking it. Achard had refused to part with his gold and had fled, after ordering his captains to defend the tower castle. She made bold to ask of the gossipers, "Did no other souls escape?"
The men laughed at her. One said, "Wench, I cannot tell thee of souls. Yet four men-at-arms tried to steal out and were noosed and hanged by the English."
Then she waited by the door of the great hall until Brother Clement came by. He listened to her, and said quietly, "Only the king can grant mercy to those who have taken arms against him. Pray for them, little Marie."
Still she did not understand the doom that had befallen those in ChMus. The next morning she performed none of her duties. Instead she did up bread and cheese, putting them with her good leather shoes and rosary in a kerchief to carry.
Escaping out the field gate with her bundle, she stopped only briefly to say her accustomed prayer. "0 Mary, full of grace, protect Peter Basil wherever he may be." It did not seem necessary today to repeat the rest of the prayer. If she could reach Peter she would go where he wished, now, never leaving the touch of his hand.
When she was out of sight of the castle guards, she began to run, not to the windmill but toward the forest of Chalus.
The edge of that forest had changed, the far edge where huts and tents rose unexpectedly before Marie. Horses grazed and carts leaned drunkenly on the fresh grass. Above them two huge machines of beams and twisted ropes flung their long arms skyward, casting stones against the outer wall of Chalus. Behind the wooden palisade that sheltered them, men tended these machines calmly, or bound ladders together. They are harvesting, Marie thought.
But they wore mail. Above them the sunlight glinted as crossbow bolts and arrows flew. On the ground before her three men lay huddled together, seemingly asleep. In one an arrow was bedded deep. The body did not stir. Marie went around it, unafraid.
The machines thudded like giant hearts beating, and dust rolled down the outer castle wall, hiding for a moment the tower behind it. Then from slots in the wall, arrows flickered again. Marie was hardly aware of this as she searched patiently for the king, who alone could give commands.
She saw Mercadier at the palisade talking to a man leading a roan horse, and the man was Richard, clad in plain mail like his captain, swinging the fine crossbow in his free hand.
Edging behind the horse, she drew closer to Richard, wondering if he would hear her. She cried out above the uproar, and Mercadier caught her roughly by the arm. "Let be," she cried. "Let me go on, into the castle, where he is."
Richard, unheeding, was giving orders for an assault to take the curtain wall, and smoke out the tower with fire. Desperately she tried to touch him, "Let me go in!"
He turned on her with surprise. "In there,
every one of them will die." Then he said to Mercadier, "The Gascon's wench-send her beyond bowshot."
Impatiently Mercadier thrust her toward an archer, who pulled her away by the arm, grinning. Drawing her past the tents he gripped her waist, making a hissing sound as if to a horse. She tore herself away from him and ran toward the trees of the forest.
From the first tree hung long strings of flesh, clothed-the carcasses of four men. None of the dark faces was Peter's.
Like an injured animal, helpless, the girl felt her way into the forest...
Before sunset that day the curtain wall of Chalus toppled to the ground.
The machines ceased their groaning and thudding. Voices were hushed as the English veterans thronged out, ready for commands.
When the dust cleared, Richard mounted and rode forward to examine the breach himself, taking his light shield and crossbow. He moved through a break in the palisade, with Mercadier and a few men to guard him. Behind him, hundreds awaited his order. But only Mercadier saw clearly what happened.
Richard's gaze traversed the silent battlements. He thought how ladders could be run up on either side of the breach, to attack at three points. Only one man moved on the broken stones of the breach, a slender crossbowman.
Richard recognized the Gascon marksman. Raising his weapon, he loosed the bolt at the man, who moved to one side.
Evidently the other had used up all his bolts, because he bent without haste to pull the king's shaft from the stones. Watching, Richard muttered, "Well done ..."
So quickly did the man on the stones raise his weapon that Mercadier heard the crack of the steel bow and impact of the bolt close to him. He started to raise his shield, then lowered it.
The bolt had struck above Richard's mail, at the base of his neck. His hand went to it, straining at it without moving it.
"Eyes of God!" Mercadier sobbed, covering the king with his shield.
"Give the assault now!" Richard ordered.
Sitting motionless in the saddle, gripping it with his hand, he waited while the soldiery advanced past him, carrying the two ladders with them. Then he turned the roan horse back toward his pavilion.
There he lay motionless while attendants cut the lashings of his mail and someone worked with a knife to draw the bolt from his body, but failed. It was stuck fast. The shock of it numbed him and he could not make out the faces around him clearly. It bewildered him that he could no longer move an arm.
His eyes watched the shadow of time climb the tent wall as the sun sank. He had a feeling there was something he must do but what that was he did not know. The voice of a kneeling man questioned him. Should they send for the Archbishop Walter?
By sunset it was quiet around the tent. Richard did not try to move his arm, or to ask questions himself. He thought he was aware of men crowding into the tent. He had to force himself to look up at them, and to pick out Mercadier's white face bending over him.
Behind the captain was a prisoner, bleeding from the head, but strong on his feet.
Richard looked into the face of Peter Basil, the crossbowman who had wounded him. Then he asked in a voice thin as a whisper: "What will you do with him?"
Mercadier did not say that the English had stormed Chalus like fiends when they heard Richard had been struck down, or that they had searched the tower, careful not to injure this man who would be tortured to death in pain beyond imagining.
"Why," Mercadier said, "we'll cut him out of his skin and let him live raw-if he can."
Peter nodded. He had expected just that.
Richard, watching, saw no fear in him. He saw in this lank youth the likeness of himself twenty years before, when he had carried a weapon carelessly to war. And in that moment, Richard felt that he himself was challenged. Closing his eyes, he thought about that for a moment. "No," he said after a moment, "let this man go."
Before Mercadier could speak he raised his voice: "I command it. Give him his freedom and some coins now."
Mercadier hesitated briefly, then reached down into the iron pot they had brought to Richard's bed; he drew out some gold coins, and gave them to the crossbowman, who stood like a man transfixed.
Richard tried to think of something else he had to do. "Yes," he said, "I forgive you my death." And he motioned for Peter to leave.
There was nothing more to be done.
The next day Brother Clement helped Peter Basil to buy Marie's release, and when the girl had made up her pack, he walked with them as far as the windmill on the road south. There they waited a little, to say farewell to him.
And, as they waited, they saw the English pass toward Limoges. The roan horse was led past, saddled. After it came Mercadier and the knights bearing a hurdle on their shoulders, and on the hurdle a body. They had wrapped the body in the crimson coronation robe.
"See," the friar said to Peter, "it is the king who is dead."
Black Odo's road was stopped. And he grunted with satisfaction, because this meant a fight, and nothing warmed the blood in his veins like a fight.
Big he was and bold-he could swing his four-foot sword with either hand and with cunning, being Norman born. Besides, he was Duke of Bari with the rents of a countryside to squander and eight hundred good spears to follow him. Black Odo his men called him, because he would draw back neither from peril nor sin. They said of him that he feared not the powers of darkness. Some said more-that for every horse in his stables, he had a woman to his will. They whispered that the tale of his sins was blacker than a pit in the hours of night. But now, in the Year of Our Lord one thousand and ninety-nine, he was Jerusalem bound, a cross upon his shoulder.
"God's life!" breathed Duke Odo, "'Tis no land flowing with milk and honey as the shave-pates swore."
He could see nothing around him but the barren, dry lands covered with tangles of thorn and nests of boulders. The driving dust was worse than the sun, in this long valley between low hills where it was a torment to wear the chain mail that they dared not take off. It was midafternoon, and the fleshy Norman sat under his pavilion flap nursing his long chin in his hand and gulping warm wine. On his jutting shoulder gleamed a scarlet cross, the edges sewn with rubies, for Odo did nothing in niggardwise, and he had seen to it that the crusaders' cross was an emblem of price.
His eye roved over the camp, on the boulder-strewn ridge. His banner with its rearing lion swelled and drooped in the wind gusts. Wherever the rocks gave any shade, his men-at-arms were clustered. The faded tents of his knights topped the horse lines, and between them a few women moved wearily, toward the uplifted arms of a barefoot friar who prayed for water.
Odo wondered why these daughters and sisters of his liegemen had taken the road to Palestine. They hungered for Jerusalem, and the salvation of their souls, and they would not turn back, although they were dying by the way. Odo had not seen a shapely throat or a sparkling eye among them. He himself looked forward to his fill of fighting and the despoiling of the pagan castles. The prospect was fair enough.
Ahead of him, only half a league away, some three thousand Arabs were encamped. And his Armenian guides told him that the Moslems were in possession of the only well in this stretch of the Stone Desert. The Normans were out of water-they had a little wine still-and unless they turned back at once to the coast, they must reach the well. Odo meant to reach the well, after dawn before the heat should weaken his men. And he counted the black tents of the Arabs grimly, for they were the first foemen to come into his way.
"Think ye, Sir Guy," he asked, looking up suddenly, "they will stand?"
A sallow Norman, his eyes dark with the fever that lurked in his veins, came forward. Unlike the giant duke, he wore faded blue linen, the cross sewn upon the back of his surcoat. He had been with the host that had captured Jerusalem the summer before, and the desert had left its mark upon him. Moreover, to Odo's thinking, he kept too much to himself, with his half dozen scarred followers and a girl who wore a veil like a Moslem-Sir Guy of the Mount they called him. He had joi
ned Odo's company, with some Genoese merchants, for protection during the short journey from the sea to the city.
"They will do more than that, my lord," he answered.
"What, then?"
"They are a fighting clan. Having seen the bright armor and shining gear of thy men, and the merchants' caravan, they know thee for a newcomer in this land, and they will loot thy camp, if so be they may."
"By my faith," swore Odo, "they will not do that, for I shall break them, and gladden the foul Fiend by their death."
"Then guard thee, my lord, against one peril," the knight of the Mount advised. "These Moslems will come against thee, where thy standard is lifted. At first they will give way, then come in from all sides, assailing thy horse with arrows, and putting thee afoot. Long is thy sword's reach, but they will venture their lives fearlessly to ride thee down, and slay thee. 'Tis their way thus to make an end of the leader of a Christian host, knowing that his men will lose heart if he dies."
"Out upon thee, for a faint heart!" Odo grinned at the crusader. "Put some wine in thy belly."
A flush tinged the gray cheeks of the man from Jerusalem, and he turned on his heel with only a silent salutation. It was not good to bandy words with Black Odo.
But the Norman pondered what Sir Guy had said. He glanced over his shoulder at the couch where his helm stood-the polished steel crest of which was a rearing lion, nicely gilded. Few men of his day had such crests, but Odo liked to be known wherever he went. He liked to see foemen shrink away from him. As for arrows, he made mock of them-fit weapons for Genoese churls and Arab pagans who could not strike a good blow with steel. Still, he was too shrewd to make light of Sir Guy's warning. The man from Jerusalem had faced the Moslems too often not to know their ways.
And that morning, Odo had had a sign. A raven, a grave bird, had croaked at his ear. He rubbed his chin reflectively. It would take more than the croaking of a grave bird and the maundering of a sick man to make the Duke of Bari discard his crested helm and gilt mail and wear the plain steel casque and mail that his weapon man, Arnulf, carried in his sack-