The Dragon Throne

by Michael Cadnum

  “Ride easy, lad,” the veteran knight would say, laying a javelin across the pommel of the prisoner’s saddle.

  Conrad would give a nod, or turn away with a posture of hurt dignity.

  More than once Ester caught the young felon’s glance.

  Help me, he seemed to be begging.

  Please set me free.

  37

  THE PILGRIMS LEFT THE SNOW-MANTLED mountains behind.

  Edmund and his friends breathed the perfume of rain-rich fields and fermenting fodder, the fertile earth populated with oxen and mules, farmers and flocks of geese. It was an earthy paradise of green land and orchards, crows jeering and chattering in the pear trees, churches lifting bell towers into the forgiving sunlight.

  The highway was supplied with vine-shrouded inns featuring fat roasting hens and red wine. Sir Nigel had estimated that the route from the foothills to the great city of Rome would take a fortnight, but the horses were frisky, feeding now on rich hay and freshly scythed field grass.

  Conrad either knew little Frankish—the international tongue of fighting men—or he felt that the effort to speak was too much trouble. But the prisoner did have a talent that entertained his captors: He could whistle tunes. Ester recognized the holy “Jesu Corona Virginum,” and without blushing she admitted to herself that she recognized the ribald “My Gander’s Trapped in Your Pantry.”

  Conrad smiled with the rest of them when Hubert capered beside a stream, and he offered Edmund a hand when the tall young knight slipped on a mossy rock. Rannulf was ever-watchful, but their captive showed no further sign of wanting to escape.

  The pilgrim party left their noble hostage with a fellow countryman in Turin. Duke Conrad of Gam—the Saxon nation was replete with Conrads—was willing to part with a purse of gold marks in exchange for the blond young brigand.

  “If his family wants him back,” said Nigel, “they’ll pay for him in turn.”

  The highwayman was far from strong by then. The wound Edmund had given him was festering, and he limped badly when they bid him farewell. Nigel murmured that the chances were even whether the young aristocrat lived or died.

  “But I’ve met worse young criminals,” the veteran knight allowed as they journeyed south. “And seen them flower, at length, into something fine.”

  Ester noted that Hubert and Edmund took no pleasure in the weight of the purse. “Better you should catch a song,” said Edmund. “A tune, and maybe a soul to go with it, and carry that in a catskin bag.”

  But the band did not remain melancholy for many hours.

  The pilgrims journeyed with increasing speed as the road reached down, through the steep passes, and close to a rocky shore. Carts laden with grapes creaked heavily along the route, and farmers greeted them cheerfully. In lands too-long bereft of honorable knights, the return of Crusaders promised fewer felons.

  Homebound Crusader knights were numerous on the Italian roads, exhausted in their faded cross-splashed surcoats, most men journeying north as the pilgrims made their way south. The tidings from the Holy Land were that King Richard still failed to capture Jerusalem, and he was rumored to be about to depart and begin his journey back to his kingdom.

  And there were accounts of troubles in Rome, the Orsino family all the more powerful, and King Richard’s envoy Sir Maurice a virtual hostage in his own well-fortified house.

  “And how fares the Lady Galena?” Hubert would ask, his voice high-pitched with anxiety.

  “The good Lady Galena is well, by all accounts,” said one Sir Joldwin of Exeter, a sunburned and whiskery campaigner, one midday.

  “And as beautiful as new-poured cream, as I hear,” he added. “But no one sets eyes on her, by night or by day. The Roman streets are safe for no one but an old crust like myself and my wizened little squire here,” he laughed, indicating a sun-bronzed youth with his sword arm in a sling.

  “The Romans need the taste of a few English blades,” offered Sir Nigel.

  “I do believe Galena’s father is about to offer his own person as hostage,” said Sir Joldwin, enjoying another swallow of wine from Nigel’s oft-replenished wineskin. “To secure the Lady Galena’s safe passage back to England,” added the knight. Such English travelers enjoyed more than one another’s wine—they relished the chance to speak their mother tongue, even when the dialect and accent made conversation a challenge.

  “Edmund, by my faith,” said Hubert in a whisper. “We may be too late!”

  “I’d avoid the Roman streets, by all that’s holy,” said the English knight, perhaps surprised at the intensity of the feelings in the faces around him. “Unless you’re hungry for a fight.”

  Despite the increasing concern of the pilgrim band, the fresh peaches and warm loaves of white bread purchased along the road renewed their strength.

  “We’re almost there, aren’t we?” Hubert began asking when they were still scores of miles from Rome.

  “Only a few more days,” Nigel would say.

  But there was always an impediment, despite the speed with which God favored them: a herd of long-haired goats, or a charcoal burner’s load, spilled across the road. Or yet another village celebrating a local saint, one unheard-of in Christendom at large—Saint Freddiano, Saint Eubaldo—processions of faithful celebrating divine help in consummating the harvest.

  Too late.

  As they rode, their hoofbeats drummed out this message to Edmund’s ears.

  Each midday Nigel and Rannulf took long moments to wipe their swords with rags, and brush their cloaks and surcoats, urging every fighting man to look to his equipment, down to Clydog’s eager assistants, Hervey and Eadwin, who were supplied with hatchets. Rannulf took experimental swings with his sword, cutting autumn-ruddy leaves from a beech or linden tree, nodding with satisfaction at the result.

  Edmund had long noted the husbandry with which Rannulf and Nigel repaired the frayed sleeve and polished the brass hasp, and had admired this deliberate readiness—until now. Horses were curried, their shoes inspected, each mount fed just-purchased apples and buckets of fresh oats. But this detailed preparation exasperated Edmund, and Hubert, too, paced back and forth.

  “Haste cheats wisdom,” said Nigel, aware of Edmund’s impatient refusal to paint wood tar over Surefoot’s hooves. “Take every care, as always, Edmund,” advised the veteran knight.

  “We’ll show the Romans how to bleed,” piped Wowen, busy filing the roughness from a palfrey’s hoof.

  “No doubt,” said Edmund. But would it be our blood? Edmund could not bring himself to add.

  Or the blood of our enemies?

  Ester was fully aware of the tense anticipation of her companion knights, and she could see, as they did, the distant figures observing them, watching and spurring their mounts toward Rome.

  “What will we do,” asked Ida, “if the Roman gatemen don’t let us in?”

  One moment the band of pilgrims progressed southward, their horses increasingly well fed and strong on their splendid diet.

  The next moment they fell silent.

  Ester rode forward a few paces.

  The holy city of Rome rose before them, brick brown and spired in the early afternoon sun. The morning cooking fires had been banked, and smoke had drifted down over the walls and towers, giving the city the semblance of a place about to become invisible.

  She had dreamed so long of seeing the great city that she had to kneel before this sight, slipping down from her mount and offering tearful gratitude to God.

  They continued onward, Edmund pointing out landmarks to Ester as they rode, passing the convent of Saint Agnes, down the tree-lined Via Nomentana toward the great barrier, the Porta Pia.

  As they approached, the city gates opened—tall, handsome barriers—and a mounted guard rode forth under fluttering flags.

  “It’s an Orsino fighting force,” explained Edmund. “Notice their handsome yellow sleeves. A dozen men coming out to make us welcome, Tomasso Orsino riding with them.”

  Th
e Orsino scion was a much-admired swordsman in his own right. The last time Edmund had encountered the man, he was being held hostage by Sir Maurice, and the young aristocrat had proved an amiable, courteous prisoner. The sight of the colorfully outfitted Tomasso made Edmund wonder what other unexpected changes had taken place in the ancient city.

  Rome had been a stew of warring families—the Orsino, Nero, and Colonna clans battling for power within the walled city. The threat to the English envoy, Sir Maurice, and his daughter, Galena, had been unyielding. Now Edmund dreaded that he and his companions might be too late.

  Tomasso raised a hand in greeting, and Edmund waved back—it was hard not to like the Roman nobleman. Tomasso wore pale leather gauntlets, striking to behold, and held his horse back from the lead, not as a man reluctant to fight, but as a man of wealth who could pay others to do the sweating.

  Edmund turned in his saddle to ask Nigel, “Who is that knight with the scarlet jamb on his shield?”

  The jamb was a symbol of violence used very rarely as a device on banners and equipment—a severed claw. Heraldic symbols in general were only now becoming popular among knights, and most men who used a device preferred a leopard, or bird, or the ever-popular holy cross.

  “I know the knight,” said Rannulf, leaning to one side to spit carefully into the dust.

  “Who is he, Rannulf?” asked Ester when the knight said nothing further.

  “My lady,” responded the master knight, “I will not soil your hearing with his name.”

  “He killed the entire bailey guard in that battle in Portiers some ten years ago,” said Nigel. “Twelve armed men—there’s a song about it. He killed a bull with one blow of a dagger, winning an emerald from the Duchess of Urle. They say no weapon can slay him.”

  “What is he called, this breathing legend?” asked Ester.

  Nigel gave a polite smile but would not say the knight’s name.

  “I can kill him this moment,” said Rannulf. “I am not fit for a joust, or a blade-to-blade fight—”

  Ester said, “I will need my crossbow.”

  “I can cut out his throat,” said Rannulf, “in a wink.”

  But even as he spoke, he saw the inappropriateness of such a murder, how it would deliver little honor—and perhaps displease Heaven.

  Ester held out her hand, and Clydog brought her weapon, cradling it, lifting it with a cautionary “I sharpened the bolt just yesterday, my lady.”

  38

  “OTHON DE BALFLEUR APPROACHES WITH his greetings,” called out the muscular squire, his freshly brushed livery sporting the severed-claw insignia.

  Wowen Wight took a drink of watered wine, straightened his sword belt, and sang out, “Pilgrims from the court of King Richard and Prince John respond with their finest well wishes.”

  Othon himself rode forward.

  “My ladies, good day to you,” said the knight.

  He was a broad-shouldered man in leather riding armor. His hair was so close-cropped as to be little more than stubble, but he was strikingly well-formed, Ester thought, his features marred only by a pock the size of an olive where a missile must have struck his forehead some time ago.

  “Othon, I heard that you were locked up in chains somewhere,” said Nigel with an air of cheerful challenge.

  “The man does not live who can draw a blade against Othon de Balfleur,” said the squire, like a man reciting an oft-told verse, “and survive to tell the story.”

  “Else why did you not travel to the Holy Land?” Nigel was asking with a careless formality.

  Othon made a gesture toward his forehead with his gloved hand.

  “A javelin thrust by a castle guard in Aix struck my lord Othon,” sang out the squire, continuing to speak on behalf of his master, “and my lord cut his head from his shoulders.”

  Othon and Nigel both smiled at the pithy bluntness of this report.

  “It’s true,” said Othon, silencing his herald with a gesture. “My body was little injured, but it was dispiriting. I had to eat ox liver and drink red wine, here in Rome, until I was in good humor again.” A famous, ancient hospital on the Isola Tiberina was the hospital of choice for people who could afford its care.

  “But you are hale once more,” said Nigel.

  “By the grace of Our Lady,” sang out the squire, “my lord is the most skilled fighter under Heaven. No man alive can take his life.”

  “I am here to keep you from entering Rome,” said Othon simply. “The Orsino family has taken me into their service.”

  Healthy and well-armed, with a band of hirelings fingering the pommels of their swords, he would be a sore test for the pilgrims on their weary mounts.

  Ester urged her horse forward a few paces.

  Othon’s squire took a breath to make a further announcement, but the knight silenced him with a glance.

  Othon eyed the primed crossbow, hanging by a strap from the pommel of Ester’s saddle.

  He inclined his body courteously from his own saddle, and said, “England has sent us a lady more lovely than the hayward’s rose.”

  This was poor talk—any miller could have spoken as well. Ester guessed at a certain hesitation in Othon’s manner. He did not know who Ester was, and was not sure what propriety might require him to do.

  This was the sort of knight Ester had always mistrusted—vain and violent. She could smell the calves-foot oil that made his leather gleam. The metal fittings of his sword scabbard had been polished to a sullen luster, and the brass spikes on his gloves were bright. Ester silently asked the saints above to bless her speech.

  “You will allow my queen’s ladies,” said Ester, “and their fellow pilgrims, into this holy city.”

  Othon’s eyes shifted to Ida, and back to Ester. “Your queen, my lady?”

  “By Heaven’s mercy,” said Ester evenly, “my companion and I represent Eleanor of Aquitaine, once queen of France, by God’s grace queen of England and mother to—”

  “Ah,” said the knight. You have said enough.

  Othon lifted his chin, giving her a challenging smile. He looked right into her eyes, a show of genial insolence. But she had noticed this trait in certain rough men before—the presence of other men quickened no fear in them, but a woman was not so easy. Besides, he sat unsteadily in the saddle for such a seasoned knight, his horse tossing and fidgeting, tonguing the bit.

  The knight dismounted well, with no help from his herald, and made a show of kneeling.

  “None of my men will hinder you, good lady,” said Othon, rising. “But I look forward to meeting you and your fighting knights again.”

  He added, “Soon—on the field where blood freshens the flowers.”

  IV

  Blood beside the Sea

  39

  EDMUND RODE HARD THROUGH THE ROMAN streets.

  Hubert urged his mount beside him, hoofbeats echoing, a beggar scrambling out of the way, a wood seller bent under his load hurrying across the street. Edmund was lost for an instant, Surefoot snorting eagerly, as so many memories struck the knight—the fountains and piazzas, the street where months before a host of Orsino pikemen had nearly captured Galena, the churches and byways familiar once again.

  The two younger knights took the lead, all the rest following, and splashed a wide puddle entering the street where Galena and her father lived. Just outside the envoy’s imposing dwelling they reined hard as a small army of Orsino footmen in caps and glowing yellow sleeves confronted them. Horses bridled and pikemen jostled together.

  Sir Maurice, himself on horseback, had been taken hostage, and was surrounded by a guard of silk-garbed bravi. The gray-haired English banneret broke into a smile, and called out, “I am given over to these armed men, as you see.”

  “Tell your hosts,” said Edmund, sounding in his own ear very much the seasoned knight, “that their hospitality will not be required.”

  Strong joy made the noble envoy’s speech falter. “Your arrival,” he added, when he could speak, “is a great
blessing.”

  The impasse was more tense than potentially violent, Edmund believed. A brace of huge dogs were held in check by an Orsino handler, and more dogs were restrained by leashes in shadowy archways.

  Edmund was relieved, now, that he and the other knights had taken such care with their garments and equipment. The bright red leopard insignia on their chests, their highly polished belts and buckles, all caught the late afternoon light. The footmen took in the sight of sword and spur, and took several collective steps backward.

  Ester was close behind, her mount wide-eyed at the sudden tangle of pike shafts, startled humans, and gigantic, baying dogs. She cradled her crossbow, and eased her horse to one side of the street as Rannulf, Nigel, and all the rest joined them.

  “My lord,” Edmund inquired of Sir Maurice, “have they hurt you or your daughter in any way?”

  “No, good Edmund,” said Sir Maurice, with a gentle laugh. “But by my faith, I am pleased to see every one of you.”

  Only one of the pikemen responded violently for the moment—Surefoot trod on the young man’s foot, causing the pikeman to stagger back, into Ester’s mount. The young woman had been raising her crossbow and taking aim at nothing in particular, with an air of courtly menace.

  Ester’s horse gave a shudder as the pikeman’s weapon slipped, cutting her mount. It was not a serious wound, across the haunch of the startled animal, but at the sound of an animal in pain, the largest of the dogs slipped its leash and rushed at Edmund’s horse.

  Ester lifted her weapon and fired a bolt through the dog.

  40

  JUST AS THE DOG FELL DEAD, HOUSEHOLD servants poured from the envoy’s dwelling, men and women, young and old, armed with clubs and stones, kitchen cleavers and mallets. Sir Maurice gave the stentorian commands of an experienced campaigner, and the street rang with the sound of Orsino pikes and spears thrown down in haste.