No Man's Son

by Doris Sutcliffe Adams

  A long, snake-like neck rose high above the heads of the throng, and at its end an ugly, ineffably contemptuous head sneered at Rodriga. She had heard of the beast, had even glimpsed one distantly, but this was her first close sight of it. The folk were hastily falling back as the monstrous creature padded on, its huge cushioned feet looking ridiculously inappropriate to the long, bony legs. Most absurd of all, its back rose into a veritable hillock on which the rider perched. Mirth rose in Rodriga like a fountain.

  Landry had seized a well-dressed young man who seemed inclined to dispute the brute’s passage, and hauled him bodily backward. “One yields the road to camels,” he said. “They bite.”

  “Bite? You mean, like a vicious stallion?”

  “Nothing on earth,” Landry told him grimly, “bites like a camel. And whoever rides one through a crowded market—oh!” He glanced up at the rider for the first time, and a snort of surprised laughter came from him. “Who else?”

  Rodriga too had had eyes only for the camel; now she lifted them to the man perched high on that grotesque back, who rode through the crowds as though they did not exist. His body was muffled in a loose brown and green striped garment like a vast cloak, under which only a pair of soft boots could be seen, and it had a hood to cover head and shoulders. But the narrow swarthy face, still pale under the brown, the pointed beard, cynical mouth and insolent wary eyes were unmistakable, and her spine tingled as she sensed the menace in this man who thrust through the hostile crowd, as contemptuous as his camel. His narrow eyes widened a trifle as they met hers, and he made a slight movement of the hand that did not hold the nose-cord. She stared witlessly after his straight back.

  “Satan fork me into boiling brimstone if ever I meet insolence to equal it! Comes and goes between our camp and Saladin’s selling treachery, and has the outright impudence to ride a stinking camel through the middle of Acre market with every man in sight longing to rip up his belly!” marvelled Landry. He choked on sudden laughter. “Lord Above! One can only admire it!”

  Rodriga did. She recognised also that the man who so insolently flaunted disregard of his fellows’ opinion could set no value on his own life or any other’s, and that the renegade was the most dangerous man in Acre. With a twinge of uneasiness she wondered just where her impulsive rescue this morning would lead, and whether resentment or gratitude were the stronger emotion behind his inscrutable face. The little gesture of acknowledgment partly reassured her, and she told herself sternly that she could have done nothing else, and regrets for possible consequences were completely futile.

  The other protagonist in that engagement was awaiting them when they reached their tents, and by her father’s grunt, “Impatient pup!” not overly welcome. However, he rolled forward to greet him, while Rodriga nodded almost imperceptibly to Ramiro and his four grown sons, unobtrusively disposed at various points of vantage covering the intruder. The squire flashed an eager smile at her over Landry’s shoulder.

  “Thought I appointed tomorrow night,” said Landry bluntly, looking him up and down. He was resplendent in a green tunic and scarlet hose that emphasised the shabbiness of everything in the camp, and made Rodriga, who seldom gave a thought to her attire, acutely conscious of her outgrown gown of faded brown linen and her threadbare kerchief.

  “I do not come to importune you for news, Sir Landry,” Piers assured him eagerly. “I would make my peace with your fair daughter, since I parted from her this morning in resentment.”

  “Very laudable,” Landry grunted, his mouth twitching.

  “You must join us for supper,” Rodriga invited maliciously, her nose having already informed her that the stockfish was past its prime and that Diego had contrived to scorch it. The flattering alacrity of his acceptance merely moved her to wonder whether the scarcity of moderately personable virgins in Acre or his desire to ensure her father’s support urged him.

  His manners, however, were exemplary. The stockfish, beside its other demerits, had been insufficiently soaked before cooking, so that it was only slightly softer than wood and salt as the sea. He worried it down without raising an eyebrow. Neither Landry nor his daughter thought of apologising for the poverty of the meal, the one dish followed by fruit; they shared what they had. Ramiro and his four elder sons sat on the other side of the fire, talking softly among themselves and watching always Rodriga and the guest, while Urraca and the boy padded about serving and pouring. The sun went down, and the dark fell immediately like a black curtain, so that suddenly the dull glow of the embers was the only light, pulsing and waning on noses, cheekbones and chins so that familiar faces became weird masks of red light and black shadow.

  Piers talked easily about the siege, and with a boy’s hero-worship about King Richard, asking no questions about the inquiry. Landry rewarded his forbearance with a brief summary of the day’s progress and the plans he had made to further it. They discussed them to the welcome end of the meal, and then Piers came to the purpose of his visit.

  “Sir Landry, will you give me leave to escort your fair daughter on a walk about the camp?”

  Landry thrust his hand through his hair and eyed him grimly. “The less you have to do with us the safer, young man. We met your step-brother today. If he sees you in Rodriga’s company, what then?”

  His face fell comically. “But I wished to improve our acquaintance!”

  “With my goodwill, but here.”

  Rodriga bit her lip to keep from chuckling over his chagrin. It was one matter to improve acquaintance with a demoiselle by a starlit stroll, quite another to do so under the watchful gaze of parent, serving-woman and soldiers in the midst of the camp. Taking pity on him, she drew him back to the tent doorway and provided a cushion. Landry limped away to the horses, the young men vanished, and Ramiro sat down where he could keep guard over his fosterdaughter. Old Urraca moved noiselessly about, fixing her malevolent eyes on him whenever she passed. She judged all men by the lover who had seduced and abandoned her in youth.

  Under such a handicap Piers gave up any hope of dalliance he might have possessed, and they exchanged reminiscences of the voyage, to him a memory of such unmitigated misery that he seemed unable to credit that Rodriga had enjoyed it. Shuddering eloquently, he declared that only to return to France would he entrust himself again aboard a ship, never to quit her by water. He was a pleasant lad with his share of wit, even if he were a little too well aware of it, and Rodriga forgot her constraint and enjoyed his company. When Landry returned they had abandoned formality and were addressing each other by their given names.

  He gracefully accepted her father’s arrival as the hint it was to be gone, and rose at once to make his farewells.

  “I may return tomorrow to learn what happens?” he asked anxiously. “Indeed, Sir Landry, I know not how to express my gratitude for this service!”

  “You do well enough,” said Landry, who did not admire eloquence in the young.

  “And I trust, fair demoiselle, that the last trace of our unfortunate difference this morning is now vanished?”

  “Yes,” answered Rodriga, who was not eloquent at all.

  “Indeed, that breed of half-Saracen mongrel is unworthy even that you should spit on it!”

  Landry grunted suddenly, and Rodriga stiffened in sudden cold anger at that condemnation. “Myself I am much the same breed of mongrel,” she declared in a level voice. “My mother was a Moorish slave-girl.”

  “What?” He recoiled a pace. “Moorish—you?”

  “A prisoner taken in war, whom my father bought and wedded,” she told him steadily, watching his shocked face.

  “You—he—wedded a Moorish slave?”

  “And rejoiced for God’s goodness,” said Landry very quietly.

  “A Moor—a slave— an Infidel?” Piers choked, and clutched at his wits and his breeding. “I—I ask your pardon for any offence I was surprised into giving, Sir Landry. It is not for me to question your marriage. Your pardon, demoiselle. ’Give you good night.”
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  Arms about each other, they watched him blunder from the camp. Landry tightened his hold. “Lofty-stomached pup,” he murmured. “Fret not, lass. He will be back tomorrow with another unfortunate difference to be swept smooth.”

  “You are very sure of that!”

  “Depending on us to untangle this inheritance coil for him? Very sure!” he declared cynically, and drew her into the tent. “Ugly shock you gave him, though. Put him in the wrong too, a young cub high-fleshed with raw vanity. Hard as Diego’s stockfish on the stomach. But he will outgrow it, and nothing so apt as self-interest to develop sense. Come to bed, lass.”

  She obeyed, but long after he and Urraca were snoring on either side of her she lay wide awake on her narrow pallet, going over again and again the events of that day, which somehow she knew would be fateful for all of them so oddly come together. The morning’s hot impulse had gathered into one net of circumstance her father and herself, the raw boy, the insolent renegade, the crippled scoundrel and the charmer of women, and God alone knew what would be the outcome. Faces came and went between her eyes and the darkness, and of all the men whom she had met that day, the one whose personality had most vividly impressed her, whose features dissolved only at the edge of sleep, was the mongrel Marco.

  CHAPTER IV

  The defensive trenches about the Christian camp had been dug during the winter when the ground was soft after rain, and the besiegers had been constantly harassed by Saladin’s forces. Since the arrival of the two Kings and their armies the Saracens had assaulted only when summoned by the desperate defenders of Acre to save them from a Christian onslaught. The last time had been a week ago, and as Landry and Rodriga picked their way along the battered ramparts the signs of furious conflict were still clear upon the broken scarps and in the littered ditches, picked over by the ribalds and camp-followers until nothing of value or use was left.

  Landry halted midway between the Accursed Tower and the little hill called Turon from which the leaders directed the siege. Beyond it, shimmering and wavering in the intense sunlight, the irregular line of sand-dunes met the blinding blue sky. Tiny figures, distorted by the hot air, moved against the gold and blue, Saracen scouts watching the camp and the defiant banners flapping slightly in the light sea-breeze on towers and walls. A handful of gay horsemen advanced across the stony earth to within half a mile of the trenches, but no man stirred against them. The rawest newcomers had learned that it was futile to chase them, elusive as the voracious mosquitoes of the land. They wheeled and returned unmolested, and Landry grunted.

  “Last week’s battle over again, and no better result, I will wager my head!”

  “You run no risk of losing it,” said Rodriga, grimacing at sight of a withered finger by her toe. She kicked it into the ditch and added dispassionately, “Nor have you aught else to wager.”

  “Never knew such a campaign!” he grumbled. “Not a smell of loot, and as for ransom, as well hunt fleas in the dark without a candle!” His tone was matter-of-fact as her own; there was nothing despondent in him. He gazed keenly at the Saracens on their fleet and docile mares, so different from the savage stallions which bore the Frankish knights into battle, and clawed at his greying locks until they stood on end. “How am I to set my hands on a little plunder when the enemy never comes within arm’s length?”

  “Seek out the enemy,” Rodriga answered lightly. The problem was real and urgent, but that was no reason to afflict him with whines.

  “Is that the respect due to a father?” he demanded, his face warm with love and amusement that belied his tone. “Should beat you more often.” He watched wistfully as the Saracens wheeled and swooped back, robes fluttering and steel flashing. Men scuttled to the trenches, shouting alarm, and here and there a bow twanged uselessly as someone’s frayed nerves could no longer take the strain of waiting. Just beyond bowshot they wheeled about in a storm of dust and swept back to the dunes. “A black there fit to mount King Richard!” Landry murmured worshipfully, and sighed. He shrugged and turned away, and the five Spaniards who followed them broke up their talk, lifted their weapons and looked eagerly at him in hope of action.

  Action was not for them, and the knowledge burdened them all. They were useless at siege-work, their light bows hopelessly outranged both by the arbalests and the Saracens’ short horn and sinew bows. If Saladin attacked they could help to defend the trenches as they had done last week, but lacking mail and horses that was all. Unless they somehow obtained money, Rodriga saw clearly, they would be forced down to the level of the ribalds, the scum of Acre who preyed indiscriminately on any weaker than themselves.

  Ramiro unconsciously fondled his javelin and smiled slightly at the girl he loved and served in fierce devotion, at once his lady and his daughter. The four young men behind him reminded her of half-grown hounds appealing to be loosed. They were all her dear brothers, grown up in her service; they had romped with her, supported her first steps, taught her to ride and climb and swim, led her into mischief and extricated her, and she loved them. They had followed her father cheerfully across half of Europe, faring worse and worse as his fortune declined. She had known no mother but theirs, who had suckled her with the one daughter of Ramiro’s begetting when the Moorish slave-girl died. Somehow they must be saved from the way that led to degradation and shameful death, but who would employ a lame and worn-out adventurer in this savage, hungry land?

  Landry glanced back at the Saracens vanishing into the sandhills under the deepening sky of evening. The last sunrays cast their shadows, long and black, beyond the dark depths of the trench and the shadow of the rampart, to point like fingers at the golden dunes. His sombre face suddenly lighted, and he thrust his left hand in a swift, energetic gesture through his hair. An idea had visited him. Rodriga waited with hope and apprehension disputing her mind; she had had long experience of his ideas, which distributed hazards impartially between his enemies and himself.

  He said nothing yet, but limped off towards their camp, unwontedly silent. At intervals he increased his hair’s disorder, so that Rodriga knew the idea was maturing. Ramiro and his sons, who could also read the signs, were looking expectant, but the idea was evidently too young and tender to be rudely exposed to the light of day. He even passed through the market without lingering except to make a few necessary purchases. The sun set, and darkness leaped upon the city of tents in one pounce. It was not until Landry set eyes on the dull glow of Diego’s fire that he spoke.

  “Wonder if that cub will be with us again for supper? I bade him come after dark.”

  “Once is usually enough for anyone not compelled to stomach Diego’s atrocities,” she said grimly, and a glance about the camp showed no guest. The Catalans turned to their own tent, opposite Landry’s. There was no light but that of the fire, and the tents were reddish shapes standing in pools of black shadow. Landry reached out a hand to the door-curtain, and as he touched it part of the black shadow on his left suddenly and silently rose up into the shape of a man and stood still.

  He leaped back, his right hand crossing automatically to his sword-hilt, his left hand steadying the scabbard, as he peered at the tall dark shape. A foot of steel slid brightly into the firelight with a faint ring of metal. The man moved quietly into the dull light of the fire, and Rodriga reached past her father, groped inside the curtain, and closed her hand on the hard round shaft of the javelin that stood there for emergencies. They recognised the neat black head and pointed beard in the same instant, and as her father’s sword swung out and up Rodriga slid sideways from the tent door to stand behind the intruder, lifting the javelin so that the point just touched his ribs.

  “I come in peace,” said the deep voice quietly, and Marco extended his right hand. His dagger lay haft-foremost along his palm. When Landry hesitated, he tossed it to his feet and stood with both hands held out empty.

  “And if you make an unpeaceful move,” said Rodriga calmly, “this point will prick yet deeper.”

  “You would h
ave done better to stay away,” Landry commented. “Reckon my wisest course would be to run you through the belly and question your intentions while you kick.”

  “Wise indeed,” Marco agreed equably, “and effectively final. A belly once split cannot be mended.”

  Rodriga chuckled. “Nor its owner wag his tongue to much purpose!”

  Five Catalans came on the run with knives and javelins at the ready. “The Devil who spawned him knows what mischief he came to do,” snarled Ramiro, “but if you will stand aside, my lord, I will make sure he does none! Do not defile your blade in him!”

  “It has never yet been so sullied,” agreed Landry, lowering it. He put out a hand just as Ramiro raised his javelin and swung his weight back for a throw at the murderous range of three paces. Marco had not moved at all. “Hold! We will see what is in his head before we see his guts! Urraca! Diego! Light!”

  The boy, faster by virtue of inclination as well as years, scuttled into the tent with a lighted taper, and in a moment the tent glowed like a great lantern in the dark, and Diego’s distorted shadow wavered upon its wall. He held up the curtain, and Landry jerked his head at Marco. “Inside, where we have light to watch you. Stay at his back, Rodriga!”

  Marco obediently stooped to the flap and entered, menaced by javelin and drawn sword. He put up a hand to the lamp, still swinging from its hook on the central pole, steadied it and expertly adjusted the smoking wick. Then he stood still, faint amusement in his look as it moved from Landry’s battered face to Rodriga’s thin one. He had thrust his left hand under his belt, and Rodriga, remembering that he had only one sound arm and seeing no weapon, allowed her javelin-point to droop to the floor.

  He was not as tall as she had thought him; not much above average height, but his thinness and erect carriage made him seem taller. He appeared quite at ease; his eyes were steady, his mouth slightly smiling, but his lean body was poised for instant action and he was as alert and wary as a wolf sniffing at a trap. The knave certainly possessed courage, and Rodriga’s erratic sense of humour responded to his insolence. So did her father’s; the peculiar stiffness of his face betrayed that he was keeping it straight with an effort as he demanded briskly, “Why put your belly in jeopardy, hireling? Reckon to get a price on my throat?”