No Man's Son

by Doris Sutcliffe Adams

  “We will have this coil sorted, but not in the open street!” said the King promptly. Indeed, a considerable crowd had gathered during those tense moments, and was still increasing. “Bring it to the Palace for hearing.”

  A young knight was thrusting through the crowd; he slipped past the King’s noble companions, murmuring apologies right and left, and dodged in front of Richard to attract his attention. He won a quick scowl and an interrogative lift of the eyebrows. “Yes? What is it?”

  “The King of France still awaits you, my liege. The Saracen envoys are already with him.”

  “The Devil fly away with the Saracen envoys! I have affairs here.”

  “My liege, he is already in talk with them, and with the Marquis of Montferrat’s envoys,” the young man ventured to expostulate. “Also the Grand Master of the Temple is sent for.”

  The Lusignan brothers and Garnier de Nablus visibly pricked up their ears at that intelligence, which vitally affected them, and looked expectantly at the King.

  “The Devil grill—” Richard checked himself; he was notoriously incapable of co-operation with King Philip, but it was scarcely seemly to consign him publicly to the same fiery destiny as the Infidels. “God’s Throat! I shall have to see to it!” he exclaimed, and did not need inform his hearers that so dangerous a combination of hostile forces must not deliberate in his absence. He stood champing for a moment, and then made the inevitable decision. “This must stand until tomorrow. After Prime—and you also, killer and liar, to answer for your crimes!”

  The royal party tramped off the way they had come. Robert de Veragny dully watched Marco recover his dagger, and bore away his shame from the condemning faces of the throng. His cut-throat troop carried the corpse after him. Landry, limping and badly shaken, hobbled soberly to his own door, all his household gathered about him. Rodriga, dazed with relief, only drew a free breath when the bolt thudded home behind them. She gazed at Marco as though she had to assure herself that he was really there, and not on his way to the hangman.

  Landry sat down heavily on the bottom step as though his legs refused to move further, and heaved a gusty sigh. “Lord Above!” he said reverently. “I thought—Marco, I thought we had been the death of you! But your wits—snatching truth out of that cur’s victory—”

  “Sentence of death is uncommonly stimulating to the wits,” Marco answered dryly.

  “I never dreamed such villainy—but I suppose the truth is, I am a damned poor conspirator.”

  “You are,” Marco agreed, and grinned as he bristled. “You are too honest for aught else.” He helped the older man to his feet. “There is something I must say to everyone. Come upstairs.”

  He mounted slowly, leaning on Marco’s arm. “But earlier— Rodriga, what happened? That serpent—did he harm you?”

  She told him briefly, wasting no heat on what was done. He hugged her thankfully, and then turned to Marco. He gripped him by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length, tears standing in his eyes.

  “How am I to thank you?” he asked, shaking him slightly in the intensity of his feelings. “What can I say, Marco, when you save me Rodriga?”

  Marco, who permitted no man to lay hands on him, stood still in his hold and smiled. “Your thanks are due rather to Giacomo the flesh-monger,” he replied. “I did no more than escort my lady home.” He put up his hands and gripped Landry’s, pulling them away. “Enough. We have no time.” He glanced over the assembled company. “Wulfric, where is your wife?”

  Wulfric scowled suspiciously, but Landry endorsed the question with an impatient grunt, and he went to the stair and shouted. Helga came running, breathless and alarmed. Marco spoke sharply. “Helga, what was the boy like who brought the message?”

  Her mouth fell slackly open, and she gaped at him. “The boy?” she repeated.

  “The boy whose message took my lady out into the arms of a ravisher.”

  “He—why, he was just a boy.”

  “Do you remember nothing? Size, shape, age, clothing?”

  Her wide blue eyes gazed at him in perplexity. “Like—oh, like any street brat. Little, and thin, and—and in rags, I think. It was dark, and it was for only a moment, and—”

  “What did he say?”

  She knitted her brows. There was sweat on her forehead, and her face had tightened to wariness. “He said, ‘I bear a message from Marco to your lady.’ ”

  “Then why did you not bid him enter and give it?”

  She flashed a hunted look at her husband, who frowned at Marco, puzzled and annoyed. “I—I never thought—”

  A horrid cold certainty closed on Rodriga’s entrails, and suddenly she knew the truth he pressed for. Her father was less perceptive. He leaned forward. “Marco, what under Heaven are you aiming at?” he demanded irritably.

  “There was no boy.”

  The girl stepped back as if a serpent had reared its head in her path, her face livid. Shock drove all the colour from her pretty face, and wrenched one betraying word from her lips. “How—” Then she whirled to run, but Pablo and Esteban blocked the doorway, and she stood panting, looking this way and that. Wulfric stood dumb and unstirring, and no man met his stricken eyes.

  “I guessed,” said Marco quietly. “When you could not describe the boy, I knew.” He turned to Landry. “When my lady told me of it, I was sure that no street urchin in Acre would dare use my name for a lie. I knew that Lothaire de Gallenard visited the Black Girl and was acquainted with her, and my lady and I witnessed an encounter between them in church one morning, when she showed that his attentions did not displease her—for which my lady punished her.” Wulfric uttered a groan, and they looked at him and then averted their eyes from the naked agony in his distorted face. Marco’s level voice continued the indictment. “She used to slip out to meet him by the stable gate, which cannot be overlooked from the house, and betray all she heard of our talk. Tonight she sent my lady into that reptile’s arms, to be ravished. There was no boy.”

  “She sent her?” Landry demanded violently. “She knew?” Esteban and Pablo leaped at her, and she recoiled squealing towards her husband. “No, no, no! That is not true! I did not— Wulfric, I did not! Make them believe me—I did not know!”

  “But there was no boy,” Marco reminded them, in that same passionless voice. “And you hate my lady.”

  The young men grabbed her. She screamed, ducked her head and bit at their restraining hands, threshed and kicked and twisted, flung herself back and then forward, trying to break loose. Wulfric started at them with a snarl of wrath, but Ramiro caught at him, and he came to his senses and covered his face while they mastered her.

  “Helga!” he groaned. “Not that serpent! Tell me at least you did not lie with him after we were wedded!”

  “I did not! I did not! It is not true—I could not help it when he followed me to church—but I did not go out to meet him! I did not!”

  “Those cut-throats ambushed me one night as I left this house,” Marco continued. “And they waited for me to return. That was when I began to suspect. Earlier that evening you had disappeared, and Wulfric searched the house for you. But how should they have known I would return, unless you had told Lothaire de Gallenard I had joined this household the previous night? None outside it even knew.”

  Men grunted and exchanged glances; they all remembered that night. Wulfric shuddered, nodded, and stood staring heavily at his wife. Marco put out a hand before they could comment, and they waited for him to finish.

  “She went out today before supper—”

  “You did not know!” Helga screeched. “That is witchcraft, whoreson Saracen sorcerer! It is a lie—a lie!”

  “You knew that my lady and I were on the roof, and dared not slip out while we watched. So you told the young squire in a fashion that was bound to make mischief, and went out while our attention was distracted by dispute.”

  Rodriga choked as she realised how Piers’s jealousy had been used, and looked in loathing at the
treacherous little strumpet.

  “But why?” Wulfric cried in anguish. “We took you out of bondage—why did you do this evil?”

  “A bitch is a bitch, chained or running loose,” croaked Urraca from the rear.

  “Put your hand in her breast and learn,” Marco advised.

  Wulfric went slowly forward like a sleep-walker. She glared at him and tried to twist aside, and when he reached for her bodice she snapped at his hand with fierce white teeth. Pablo thrust his forearm across her throat and forced her chin up, and her husband put his hand between her breasts as though the touch defiled him, and drew out a purse. His one hand fumbled at the drawstring, and he poured out a stream of silver coins that tinkled and rolled over the floor. “For money?” he said dazedly. “You betrayed me—betrayed us all—for money?”

  “For money, of course!” she spat at him, viciously determined to hurt; perhaps his disgust at touching the flesh he had delighted to fondle had infuriated her beyond caution. “For money to get away from a stupid cuckold and a wine-swilling old dotard and that pious skinny cat who would never know what to do with a man if ever she found one to crawl into her bed! And Sir Lothaire was a better man than you are and knew how to pleasure a woman, and a gentleman of manners as well, not a grunting hog of a peasant making me sweat over the cooking-pot all day and—”

  Wulfric cut her throat. Blood jetted against his breast and turned him crimson to his feet, spattered across the floor, poured over her gown. The lads loosed her and sprang back, and she slid down in a heap across the scattered silver and the spreading blood, quivered and was still. Her husband stood looking down at her for a long moment, while Rodriga set her teeth into her hand to stop herself from screaming. Diego cried out and threw himself upon his father, hiding his face in Ramiro’s tunic, and the young men stared, ashenfaced and palsied.

  “It was my great folly,” said Wulfric steadily, “but I loved her.” Diego, convulsed with sobs, turned away from his father and bolted for the stairs, and at that they came out of the paralysis of horror. Rodriga turned to Landry, her face twisting, and he held out his hands to her with a crooked smile. He looked old and done and beaten, the flesh sagging from the bones of his face, and the stubble that caught the lamplight glittered silver on his jaws. She clung to him in a passion of pity and tenderness. He was too old and worn to take such blows, or to begin afresh on any new venture, and she could not bear to tell him that the high hopes he had brought to this one were already betrayed. She hugged him speechlessly, and kissed his bristly cheek, her eyes blind with tears.

  “Lord Above!” It was her father’s oath ripping harshly from Marco’s lips, and it brought every one of them out of stupor. “Tonight—she waited on you! She has betrayed the hermit and the young squire!” He turned upon Landry like a leopard. “Out of this house and down to the ship! Do you not see he must close all our mouths tonight?”

  “Close—?” Landry repeated.

  “How else dare he face Melek Ric? Quickly! Your sword and hauberk—in here?” He dived into the inner room while they were still gaping. Rodriga grabbed up the cloak that had been her abductor’s and leaped for her javelin. The Catalans stared wildly at each other, and then some instinct of decency impelled Pablo and Esteban to pick up the dead girl and lay her on the bench. Wulfric turned his grey face away.

  The curtain swept inward, and the doorway was filled with mail and steel and murderous faces. Pablo, straightening up open-mouthed under a falling sword, went backwards, his head split to the brows. A spear thrust over him as he fell, and Esteban reeled back three paces clutching at his belly with crimson hands, buckled at the knees and went down on his face. Juan had barely time to draw his dagger; the doorway spewed men who set to slaughter without a word of challenge.

  “Saviour Christ! The slut unbarred the door!” cried Landry in anguish and threw himself in front of Rodriga. Ramiro had sprung to his son’s aid, but Juan, wildly warding off one spear that lunged for his throat, was run through from the side by another, and as he cried out and crumpled up two spears and a sword converged on Ramiro. Landry roared and plunged forward at a limping run. Urraca screeched and hurled a pitcher into a snarling face, and Rodriga, springing after her father with javelin poised, saw him beat up a spear, lurch under it and thrust beneath a lifted chin. The swordsman hewed downward, and took him between neck and shoulder; he spun round, jetting blood, and dropped. Rodriga screamed and stabbed, but her blade grated harmlessly on mail. A hand clawed at her; she struck again into a vicious face and felt blood spatter hot and wet into her own.

  Marco came through the doorway like a charging lion, straight at the swordsman. He had Landry’s hauberk over his left arm, and he used that hand to catch at the man’s right wrist and bear it down as he thrust into his unprotected face. The fellow screeched and swayed back; then he broke free as Marco evaded a lunging spear, and swung up his sword for a flailing blow. The point bit into a roof-beam and almost wrenched the weapon from his grip. The spear drove past him and Marco flung up his arm to strike it over his shoulder. A bellow of command sent a rush at him. Another spear caught in the mail-links and dragged his arm down. The swordsman freed his blade and swept it at his head. Rodriga’s javelin jarred against his mailed ribs, staggering him, but too late. Marco crashed sideways into the doorway, rebounded against the billowing curtain and sprawled on his side.

  “Do not hurt the girl! Take her safely!” shouted a voice. Someone grabbed her javelin-shaft, and she loosed it and snatched her dagger. Urraca was screeching again; she had hurled herself into the struggle clawing and kicking. A couple of men bayed Rodriga, holding her off with spear-butts; now two more ran in from behind, and as she whirled to meet the new menace one sprang on her from the side and threw his arms round her. Held and helpless, she watched a spearman thrust Urraca through the breast and fling her off, laughing harshly as the old woman writhed and gasped.

  Shuddering and gasping, Rodriga stood still. Her dagger was forced from her fingers, and hard arms clasped hers to her sides. She looked numbly about her. They were all dead; her father, her foster-father and his sons, the bitter-tongued faithful old virago, Wulfric near his wife, Marco in the inner doorway. Shock and horror held her lifeless. Her dark eyes dilated in her grey face, she stared from the bloody bundles of clothing and flesh that moments before had been the love and joy of her lifetime, to Robert de Veragny’s bitter face.

  He seemed savagely resentful rather than triumphant, glaring at her under scowling brows, but he jerked his head angrily at the man who held her. “Take your lewd paws from the lady, knave!” The fellow jumped back so hurriedly that Rodriga staggered, and the cripple hobbled round the corpses to confront her. “I warned you!” he said harshly, gesturing to the dead. “It was your own fault that you drove me to this!”

  She stared at him, numb and unbelieving. This was a nightmare from which she must wake, and not reality. She could not even feel hatred for this monster, only an incredulous loathing that brought the dark colour to his face.

  “Rionart is my Roger’s! I warned you that no one should rob him! I did my utmost to find another way, and yet you meddled and plotted and brought this on yourselves! After tonight no one shall be left to dispute it! Yes, the pup too; I also have men who know the way to Carmel! He will not return, nor the hermit! But do not fear; I promise that you shall not be harmed!”

  “My lord!” exclaimed one man in consternation. “We have missed the brat—the young groom!”

  “Search for him—search the stables!” Three or four men went to do his bidding. He looked at the shambles about him, drew a long breath, and suddenly laughed aloud. “This is my night, and look not for a miracle to deliver you! Angels or devils are on my side! How can I fail now?”

  “I shall kill you myself,” said Rodriga very quietly.

  CHAPTER XIX

  A gaunt brute with the face of a skull methodically kicked each body over onto its back and ran its breast through with a spear. Others scrabbled at the
Judas silver scattered in the blood across the floor. Two men picked up Landry’s body as casually as a sheep’s by feet and shoulders to lay it on the bench, and Rodriga’s heart seemed to halt in her breast as his head fell back and his arms swung loosely. Only Diego still lived, and that was not certain, though she had heard no sound from the courtyard. The whole hope of her heart was to close her hand on a weapon and avenge all that was dear to her. The bony monster grinned evilly at her as he went about his task, and she turned her face from him in loathing.

  At the inner door she could see nothing of Marco but his legs. Her blood froze in her, for as she looked they shifted and drew up. Then the curtain billowed inward as he pounced, his dark face streaked with blood and his naked flesh gleaming in the flickering lamplight. The hauberk clashed across the gaunt man’s eyes, a brown hand snatched the spear from his hand and beat him down with the butt. Marco swung it horizontally into startled faces. The hauberk swept over the cripple’s head, he was shouldered off his feet, and the nearest man roused to grab at Rodriga as she sprang to join her friend. Marco rammed him hideously in the mouth with the butt, thrust her towards the outer door and backed after her, whirling the spear. At the door he flung it into their faces and followed her. He hurled an opposing body backwards over the stair-head, and the girl had barely time to snatch up her skirts from under her feet before she was seized by the arm and hauled headlong after him to the roof.

  “Marco—oh, Marco!” she gasped, and had no breath for more. She was dragged across the roof, while the room below resounded with outcries. The next house was slightly lower and a bare six feet away, but in the dark the alley was a black ravine. She set her teeth and tucked up her gown into her girdle. Marco touched her shoulder, stepped up onto the parapet and cleared the gap in what appeared no more than one long stride. He held out his arms, bracing himself with one foot back and his knee against the other parapet, and she followed. His arms closed on her, swung her over and set her down.