No Man's Son

by Doris Sutcliffe Adams

  They ran hand-in-hand across the empty roof. The next half-dozen houses were built adjoining each other; they were of varying heights, so that they had to scramble up or leap down, but Marco went before her to pull her up or lift her down, though she had little need of his aid. He was a much stronger man than his appearance suggested. They were fortunate in finding no one on any roof save one, where a man and a woman slept in each other’s arms on a pallet in the moonlight and never stirred as they passed. They heard no pursuit; probably no one guessed that they had taken this road to escape.

  At the further corner of the sixth house they checked at an alley. Marco leaned over and pointed down. Beneath them, in the angle between house and courtyard wall, was the roof of an outbuilding. “Drop down to me,” muttered Marco, swung himself over, hung for a moment by his hands and then let go. She looked down into his upturned face, pale in the moonlight, hitched her skirts round her knees and sat on the parapet. She pivoted, gripped the rough mud-brick, slid, hung, and tumbled safely into his hold. A stride took them to the courtyard wall, they repeated the move, and then were trotting down the alley to the street and along it to the harbour. Only then did Rodriga regain her voice.

  “Marco, Marco, I thought you were dead too!”

  “It was you saved me, my lady. His sword turned and stunned me with the flat.” His hand tightened fiercely on hers. “My lady, shall I take you straightway to the King?”

  She roused from stunned passivity and near-breakdown to decision. One crime they might yet prevent, and so bring down Robert de Veragny from his triumph. “He has sent men after Piers to murder him and the hermit! We must save them! Marco, we must find horses to ride after them!”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Marco, for the holy hermit—”

  “My lady, they have more than an hour’s start; we could not overtake them.” He halted, jerking her also to a standstill, and a reeling sailor barely avoided a collision and cursed them. “There is a way— come, my lady!”

  He ran, dragging her panting after him, the rest of the way to the harbour. There was noise and confusion aboard the Magdalena, and when they tumbled aboard they found Diego sobbing in the centre of a ring of furious seamen. They thronged round Marco and Rodriga, exclaiming and questioning and demanding vengeance. Diego ran to Rodriga and flung himself on his knees at her feet, clutching her and crying. She found herself distractedly attempting to comfort him while Marco issued crisp orders in Greek and Italian and the sailors scampered to obey. He ducked into the cabin, emerged pulling on a fresh tunic, hauled the boy to his feet and started him for the gangplank. Before she knew how she came there she was sitting with Diego in the skiff while a couple of sturdy seamen bent to the oars and Marco held the tiller. The men left aboard called on the Saints’ aid for them as they pulled away from the ship and danced across the harbour.

  “The ship is too big, this boat too slow,” Marco explained. “A fishing boat is our need. We will sail for Carmel.”

  Two or three fishing-boats were still beached on the sands beyond the outer harbour; they pulled past the mole and the Tower of Flies, and turned the skiff’s head for them. Marco chose his craft and laid alongside, exchanged greetings and unceremoniously swung himself aboard. He made a short end of whatever objections the fishermen raised to lending their craft for the night; probably his name was argument enough for men who appreciated his fame. They scrambled ashore as Marco’s companions boarded her, and good-humouredly shoved her off and pulled up the skiff on the beach for them. Marco shouted a reassurance as he took the tiller, and his seamen hoisted the sail.

  The hot desert wind blew for them tonight, strong and steady from the north-east. The triangular sail of the Levant might look odd and awkward to Rodriga’s Northern eyes, but the light craft swooped over the waves like a gull. She looked back, and the twinkling lights of ships’ lanterns in the harbour were already far astern. The cleaner air of the sea, yet tainted by the city’s stench of death, filled her nostrils, and she drew a long breath. Diego was crouched miserably in the bows, watching the waves slap against the planking and slide past in spattering foam. One of the sailors was at the sheet, the other squatting opposite. Marco, at the tiller, was watching her intently. He was comfort in her desolate misery, and she went to him, balancing automatically to the movement of the boat. He reached out his left hand to her, and her control broke. She collapsed against him in a tempest of weeping.

  The boat lurched and steadied again. She was inside the circle of his free arm, sobbing against his shoulder in an agony of grief and loss, great wrenching sobs that shook her whole body and his so that the boat quivered on her course. Then the tears came, and she cried quietly and steadily. He held her fast, his arm about her shoulders, and neither spoke nor moved, letting her weeping have its way. Her sobs died to tremors, and then she was still, spent and empty and eased of her desolation in the secure haven of his hold.

  Gradually feeling came back to her, and she tried to frame prayers for the souls sent unshriven to Judgment, to ask God’s mercy on her murdered dear ones. She turned her face a little from the rough linen of Marco’s tunic, sodden with her tears, and rested her cheek against it. She was clinging to his shoulder with one hand, and had not known of it. All at once she was intensely aware of his body; of the warm hard muscle under the wet cloth, the steady beating of his heart, the lift and fall of his breast as he breathed, and the occasional slight check in its movement. Astonishment filled her. Then the astonishment was for her own blindness, and she lifted her arms to clasp him about the neck, a little warmth reviving in her heart.

  Something warm and wet was dripping into her hair, and she stirred at last, raising her head from her refuge to look into Marco’s face. He was staring rigidly ahead of him, and the full moon high over Carmel showed her the tears running down his face. Her breath checked in surprise. “Oh, Marco!” she whispered.

  He looked down at her. “I loved him, my lady,” he said simply. She buried her face in his shoulder to hide new tears, but the knowledge that they joined in grief comforted her, and she tried to offer comfort to him. “He liked you so much, Marco.”

  “But for you I should gladly have died with him.”

  “What good would that have done?” she said with desolate common-sense, and gripped him more tightly, fiercely thankful that he lived. “At least we can finish his work for him,” she remembered aloud, and at the thought straightened in his hold and lifted her head, her tears checking.

  He released her immediately. “There is a fair chance of saving your squire for you,” he agreed levelly, “and your father had set his heart on your wedding him.”

  The idea was now so far from her design or desire that for a moment she was at a loss for words; it was nothing to her now what befell Piers. She compared him with the man beside her, who went to the aid of his bitter enemy because she asked it of him, and scorn fired her. “Wed that vain lout who will never make a man if he lives to see his grandsons* grandsons? Lord Above, I would sooner take the veil!”

  He stared at her, and drew a long unsteady breath. “That is good hearing, my lady. He was unworthy to touch your hand.”

  “Besides,” she added with her inveterate honesty, “he never intended to wed me. The Lord of Rionart’s honour demands a nobler alliance. It was sufficient for me to become his concubine.”

  “His honour!”

  “At least my father never knew that. And he had set his heart on restoring Piers to Rionart, and bringing that monster to justice. Besides, there is the holy hermit to save.”

  He uttered a little mirthless laugh. “I can think of no sorer humiliation for the whelp than to save him after what has passed.” She considered it, and reckoned it indeed an apt avenging. “You were right, Marco, when you said your—your conceptions of love were totally dissimilar.” He made no answer, staring at the sea with a set and sombre face. She gripped her hands together on her skirt. “You—I—” she began, and then for all her resolution her vo
ice wavered and halted before the enormity in her mind. Then grief seized her throat and choked her, and a wild loathing of this ancient, bitter land of disaster filled her. The clean sea was all about her, and she revolted from the city that had brought death and desolation to all she loved, brought her whole life to a ruin of loss and falsehood, lust and betrayal; the city that stank of death, that had debauched a Christian army, that was an abomination of jealousies and factions and intrigues among Kings and captains. There was only Marco in her life, and as she turned her desperate white face to his in the moonlight, his hand covered hers in a warm hold and nerved her for what she must say.

  “Marco, I—I would ask—”

  “Ask what you will, my lady. My life is yours.”

  “It is your life I ask for, Marco,” she whispered.

  “My lady?”

  “Marco, marry me and take me with you to the world’s end!”

  He gasped aloud, and his hand closed painfully on hers. He stared incredulously into her face. “My lady! That is impossible! A knight’s daughter—you must not stoop—my lady, that is the grossest disparagement!”

  “Who is left to care for that?” she whispered sorrowfully, and caught at his wrist with her other hand as he loosed his hold. “Marco, do you wish to marry me?”

  “Wish—a wonder I never dared dream of? But you know what I am, my lady—”

  “None better! Oh, Marco, I love you!”

  He made no answer; she saw that he could not. After a moment he drew her to his side again, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, safe in the hold of his arm, and the first faint foretaste of happiness comforted her. The moon shone down upon them, turning the wave crests and flying spray to silver, and the wind blew through her hair and whipped Marco’s short black locks about his face. She reached up a hand to his bristled cheek, and he bent his head swiftly and kissed her fingers. Then they were still, watching the set of the sail together and seeing the mountain grow to fill half the sky before them.

  A few lights gleamed in Cayphas, in the town and along the seafront. There were Saracen ships and men there, reinforcements sent since Acre capitulated. Marco had set a course to clear the spur of the mountain behind the town that shone white in the moonlight, and when the last lights were hidden by the dark slopes on their larboard side, Marco spoke quietly to the hand at the sheet and put the tiller over. The boat went about, and as she steadied on her new tack Rodriga saw how incredibly close to the wind the unfamiliar craft could lie. Then they glided into the lee of the mountain, the wind dropped, and the sail flapped and hung idle. The two Italian seamen leaped at it, lowered it, unshipped a pair of sweeps and pulled in to the shore.

  They beached her on the coarse sand of a tiny bay, and the three men swung overside into the milk-warm water and ran her ashore. Rodriga grabbed up her gown and hitched it into her girdle, but before she could follow them Marco splashed to the gunwale and held up his arms to her. He lifted her down like a child, and she set her arms round his neck and laid her cheek against his. His scent was not of stale sweat, horses and rancid armour-grease, like that of most men, but of pitch and spices. He tightened his hold on her for a moment, waded ashore and set her gently down, under the seamen’s carefully blank regard and Diego’s tear-blurred eyes.

  One of the sailors remained behind with the boy to guard the boat; the other, with a formidable fish-maul tucked into his belt, accompanied them. It was a mad scramble up through scrubby woodland and over rocks, and without the full moon to light them they could never have accomplished it. It splashed white light and black shadow through the leaves, deceiving eyes and feet, but though she tripped and stumbled Rodriga could follow Marco’s dark tunic and black head. Thorns clawed at her, leaves brushed her face as she ducked and twisted, and sweat blinded her. Then Marco brought them into a path, a mere goat-track threading erratically among rocks and thickets, still relentlessly climbing. Marco set a merciless pace, and it was as much as Rodriga could do to maintain it; the sailor, scrambling and sweating in the rear, had no breath even to curse. Apart from an occasional startled bird they might have had the tangle of oak and myrtle and acacia to themselves alone, though in the distance the inevitable choir of jackals was saluting the moon.

  High above the sea the path forked, and Marco took the clearer, left-hand track, that levelled more and more until they were moving along the flank of the mountain. The steep slopes lifted on their right, and on the other hand were the starry sky, the glitter of waves and wide pale curve of sands, and below them glimpses of lights in Cayphas. Once Marco halted them, and for what seemed an age they listened tensely to a troop of horsemen jingling and trampling below, unseen beyond the forest. It seemed to Rodriga that she did not draw breath until they had gone by towards the town, she was so impatient to go on.

  “A Saracen patrol returning,” murmured Marco, and before the sounds of their going had dwindled far, he was leading them again along the difficult path. Sometimes it dipped downhill, sometimes they were climbing again, and in places Rodriga marvelled that he could see any way at all between the crowding trees, until she discovered by momentarily blundering from it that the hard-trodden track felt different to the feet from the ground beside it, and that he did not rely entirely on sight.

  “Not far now,” said Marco softly.

  “Will we be in time?”

  He shrugged. “There is a fair chance, my lady. I have heard no fight.”

  “They may have overtaken Piers and killed him already.”

  “If they want the hermit also they will let Piers guide them to him, my lady.”

  The goat-path meandered downhill. The trees were scattered here, thin and stunted, among great rocks and black patches of thorn-brake. Marco left the track and struck slant-wise uphill above it, loping like a wolf and taking advantage of every rock and thicket to shield him from sight of anyone below. Rodriga slipped after him, praying earnestly. It was going to be a very near-run thing; they had crossed the bay much faster than riders might skirt round it in the dark, but the long scramble afoot had cost them the time they had gained. She reminded herself firmly that horsemen would have been sorely delayed by traversing difficult country in the dark, but she remembered that they had had over an hour’s start. The hard truth remained that it was any man’s guess who would reach the hermit first and how close pursuit was behind Piers.

  Marco caught her hand and pointed. Fifty feet below and to their left a tiny gleam of light showed between the rocks, the dull red glow of a small and dying fire. “They may follow to the cave and do the butchery there,” he whispered, “or lay an ambush on the way back.” Then he stiffened, and his hand closed hard on hers. The hot wind, gusty among the rocks, lifted to them the murmur of voices. Someone had reached the hermit. A horse wickered softly, and she peered and saw, almost below them, three horses waiting among the rocks and a man standing at their heads. Marco started down. Rodriga felt for her dagger, and cursed her own hastiness for coming unarmed. Behind her the seaman quietly spat on his hand and grasped his club as he slithered soundlessly after them.

  Marco checked again; a faint click of stone on stone had reached them. Vague shadows were stirring below, and at a low word of command separated into two parties. One rushed for the horses, and she saw the man overthrown before he had time to defend himself. The rest dashed for the fire. Marco stooped and snatched right and left at loose stones; then he was bounding and sliding down the slope with Rodriga hard behind him, her heart thumping behind her teeth and a jagged rock grabbed from somewhere in her right fist.

  “Allah! Allah-illalah!” yelled Marco, the Saracen battle-cry piercing the night. He flung himself over a great tilted slab and landed on his feet beside the fire. Rodriga, lacking his length of leg, shot down the same way on her bottom and gathered herself up beside him. The fire flared to the movement, and the picture burned itself on her memory; the low cave, a mere hollow under a slanted mass of rock, Piers and the Turcople at its further end with drawn swords, the
hermit, blood dark in his grey hair and his arms stretched wide like a crucifix before them, the half-dozen startled ruffians turning gaping faces to the new foe. A faint yell sounded behind them.

  Marco threw his rocks, hard and true into the nearest faces, and leaped after them with his dagger. Rodriga launched her own missile, and the sailor thumped down beside her, threw her roughly back against the rock and charged after his captain swinging a brisk club. Piers and the Turcople recovered their wits and joined in from the other side. Marco’s Turkish battle-cry pealed again and then again. Even in that moment his vow was upon him; he used the haft of his dagger and his wrestler’s skill. Feet were pelting up the path, voices shouting in alarm and anger. Far down the hill a trumpet brayed and a gong woke thunder in the night.

  “Enough!” shouted Marco, throwing down a reeling, half-stunned spearman with a foot behind his ankle and a deft thrust under the chin. “Away quickly!”

  Snarling, Piers sprang forward and swung a furious blow at the writhing knave, whose bloody face fell sideways at an impossible angle and then turned to the earth. He glared at Marco. “You!” he gasped savagely, and lifted the sword again. It rang against the overhanging rock, but Marco was already inside its sweep and clutching his sword-wrist.

  “Away, you fool!” he rasped, and pushed him back. Rodriga came after him, catching the dazed hermit by one skinny arm and hustling him away from the new onslaught. At sight of her Piers gaped like a zany and submitted to being shoved urgently out of the cave and among the rocks. Then for a moment he tried to draw back.

  “The horses!” he gasped.

  “Taken already! Quick, this way!”

  He hauled the bewildered lad by main force up the way they had come, while the hillside resounded with the cries of those left in the cave and those hurrying to the rescue. He shoved him behind a tangle of thorn-brake and scrubby trees and thrust him along under its cover, slanting up the flank of the mountain. Rodriga and the sailor supported the hermit and dragged him along between them, heedless of his muttered protests, and the Turcople guarded the rear. Their instant dash for concealment had baffled the ruffians, who had not yet had time to gather their scattered wits. Marco checked after fifty yards to look back and listen.