The Dragon Throne (10 page)

A flurry of dust far across the vineyards marked the progress of Sir Jean's force. The dust was rising fast, and growing closer with every heartbeat.

Peasants working in the vineyards stood straight and shaded their eyes at the far-off rhythm of hoofbeats. Even the sole pikeman on the nearby fortress tower leaned over the wall to see what was approaching.

Ester had sat at Queen Eleanor's knee, embroidering flower patterns in linen, and heard the queen tell of old King Henry's brave knights, and the bloodthirsty robbers near Constantinople. If there was going to be a fight, Ester would not embarrass herself. Ida put a kerchief to her lips and prayed, gripping her reins so tightly her palfrey took a few steps back.

“They mean to see us hurt, or worse,” said Edmund to Ester in a matter-of-fact tone. Edmund gave a gesture to his squire, but the boy had already retrieved some of the armor from a packhorse, and placed a helmet in Edmund's hands.

“But you don't know this for certain,” Ester managed to say.

Ida was tugging at her sleeve. “These knights are too few to guard us,” she said in a quick monotone.

“These are our brave friends,” responded Ester.

Nigel inclined his head toward Edmund for a moment, muttering some advice, and Edmund turned to Ester and her friend with an urgent “Lady Ester, ride with me to that nearby castle.”

“Sir Edmund,” she said, “I will not fly like the sparrow from the owl.”

“My lady, both of you be quick,” called Edmund, spurring his mount.

THE CASTLE WITH THE SINGLE PIKE CARRIER was not much more than a tower and a stout oak draw-gate, the entire structure little larger than a simple country house.

It was equipped with arrow slits, the tower well designed, with stone-and-mortar battlements to allow the sentry shelter from attack. Just now the guard peered out at them, lifting a hand in a gesture of helplessness.

“Merciful pilgrims,” the castle keeper was saying, “God keep you in gracious peace.”

Ester repeated their request for shelter. She understood now why Edmund had asked the two young women to appear before the castle. What castle would allow a band of pilgrim females to suffer injury right outside its door?

“The lord of this keep is still far away, on Crusade,” replied the guard, a poorly shaven man of meager appearance, missing many of his teeth. “I dare not allow any guests within,” he added, lifting his pike with a shrug of apology.

“What does he say?” asked Edmund.

Ester could see that the Frankish language of this land proved a challenge to the English knights. Even with her knowledge of the tongue spoken from Normandy to Champagne, Ester had difficulty. They had traveled as far as Burgundy, by Ester's guess, and she had trouble understanding this castle creature's dialect.

“This is a very small fortress,” Ester told Edmund. She wanted to shield the young knight from disappointment. “Perhaps bargaining for entrance is not worth the trouble.”

“He will welcome us in, won't he?” asked Edmund.

“Edmund, this manservant is afraid.”

“Afraid!” responded Edmund, with something very like a good-humored laugh. “So are we, or we would not seek the shelter of this little tower.”

“He is afraid of
us
,” said Ester.

Of you
she would not say.

“He will not let two ladies hide in his tower!” said Edmund in a tone of astonishment.

“I will not part from you, Sir Edmund,” said Ester. “We are all one company.”

Edmund searched his mind for some argument to this, but before he could speak again Ester said, “Upon my honor, Edmund, Ida and I will be at your side.”

“No, we will be pleased to sit within walls,” said Ida.

The guard was declaiming all the while on the nature of his responsibilities, to his lady, to her household goods, and to his lord's infants.

“There are children living here,” said Ester, realizing at once the guard's reason for caution.

“Children,” echoed Edmund thoughtfully.

“Six years old, and five years old, and one even younger,” called the guard, seeing that word of small children had the desired effect on his supplicants. “A boy this high, and two girls.”

“I see,” said Edmund, who knew enough Frankish to understand that much. He turned his horse away.

“Pay this man,” urged Ida. “He'll change his mind if he sees silver!”

“We mustn't let little ones,” said Edmund without looking back, “have any part of battle.”

 

Ester's leave-taking from her father weeks ago had been tearful, but joyful.

“Say a prayer for your mother,” Bernard had said, embracing his daughter, “in the church of Santa Sabina.” That famous church was the Roman sanctuary sacred to the name of women who had endured the pains of a difficult life.

“Where should I pay my thanksgiving,” Ester had asked, “for your return to enjoying a healthy appetite for giblet pies and Rhine wine?” His complexion was ruddier than ever, and in a few days of vigor he had already put on weight.

“Before the same altar,” her father had replied after a moment's consideration. “To Heaven's ear, I think, all prayers are the same.”

The memory had all the more meaning now as she and Edmund departed from the shadow of the humble castle tower. Whether her friends were alive to see this day's sunset depended on the sheltering will of Heaven.

With the dust of their opponents growing ever closer, Ester put a hand on Edmund's reins. Surefoot responded at once, stopping his progress and cocking his ears.

“Arm us, Edmund,” she said, “and let us fight beside you.”

Like many court ladies, Ester had been schooled in the arts of hunting. She had rarely killed, but she could hit the target's center with a crossbow every time. She mentioned her skill, and made a pantomime, raising an invisible weapon to her shoulder.

“Can you indeed?” breathed Edmund in a tone of wonder and respect.

But before Wowen could retrieve the weapon from the tangle of baggage on the packhorse, the enemy arrived.

 

They were a throng of armored men, as Rannulf had reported, a fighting force that assembled in the clearing between vineyards opposite. The enemy knights rode the big, strong-boned mounts of war, and these animals were spiked with sweat and breathing heavily.

“Not a pretty assembly, are they?” said Ida, in a wan attempt at humor.

It was true that Ester had rarely seen such a travelgrimed, use-hardened gang of men. From gauntlet to buckle they were the stuff that peasant and lady alike beheld in nightmares.

“A parley, if you please,” called Sir Jean.

One of the battle group's squires, a lean-faced man, rode forward on a sweat-darkened bay.

As ignorant of war as Ester might be, she knew that a few minutes' delay would favor Sir Jean's men, allowing their horses to rest. But she was relieved when Nigel lifted a sword held hilt upward, a traditional symbol for peaceful intent, just as to hand a sword pommel first to an opponent was an earnest gesture of surrender.

Surely Saint George would not neglect them.

Even so, she felt the soft leather sack within her cloak, sensing the holy relics within. She could not prevent the feeling: She was afraid. Peasants sheltered behind oxcarts and the rich greenery of the rows of distant vineyards as Edmund and Wowen made their way toward the center of the clearing.

Ester's two companions rode horses well rested enough to show frisky curiosity in each other, and also in the as-yet unfamiliar animals across the road beyond. The dust-streaked fighting men along the edge of the vineyards bared their teeth in unpleasant smiles, and commented among themselves, their eyes on the two young ladies.

“Not so much as one pinch of kindness,” said Ida, her voice trembling, “in the lot of them.”

EDMUND DID NOT LIKE THE WORN FEATURES of the enemy squire from the moment he opened his mouth.

“The worthy knight Sir Jean de Chartres,” said the squire, “extends his greetings to Sir Edmund Strongarm and his fellows.” The sunburned squire gave Edmund a long and measuring look as he spoke.

Sir Jean, well behind his men, made no effort to settle a helmet over his head, or to take up his shield, content to look on as his charger shook its mane, still breathing hard. A stream of cold water ran behind the small group of pilgrims, the sound audible throughout the clearing. The thirsty horses snorted and shivered with anticipation, nosing the air.

“Sir Edmund Strongarm,” sang out Wowen, “greets Sir Jean de Chartres, and his assembled knights.”

Edmund felt a trickle of sweat run down his cheek. A knight's helmet was a cumbersome object, and Edmund doubted he would ever become used to wearing one. Every sound from the outside world took on a sinister iron tenor. He nudged Surefoot just a few paces closer.

A well-mannered squire or a herald usually began a parley between fighting forces as the knights themselves remained largely silent. It was easier to undo an accidental insult delivered by a squire, and easier for a knight and his companions to measure an enemy while a functionary engaged in courtesies.

But Wowen, the sole squire available to perform this duty on behalf of the pilgrims, was a beginner. Edmund moved even closer, ready to press his mount forward if Wowen's courage failed—or if there was any further sign of danger.

“I am Hamo Peche, newly appointed squire to Sir Jean,” the long-armed, wiry squire was saying, tugging at his tunic as he spoke. “I can offer a proposal that may spare the life of you, young squire, and your lords.”

Wowen introduced himself in response, performing his duties well. The young squire replied in the formula known by any child who had ever played at combat—that Wowen's lord would be grateful for a way to show mercy to Hamo and his masters.

Hamo was a veteran of many fights, judging by the scars on his arms, and he was no longer young. He had been left behind by ill fortune, Edmund assumed, or because fever or drunkenness had rendered him unfit for a holy war. Such men were eager to prove themselves, the knight believed, and likely to hide a weapon in a legging or a sleeve.

Hamo's eloquence began to falter. “My master will kill you all,” he said. “Prepare to bite the ground.”

This was crude beyond belief. Wowen straightened in his saddle. The youth recognized that he was dealing with a squire who knew little of good manners, or even decent speech.
Bite the ground
was a phrase from hardy drinking songs, unworthy of the occasion.

Sir Jean made an impatient motion in the distance,
Hurry up,
working his head into his iron helmet. The former Crusader could not entirely control his men or their thirsty animals. Sir Jean's men were calling out coarse jokes now, in yet another dialect Edmund did not understand. Edmund recognized them as
routiers
, men who traveled the roads to hire their war skills to any bidder. Too bereft of faith to respond to a Crusade, or too habitually disobedient to take part in a fighting force, they wore weather-tarnished riding armor, and carried light hunting lances, the better to run down fleeing footmen.

“My lords will not surrender so much as a chestnut,” said Wowen.

In response to this, Hamo shot one lean hand up a sleeve and withdrew a long, blue-iron spearhead.

He thrust this shaftless weapon at Wowen. Only the quick reflexes of Wowen's mare, shying at the unexpected motion, kept the blade from plunging into the boy-squire's chest.

As it was, the ugly iron weapon caught Wowen's tunic, and when Hamo tried to withdraw the point it tangled there in the woolen fabric. Edmund recognized the weapon as the head of a throwing spear, a javelin. It was not uncommon for these items to be carried as daggers—they made effective stabbing blades.

The enemy squire wrestled the iron point free and struck again, a two-handed blow. This time Wowen was able to raise an arm and fend off the assault. The host of enemy knights raised a cheer at this sudden fighting, and in a ragged, rippling motion, the
routiers
began their attack.

Edmund drew his sword as a passing knight gave him a negligent thrust with a lance. Surefoot heard the whisper of blade leaving sheath, and prompted by Templar training, lunged forward, into Hamo's mount. One downward blow from Edmund's sword cut Hamo's arm through, and the squire tumbled from his saddle. The severed limb lay inert, like a thing that had never lived.

Edmund was shocked at the sight, and he pieced together the event that had just taken place—his heavy blade lifted high, the slaughterhouse crack of bone, the whisper of the leather armor shearing. The young knight had never struck such a single, telling blow with a broadsword, and in his emotional turmoil he had the instant, fleeting fantasy of seizing the severed arm and forcing it back into place.

Hamo sprawled, gleaming with scarlet, trying to drag the rest of his body toward the arm. Sir Jean, too, was taking a long moment to survey the grievous injury, and Edmund did something he regretted at once.

While the big Chartrian knight was distracted by the sight of the arm—surely the fingers weren't reaching, grasping—Edmund struck Sir Jean's helmet, a single, deep-cutting blow. Sir Jean fell to the ground with a cloud of dust and a Frankish curse, plainly more shaken than hurt.

Edmund took advantage of the momentary respite to turn in his saddle and call out for Ester, and for Hubert, worried that the
routiers
might well make short work of them.

There was no response.

With a throaty cheer the attackers surrounded the band of pilgrims, swords lifting and falling in the dusty afternoon sunlight.