The High Crusade

by Poul Anderson

  The High Crusade

  Poul Anderson

  In the year of grace 1345, as Sir Roger Baron de Tourneville is gathering an army to join King Edward III in the war against France, a most astonishing event occurs: a huge silver ship descends through the sky and lands in a pasture beside the little village of Ansby in northeastern Lincolnshire. The Wersgorix, whose scouting ship it is, are quite expert at taking over planets, and having determined from orbit that this one was suitable, they initiate standard world-conquering procedure. Ah, but this time it’s no mere primitives the Wersgorix seek to enslave — they’ve launched their invasion against Englishmen! In the end, only one alien is left alive — and Sir Roger’s grand vision is born. He intends for the creature to fly the ship first to France to aid his King, then on to the Holy Land to vanquish the infidel!

  Nominated for Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1961.

  The High Crusade

  by Poul Anderson

  To JENS CHRISTIAN and NANCY — as well as PER and JANNE — gratefully and hopefully

  Prologue

  As the captain looked up, the hooded desk lamp threw his face into ridges of darkness and craggy highlights. A port stood open to alien summer night.

  ’Well?” he said.

  “I’ve got it translated, sir,” answered the sociotechnician. “Had to extrapolate backward from modern languages, which is what took me so long. In the course of the work, though, I’ve learned enough so I can talk to these … creatures.”

  “Good,” granted the captain. “Now maybe we can discover what this is all about. Thunder and blowup! I expected to come across almost anything out here, but this—!”

  “I know how you feel, sir. Even with all the physical evidence right before my eyes, I found it hard to believe the original account.

  “Very well, I’ll read it at once. No rest for the wicked.” The captain nodded dismissal, and the sociotech departed the cabin.

  For a moment the captain sat motionless, looking at the document but not really seeing it. The book itself had been impressively ancient, uncials on vellum between massive covers. This translation was a prosaic typescript. Yet he was nearly afraid to turn the pages, afraid of what he might find out. There had been some stupendous catastrophe, more than a thousand years ago; its consequences were still echoing. The captain felt very small and alone. Home was a long ways off.

  However…

  He began to read.

  Chapter I

  Archbishop William, a most learned and holy prelate, having commanded me to put into English writing those great events to which I was a humble witness, I take up my quill in the name of the Lord and my patron saint: trusting that they will aid my feeble powers of narrative for the sake of future generations who may with profit study the account of Sir Roger de Tourneville’s campaign and learn thereby fervently to reverence the great God by Whom all things are brought to pass.

  I shall write of these happenings exactly as I remember them, without fear or favor, the more so since most who were concerned are now dead. I myself was quite insignificant, but since it is well to make known the chronicler that men may judge his trustworthiness, let me first say a few words about him.

  I was born forty years before my story begins, a younger son of Wat Brown. He was blacksmith in the little town of Ansby, which lay in northeastern Lincoinshire. The lands were enfeoffed to the Baron de Tourneville, whose ancient castle stood on a hill just above the town. There was also a small abbey of the Franciscan order, which I entered as a boy. Having gained some skill (my only skill, I fear) in reading and writing, I was often made instructor in these arts to novices and the children of lay people. My boyhood nickname I put into Latin and made my religious one, as a lesson in humility, so I am Brother Parvus. For I am of low size, and ill-favored, though fortunate to have the trust of children.

  In the year of grace 1345, Sir Roger, then baron, was gathering an army of free companions to join our puissant King Edward III and his son in the French war. Ansby was the meeting place. By May Day, the army was all there. It camped on the common, but turned our quiet town into one huge brawl. Archers, crossbowmen, pikemen, and cavalry swarmed through the muddy streets, drinking, gaming, wenching, jesting, and quarreling, to the peril of their souls and our thatch-roofed cottages. Indeed, we lost two houses to fire. Yet they brought in unwonted ardor, a sense of glory, such that the very serfs thought wistfully about going along, were it but possible. Even I entertained such notions. For me it might well have come true, for I had been tutoring Sir Roger’s son and had also brought his accounts in order. The baron talked of making me his amanuensis; but my abbot was doubtful.

  Thus it stood when the Wersgor ship arrived.

  Well I remember the day. I was out on an errand. The weather had turned sunny after rain, the town street was ankle-deep in mud. I picked my way through the aimless crowds of soldiery, nodding to such as I knew. All at once a great cry arose. I lifted my head like the others.

  Lo! It was as a miracle! Down through the sky, seeming to swell monstrously with the speed of its descent, came a ship all of metal. So bright was the sunlight off its polished sides that I could not see its form clearly. A huge cylinder, I thought, easily two thousand feet long. Save for the whistle of wind, it moved noiseless.

  Someone screamed. A woman knelt in a puddle and began to rattle off prayers. A man cried that his sins had found him out, and joined her. Worthy though these actions were, I realized that in such a mass of people, folk would be trampled to death if panic smote. That was surely not what God, if He had sent this visitant, intended.

  Hardly knowing what I did, I sprang up on a great iron bombard whose wagon was sunk to the axles in our street. “Hold fast!” I cried. “Be not afraid! Have faith and hold fast!”

  My feeble pipings went unheard. Then Red John Hameward, the captain of the longbowmen, leaped up beside me. A merry giant, with hair like spun copper and fierce blue eyes, he had been my friend since he arrived here.

  “I know not what yon thing is,” he bellowed. His voice rolled over the general babble, which died away.

  “Mayhap some French trick. Or it may be friendly, which would make our fear look all the sillier. Follow me, every soldier, to meet it when it lands!”

  “Magic!” cried an old man. “’Tis sorcery, and we are undone!”

  “Not so,” I told him. “Sorcery cannot harm good Christians.”

  “But I am a miserable sinner,” he wailed.

  “St. George and King Edward!” Red John sprang off the tube and dashed down the street. I tucked up my robe and panted after him, trying to remember the formulas of exorcism.

  Looking back over my shoulder, I was surprised to see most of the company follow us. They had not so much taken heart from the bowman’s example, as they were afraid to be left leaderless. But they followed — into their own camp to snatch weapons, then out onto the common. I saw that cavalrymen had flung themselves to horse and were thundering downhill from the castle.

  Sir Roger de Toumeville, unarmored but wearing sword at hip, led the riders. He shouted and flailed about with his lance. Between them, he and Red John got the rabble whipped into some kind of fighting order. They had scarcely finished when the great ship landed.

  It sank deep into pasture earth; its weight was tremendous, and I knew not what had borne it so lightly through the air. I saw that it was all enclosed, a smooth shell without poop deck or forecastle. I did not really expect oars, but part of me wondered (through the hammering of my heart) why there were no sails. However, I did spy turrets, from which poked muzzles like those of bombards.

  There fell a shuddering silence. Sir Roger edged his horse up to me where I stood with teeth clapping in my head. “You’re a learned cleric,
Brother Parvus,” he said quietly, though his nostrils were white and his hair dank with sweat. “What d’you make of this?”

  “In truth I know not, sire,” I stammered. “Ancient stories tell of wizards like Merlin who could fly through the air.”

  “Could it be … divine?” He crossed himself.

  “’Tis not for me to say.” I looked timidly skyward. “Yet I see no choir of angels.”

  A muted clank came from the vessel, drowned in one groan of fear as a circular door began to open. But all stood their ground, being Englishmen, if not simply too terrified to run.

  I glimpsed that the door was double, with a chamber between. A metallic ramp slid forth like a tongue, three yards downward until it touched the earth. I raised my crucifix while Ayes pattered from my lips like hail.

  One of the crew came forth. Great Cod, how shall I describe the horror of that first sight? Surely, my mind shrieked, this was a demon from the lowest pits of hell.

  He stood about five feet tall, very broad and powerful, clad in a tunic of silvery sheen. His skin was hairless and deep blue. He had a short thick tail. The ears were long and pointed on either side of his round head; narrow amber eyes glared from a blunt-snouted face; but his brow was high.

  Someone began to scream. Red John brandished his bow. “Quiet, there!” he roared. “’Steeth, I’ll kill the first man who moves!”

  I hardly thought this a time for profanity. Raising the cross still higher, I forced limp legs to carry me a few steps forward, while I quavered some chant of exorcism. I was certain it would do no good; the end of the world was upon us.

  Had the demon only remained standing there, we would soon have broken and bolted. But he raised a tube held in one hand. From it shot flame, blinding white. I heard it crackle in the air and saw a man near me smitten.

  Fire burst over him. He fell dead, his breast charred open.

  Three other demons emerged.

  Soldiers were trained to react when such things happened, not to think. The bow of Red John sang. The foremost demon lurched off the ramp with a cloth-yard arrow through him. I saw him cough blood and die. As if the one shot had touched off a hundred, the air was suddenly gray with whistling shafts. The three other demons toppled, so thickly studded with arrows they might have been popinjays at a contest.

  “They can be slain!” bawled Sir Roger. “Haro! St. George for merry England!” And he spurred his horse straight up the gangway.

  They say fear breeds unnatural courage. With one crazed whoop the whole army charged after him. Be it confessed, I, too, howled and ran into the ship.

  Of that combat which ramped and raged through all the rooms and corridors, I have little memory. Somewhere, from someone, I got a battle-ax. There is in me a confused impression of smiting away at vile blue faces which rose up to snarl at me, of slipping in blood and rising to smite again. Sir Roger had no way to direct the battle. His men simply ran wild. Knowing the demons could be killed, their one thought was to kill and have done.

  The crew of the ship numbered about a hundred, but few carried weapons. We later found all manner of devices stored in the holds, but the invaders had relied on creating a panic. Not knowing Englishmen, they had not expected trouble. The ship s artillery was ready to use, but of no value once we were inside.

  In less than an hour, we had hunted them all down.

  Wading out through the carnage, I wept with joy to feel the blessed sunlight again. Sir Roger was checking with his captains to find our losses, which were only fifteen all told. As I stood there, atremble with exhaustion, Red John Hameward emerged. He had a demon slung over his shoulder.

  He threw the creature at Sir Roger’s feet. “This one I knocked out with my fist, sire,” he panted. “I thought might be you’d want one kept alive awhile, to put him to the question. Or should I not take chances, and slice off his ugly head now?”

  Sir Roger considered. Calm had descended upon him; none of us had yet grasped the enormity of this event. A grim smile crossed his lips. He replied in English as fluent as the nobleman’s French he more commonly used.

  “if these be demons,” he said, “they’re a poor breed, for they were slain as easily as men. Easier, in sooth. They didn’t know more about infighting than my little daughter. Less, for she’s given my nose many hefty tweaks. I think chains will hold this fellow safe, eh, Brother Parvus?”

  “Yes, my lord,” I opined, “though it were best to put some saints’ relics and the Host nearby.”

  “Well, then, take him to the abbey and see what you can get out of him. I’ll send a guard along. Come up to dinner this evening.”

  “Sire,” I reproved, “we should hold a great Mass of thanksgiving ere we do anything else.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Talk to your abbot about it. Do what seems best. But come to dinner and tell me what you’ve learned.”

  His eyes grew thoughtful as he stared at the ship.

  Chapter II

  I came as ordered, with the approval of my abbot, who saw that here the ghostly and secular arms must be one. The town was strangely quiet as I picked my way through sunset streets. Folk were in church or huddled within doors. From the soldiers’ camp I could hear yet another Mass, The ship brooded mountainous over all our tiny works.

  But we felt heartened, I believe, a little drunk with our success over powers not of this earth, The smug conclusion seemed inescapable, that Cod approved of us.

  I passed the bailey through a trebled watch and went directly to the great hail. Ansby Castle was old Norman work, gaunt to look on, cold to inhabit. The hail was already dark, lit by candles and a great leaping fire which picked weapons and tapestries out of unrestful shadow. Gentlefolk and the more important commoners of town and army were at table, a buzz of talk, servants scurrying about, dogs lolling on the rushes. It was a comfortingly familiar scene, however much tension underlay it. Sir Roger beckoned me to come sit with him and his lady, a signal honor.

  Let me here describe Roger de Tourneville, knight and baron. He was a big, strongly thewed man of thirty years, with gray eyes and bony curve-nosed features. He wore his yellow hair in the usual style of a warrior peer, thick on the crown and shaven below — which somewhat marred an otherwise not unhandsome appearance, for he had ears like jug handles. This, his home district, was poor and backward, and most of his time elsewhere had been spent in war. So he lacked courtly graces, though shrewd and kindly in his fashion. His wife, Lady Catherine, was a daughter of the Viscount de Mornay; most people felt she had married beneath her style of living as well as her station, for she had been brought up at Winchester amidst every elegance and modern refinement. She was very beautiful, with great blue eyes and auburn hair, but somewhat of a virago. They had only two children: Robert, a fine boy of six, who was my pupil, and a three-year-old girl named Matilda.

  “Well, Brother Parvus,” boomed my lord. “Sit down. Have a stoup of winesblood, this occasion calls for more than ale!” Lady Catherine’s delicate nose wrinkled a bit; in her old home, ale was only for commoners. When I was seated, Sir Roger leaned forward and said intently, “What have you found out? Is it a demon we’ve captured?”

  A hush fell over the table. Even the dogs were quiet. I could hear the hearth fire crackle and ancient banners stir dustily where they hung from the beams overhead. “I think so, my lord,” I answered with care, “for he grew very angry when we sprinkled holy water on him.

  “Yet he did not vanish in a puff of smoke? Hah! If demons, these are not kin to any I ever heard of. They’re mortal as men.”

  “More so, sire,” declared one of his captains, “for they cannot have souls.”

  ’I’m not interested in their blithering souls,” snorted Sir Roger. “I want to know about their ship. I’ve walked through it since the fight. What a by-our-lady whale of a ship! We could put all Ansby aboard, with room to spare. Did you ask the demon why a mere hundred of ’em needed that much space?”

  “He does not speak any known
language, my lord,” I said.

  “Nonsense! All demons know Latin, at least. He’s just being stubborn.”

  “Mayhap a little session with your executioner?” asked the knight Sir Owain Montbelle slyly.

  “No,” I said. “If it please you, best not. He seems very quick at learning. Already he repeats many words after me, so I do not believe he is merely pretending ignorance. Give me a few days and I may be able to talk with him.”

  “A few days may be too much,” grumbled Sir Roger. He threw the beef bone he had been gnawing to the dogs and licked his fingers noisily. Lady Catherine frowned and pointed to the water bowl and napkin before him. “I’m sorry, my sweet,” he muttered. “I never can remember about these newfangled things.”

  Sir Owain delivered him from his embarrassment by inquiring: “Why say you a few days may be too long? Surely you are not expecting another ship?”

  ’No. But the men will be more restless than ever. We were almost ready to depart, and now this happens!”

  ’So? Can we not leave anyhow on the date planned?”

  “No, you blockhead!” Sir Roger’s fist landed on the table. A goblet jumped. “Cannot you see what a chance this is? It must have been given us by the saints themselves!”

  As we sat awestruck, he went on rapidly: “We can take the whole company aboard that thing. Horses, cows, pigs, fowls — we’ll not be deviled by supply problems. Women, too, all the comforts of home! Aye, why not even the children? Never mind the crews hereabouts, they can stand neglect for a while and tis safer to keep everyone together lest there should be another visitation.

  “I know not what powers the ship owns besides flying, but her very appearance will strike such terror we’ll scarce need to fight. So we’ll take her across the Channel and end the French war inside a month, d’ you see? Then we go on and liberate the Holy Land, and get back here in time for hay harvest!”