“I think I could draw the Zodiac for you,” said Lady Catherine uncertainly.
“It would be of no use, mistress,” Branithar told her. “You have no skill in identifying stellar types by eye. I admit I have little enough: no training at all, merely the casual hearsay about other people’s special crafts which one picks up. And while I did chance to be in the control turret once, while our ship was orbiting about Terra making long-range observations, I paid no special heed to the constellations. I have no memory of what they looked like.”
Her heart tumbled downward. “But then we’re still lost!”
“Not quite so. I should say, I have no conscious memory. Yet we Wersgorix have long known that the mind is composed of more than the self-aware portion.”
“True,” agreed Catherine wisely. “There is the soul.”
“Er… that’s not exactly what I meant. There is an unconscious or half-conscious depth in the mind, the source of dreams and — Well, anyhow, let it suffice that this unawareness never forgets. It records even the most trivial things which ever impinged on the senses. If I were thrown into a trance and given proper guidance, I could draw quite an accurate picture of the Terrestrial sky, as glimpsed by myself.
“Then a skilled navigator, his star tables at hand, could winnow this crop with his arts mathematic. It would require time. Many blue stars might be Gratch, for example, and only detailed study could eliminate those which are in an impossible relationship to (shall we say) the globular cluster assumed to be Torgelta. Eventually, however, he would narrow the possibilities down to that smallish region whereof I spoke. Then he could flit thither, with a space pilot to aid him, and they could visit all yellow-dwarf stars in the neighborhood until they found So!.”
Catherine smote her hands together. “But this is wonderful!” she cried. “Oh, Branithar, what reward do you wish? My lord will bestow a kingdom on you!”
He planted his thick legs wide, looked up into her shadowed face and said with the surly valor we had come to know:
“What joy would a kingdom give me, built from the shards of my people’s empire? Why should I help find your England again, if it only brings more Englishmen ravening hither?”
She clenched her fists and said with Norman bleakness, “You’ll not withhold your knowledge from One-Eyed Hubert.”
He shrugged. “The unaware mind is not readily evoked, my lady. Your barbarous tortures might set up an impassable barrier.” He reached beneath his tunic. Suddenly a knife gleamed in his hand. “Not that I would endure them. Stand back! Owain gave me this. I know well enough where my own heart lies.”
Catherine whirled about with a tiny shriek.
The knight laid both hands on her shoulders. “Hear me before you judge,” he said swiftly. “For weeks I’ve been trying to sound out Branithar. He dropped hints. I dropped hints in turn. We bargained like two Saracen merchants, never openly admitting that we bargained. At last he named that dagger as the price of spreading out his wares for me to see. I could not imagine him harming any of us with it. Even our children now go about with better weapons than a knife. I took it on myself to agree. Then he told me what he has now told you.”
The tautness shuddered out of her. She had taken too many shocks in all this time, with too much fear and solitude in between. Her strength was drained.
“What do you require?” she asked.
Branithar ran a thumb along his knife blade, nodded, and sheathed it again. He spoke quite gently. “First, you must obtain a good Wersgor mind-physician. I can find one with the help of this planet’s Domesday Book, which is kept at Darova. You can borrow it from the Jairs on some pretext. This physician has to work together with a skilled Wersgor navigator, who can tell him what questions to ask of me and guide my pencil as I draw the map in my trance. Later we will also need a space pilot; and I insist on a pair of gunners as well. These can also be found somewhere on Tharixan. You can tell your allies you want them to help search out technical secrets of the enemy.”
“When you have your star map, what?”
“Well, I shall not turn it freely over to your husband! I suggest that we go secretly aboard your spaceship. There will be a fair balance of power: you humans holding the weapons, we Wersgorix the knowledge. We will stand ready to destroy those notes, and ourselves, if you betray us. At long range, we can haggle with Sir Roger. Your own pleas ought to sway him. If he withdraws from the war, transportation home can be arranged, and our nation will undertake to leave yours alone hereafter.”
“If he won’t agree?” Her voice remained dull.
Sir Owain leaned close, to whisper in French: “Then you and the children … and myself… will nonetheless be returned. But Sir Roger must not be told this, of course.”
“I cannot think.” She covered her face. “Father in Heaven, I know not what to do!”
“If your folk persist in this lunatic war,” Branithar said, “it can only end in their destruction.”
Sir Owain had told her the same thing, over and over, all this time when he was the only one of her station on this planet, the only one to whom she could freely talk. She remembered scorched corpses in the fortress ruins; she thought how small Matilda had screamed during the siege of Darova, each time a shellburst rocked the walls; she thought of green English woods where she had gone hawking with her lord in the first years of their marriage, and of the years he now expected to spend fighting for a goal she could not understand. She lifted her face to the moons, light ran cold along her tears, and she said, “Yes.”
Chapter XIX
I cannot tell what drove Sir Owain to his treachery. Two souls had ever striven in his breast; his deepest heart must always have remembered how his mother’s people had suffered at the hands of his father’s. In part, no doubt, his feelings were truly what he claimed to Catherine: horror at the situation, doubt of our victory, love for her person, and concern for her safety. And in part there was a less honorable motive, which may have begun as an idle thought but waxed with time — what might not be done on Terra with a few Wersgor weapons! Reader of my chronicle, when you pray for the souls of Sir Roger and Lady Catherine, say a little word for unhappy Sir Owain Montbelle.
Whatever took place in his secret self, the recreant acted with outward boldness and intelligence. He kept close watch upon the Wersgorix gotten to assist Branithar. During the weeks of their toil, while that which Branithar had forgotten was extracted from his dreams and studied with mathematic devices of more than Arabian cunning, the knight quietly prepared the spaceship to go. And always he must keep up the heart of his fellow conspirator, the baroness.
She wavered in her resolve, wept, stormed, yelled at him to depart her presence. Once a vessel arrived with orders for so-and-so many people to come settle on yet another captured planet. Aboard it was a letter which Sir Roger had sent his wife. He dictated this to me, for his spelling was not always under control, and I took it on myself to polish his phrases a little, so that through their stiffness might come some hint of a humble and enduring love. Catherine at once wrote a reply, admitting her actions and imploring forgiveness. But Sir Owain anticipated this, got the letter ere the ship departed again, burned it, and persuaded her to abide by their scheme. It was, he swore, the best for all concerned, even for her lord.
Finally she gave her dwindled village some excuse about joining her husband. She embarked with the children and two maid-servants. Sir Owain had learned enough space arts to send the ship to some known, clear destination — a mere matter of pressing the correct buttons — so he could also join them openly. The night before, he had smuggled the Wersgorix aboard: Branithar, the physician, the pilot, the navigator, and a couple of soldiers trained to use those bombards projecting out of the hull.
Those were useless within the ship, where Owain and Catherine bore the only guns. Extra hand weapons were stowed in the clothes chest in her bedchamber, and one maid was always stationed there. The girls were so terrified of the bluefaces that had any attempted
to come take a gun, the screaming would have brought Sir Owain in haste.
Nonetheless, knight and lady must watch their associates like wolves. For the obvious thing for Branithar to do was steer to Wersgorixan itself, where he could inform the emperor of Terra’s location. With all England a hostage, Sir Roger must submit. Even the knowledge that we were not from a great space-traveling civilization, but simple minded innocent Christian folk, mere lambs led to this slaughter, would have so heartened the Wersgorix and demoralized our allies, that Branithar must on no account be allowed to communicate the secret.
Not until Sir Owain’s plans had reached fruition. Perhaps never. I am sure Branithar himself foresaw a certain awkwardness at the moment when he had deposited his human comrade on English soil. No doubt he made his own devious plans against it. But for the present, their interests ran in the same channel.
These considerations alone will disprove certain sniggering canards about Lady Catherine. She and Sir Owain dared never be at ease simultaneously. They must stand watch on watch, gun at hip, the entire voyage, lest their crew overwhelm them. It was the most effective chaperonage in history. Not that she would have misbehaved in any event. Confused and frightened she might become, but she was never faithless.
Sir Owain felt reasonably confident that Branithar’s data were honest. But he insisted on proof. The boat flew for some ten days, to the indicated region of space. Another couple of weeks were spent casting about, examining various hopeful stars. I shall not try to chronicle what the humans felt, as constellations gradually became familiar again; nor that single aerial glimpse which their bargain with distrustful Branithar vouchsafed them, when Dover castle fluttered its pennons above white cliffs. I do not believe they ever spoke about it.
Their ship screamed from atmosphere and lined out again for the hostile stars.
Chapter XX
Sir Roger had established himself on the planet we named New Avalon. Our folk needed a rest, and he needed time to settle many questions of securing that vast kingdom which had already fallen to him. He was furthermore in secret negotiation with the Wersgor governor of an entire star cluster. This person seemed willing to yield up all he controlled, could we give him suitable bribes and guarantees. The haggling went slowly, but Sir Roger felt confident of its outcome.
“They know so little about the detection and use of traitors out here,” he remarked to me, “that I can buy this fellow for less than an Italian city. Our allies never attempted this, for they imagined that the Wersgor nation must be as solid as their own. Yet isn’t it logic, that so great a sprawl of estates, separated by days and weeks of travel, must in many ways resemble a European country? Though even more corruptible—”
“Since they lack the true Faith,” I said.
“Hm, well, yes, no doubt. Though I’ve never found Christians who refused a bribe on religious grounds. I was thinking that the Wersgor type of government commands no fealty.”
At any rate, we had a little while of peace, camped in a dale beneath dizzyingly tall cliffs. A waterfall rushed arrow-straight into a lake more clear than glass, ringed with trees. Even our sprawling, brawling English camp could not hurt so much beauty.
I had settled down outside my own little tent, at ease in a rustic chair. My hard studies laid aside for a moment, I indulged myself with a book from home, a relaxing chronicle of the miracles of St. Cosmas. As if from far off, I heard the crackle of fire-gun practice, the zap of archery, the cheerful clatter of quarterstaff play. I was almost asleep, when feet thudded to a halt beside me.
Startled, I blinked upward at the terrified face of a baronial esquire. “Brother Parvus!” he said. “In God’s name, come at once!”
“Ugh, uh, whoof?” I said in my drowsiness.
“Exactly,” he groaned.
I gathered my cassock and trotted at his heels. Sunlight and blossoming bowers and birdsong overhead were suddenly remote. I knew only the leap of my heart and the realization of how few and weak and far from home we were. “What’s awry?”
“I know not,” said the esquire. “A message came on the far-speaker, relayed from space by one of our patrol ships. Sir Owain Montbelle desired private talk with my lord. I know not what was spoken on the narrow beam. But Sir Roger came staggering out like a blind man and roared for you. Oh, Brother Parvus, it was horrible to see!”
I thought that I should pray for us all, doomed if the baron’s strength and cunning could no longer uphold us. But I was at once too full of pity for him alone. He had borne too much, too long, with never a soul to share the burden. All brave saints, I thought, stand by him now.
Red John Hameward mounted guard outside the portable Jair shelter. He had spied his master’s strickenness, and dashed thither from the target range. With strung bow, he bellowed at the crowd that miffed and muttered: “Get you back! Back to your places! Cod’s death, I’ll put this arrow through the first by your — lady sod to pester my lord, and break the by — our lady neck o’ the next! Go, I say!”
I brushed the giant aside and entered. It was hot within the shelter. Sunlight filtered through its translucency had a thick color. Mostly it was furnished with homely things. leather, tapestry, armor. But one shelf held instruments of alien manufacture, and a large farspeaker set was placed on the floor.
Sir Roger slumped in a chair before this, chin on breast, his big hands hanging limp. I stole up behind him and laid my own hand on his shoulder. “What is the matter, sire?” I asked, as softly as might be.
He hardly moved. “Go away,” he said.
“You called for me.”
“I knew not what I was doing. This is between myself and — Go away.”
His voice was flat, but it took my whole small stock of courage to walk around in front of him and say, “I presume your receiver inscribed the message as usual?”
“Aye. No doubt. I’d best wipe out that record.”
His gray gaze lifted toward me. I remembered a wolf I had once seen trapped, when the townsfolk closed in to make an end of it. “I don’t want to harm you, Brother Parvus,” he said.
“Then don’t,” I answered brusquely, and stooped to turn on the playback.
He gathered his powers, in great weariness. “If you see that message,” he warned, “I must kill you for my honor.”
I thought back to my boyhood. There had been various short, pungent, purely English words in common use. I selected one and pronounced it. From the corner of an eye, as I squatted by the dials, I saw his jaw fall. He sank back into his chair. I pronounced another English word for good measure.
“Your honor lies in the well-being of your people,” I added. “You’re not fit to judge anything which can so shake you as this. Sit down and let me hear it.”
He huddled into himself. I turned a switch. Sir Owarn’s face leaped into the screen. I saw that be was also gaunt, the handsomeness less evident, the eyes thy and burning. He spoke in formal, courteous wise, but could not hide his exultation.
I cannot remember his exact words. Nor do they matter. He told his lord what had happened. He was now in space, with the stolen ship. He had approached close to New Avalon to beam this call but taken to his heels again immediately it was spoken. There was no hope of finding him in that vastness. If we yielded, he said, he would arrange the transportation home of our folk, and Branithar assured him the Wersgor emperor would promise to keep hands off Terra. If we did not yield, the recreant would go to Wersgorixan and reveal the truth about us. Then, if necessary, the foe could recruit enough French or Saracen mercenaries to destroy us; but probably the demoralization of our allies, as they learned our weakness, would suffice to bring them to terms. In either case, Sir Roger would never see his wife and children again.
Lady Catherine entered the screen. I recall her words. But I do not choose to write them down. When the record was ended~ I wiped it out myself.
We were silent awhile, my lord and I.
At last: “Well,” he said, like an old man.
I stared at my feet. “Montbelle said they would reenter communication range at a certain hour tomorrow, to bear your decision,” I mumbled. “’Twould be possible to send numerous . unmanned ships, loaded with explosive fused by a magnetic nose, along that far-speaker beam. Belike he could be destroyed.”
“You’ve already asked much of me, Brother Parvus,” said Sir Roger. Still his words had no life in them. “Ask me not to slay my lady and children unshriven.”
“Aye. Ah, could the vessel be captured? No,” I answered myself. “Twould be a practical impossibility. Any single shot which struck close enough to a little ship like that would more likely make dust of it than merely disable its engines. Or else the damage would be small, and he would at once flee faster than light.”
The baron raised his congealed face. “Whatever happens,” he said, “no one is to know my lady’s part in this. D’you understand? She’s not in her right mind. Some fiend has possessed her.”
I regarded him with a pity still greater than before. “You’re too brave to hide behind such foolishness,” I said.
“Well, what can I do?” he growled.
“You can fight on—”
“Hopelessly, once Montbelle has gone to Wersgorixan.”
“Or you can accept the terms offered.”
“Ha! How long d’ you think the blueskins would actually leave Terra in peace?”
“Sir Owain must have some reason to believe they will,” I said cautiously.
“He’s a fool.” Sir Roger’s fist smote the arm of the chair. He sat up straight, and the harshness of his voice was a lonely token of hopefulness to me. “Or else he’s a blacker Judas than he has even confessed, and hopes to become viceroy after the conquest. See you not, ’tis more than the wish for land which’ll force the Wersgorix to overrun our planet. ’Tis the fact that our race has proven itself mortally dangerous. As yet, men are helpless at home. But given a few centuries to prepare, men might well build their own spaceships and overwhelm the universe.”
The High Crusade Page 13
