Rogue Sword

by Poul Anderson

  “My thanks,” she said, low and hurried. “But I’ve somewhat else to ask of you.”

  “Why . . . anything.” His Adam’s apple seemed large enough to stumble on.

  “Tell me about the battle, and its aftermath, and what we can await in the future.”

  Words abandoned him utterly. She withdrew her hand and said in rising anger: “No one else will do so. The richs homens are far too grand to speak reasonably with a mere woman. They’re shocked enough that I won’t stay in my mousehole and creep forth only when called. As for Asberto, I might as well ask his horse for information. It would understand more, and explain better. At least it would show more courtesy!”

  “But--”

  The red faded in her skin, leaving it again like ivory, finely blue-veined at the temples. Her nostrils still flared a little, and the eyes glowed. But she smiled, however strained it was, leaned back and said straight to his face: “You are God’s gift to my solitude, Maestre Lucas. The few people I’ve met in my life who had any learning, any skill with words, any concept of a world beyond their own snotty noses--ah, forgive my vulgarity, I am a soldier’s daughter--the few such have been clerics or sycophants or otherwise hardly men. You, though, you have wrought like ancient Hercules, and pondered what you saw and did, and found words to clothe your thoughts as if for a festival. Will you not stop this meaningless sugaring of me, and speak to me in such a way that for a while I can cease cursing the fate that made me a woman?”

  He prepared a deft answer. Then, watching her, he decided against it. If nothing else, impersonal talk was safest when both of them were so taut. “Na Violante’s wish is mine,” he said. “But I pray you, stop me when I grow tedious. Well, you know we marched up the peninsula--” As his narrative progressed, he lost the feeling of imminent explosion. Instead, he found himself almost back in the war, so vividly did it come back to him. This was not like the few blunt sentences he could offer Djansha, who did not know a mangonel from a supply train and to whom a map was a sorcerer’s tool. Violante was transformed, scarcely female at all, blood-eager and vengeful but not the termagant she often was. Rather, she could have been a high-born Catalan boy who had never seen war and was wild to do so. She interrupted with many questions, but they were keen ones, asking knowledgeably why this was done and that was omitted. He was often embarrassed at being unable to tell her. In such cases, she became the woman again, briefly and with quicksilver ease, leading him on toward things he had witnessed himself. She made him describe his own part in the battle, blow by blow. There his tale became a romance. A man in combat seldom knew what he did. He struck out at strange faces, uncertain most times if he even bit flesh; afterward he remembered only a huge confusion. Before such an audience, however, Lucas felt obliged to paint the truth in brighter colors.

  “Ah,” she said at last, “royal, royal! Would my father had been there!”

  “He was a knight?”

  She nodded. Her gaze went beyond him. As she spoke, the fierceness drained from body and voice, until nothing remained except love.

  “Yes. A captain among men. Do you know, my earliest memory is of him about to ride forth? He was all in armor, it shone like the sun. His helmet was on his saddlebow. The plumes tickled my legs as my mother handed me up to him. He raised me high, laughing. ... I remember too when he came back. That was between sext and nones. He had not stopped for siesta. I heard the clatter at the gates, through the courtyard. I left my bed and drew the curtains from the window. And there was my father. That time he wore a pourpoint merely, but he had thrown a gallant cloak over it, all blue and gold. He saw me in the upper window, and waved his bonnet and cried, ‘Hallo, there, my darling, I’ve brought you home a victory!’”

  She fell silent. Lucas heard the stablehands guffaw beyond the willows, and was angry at them. Na Violante did not appear to notice. She regarded the hands folded in her lap. They grew tense again. One tear, caught in her lashes, flung back a tiny point of sunlight.

  “After he died,” she whispered, “the castle was so empty.”

  “I have gathered my lady was wedded young,” ventured Lucas, hoping to turn her from so disconcertingly swift a sorrow.

  “Anything to escape!” she burst out. “You know not what it is to be a well-born girl in Aragon . . . not unless you’ve spent a few years in an oubliette.”

  After awhile, she drew a long breath and said calmly--coldly, almost, and looking straight ahead--”En Riambaldo Tari was not a bad man. He was brave. Dull, perhaps, but who could match my father? Since God has not seen fit to give me children, I persuaded my husband to take, me with him when he went off to the Sicilian War. Thence we came to Constantinople with the Grand Company.”

  “A pity he was slain,” said Lucas.

  “Last year.” Her tone was flat. She did not stir. “Late last year. A Greek who drew a knife. Asberto Cornel was there, too. He avenged my husband at once. He had long been a good friend to us. Do you understand that? I want you to understand it. I know I’ve shocked many, by putting myself under his--his protection. So soon after Riambaldo’s death, too. But Riambaldo--Asberto was his friend, his avenger. Now he is my protector. We cannot wed. Asberto has a wife in Aragon. But together we’ve bought masses for Riambaldo’s repose, burned candles, said prayers. What more can we do? He’s dead. He’s with God. I am not wanton, Lucas. I call my father in St. Michael’s host to witness I am not wanton!”

  “I never believed that, my lady,” said Lucas.

  He lied. It was common knowledge that she had had several lovers, including Asberto, while her husband still lived. And yet he saw how white she had gone. Her nails dug deep into her palms. She was not speaking of light matters.

  She rose. “I thank you for your courtesy, Maestre,” she said, a little unevenly. “I must go now. Asberto will be awakening.”

  She hurried back into the house.

  Chapter VIII

  After their second victory, the Catalans were in full control of the Thracian shore of the Propontis. The Imperial armies garrisoned Adrianople and the capital, but did not venture beyond sight of those walls. The invaders harried elsewhere and up to the very gates. One Almugavare even entered Constantinople afoot, with no more following than his two sons. They found a pair of Genoese merchants shooting quail in a garden of the Emperor’s, brought them back to Gallipoli and got three thousand gold hyperpera as ransom. When that exploit was announced to the Grand Company, the chortlings reached heaven.

  “I must go out myself, before all the booty has been taken,” declared En Jaime.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Lucas answered. “You said a few days ago, you’d not put burning splints under the nails of peasants to learn where they’ve hidden a few coins.”

  En Jaime’s features darkened. “True,” he said.

  Both of them skirted the fact that this was happening daily. Lucas hastened on: “I’ve inquired among prisoners, and even more among Greeks disgusted with their own government and thus willing to help us. I believe a few bold men might carry out a deed worthy of themselves, and win a reward in proportion.” He smiled. “Also, it would make a merry tale afterward.”

  “Let me hear.” En Jaime tugged his beard. At first he said, “You’ve gone mad!” Lucas talked further. Then he said, “A good idea in principle, but the odds are so much against us--” Lucas resorted to oratory. At last he said, “Well, let me sleep on it.” And in the morning he said, “Yes, by the sword of St. George!”

  Lucas went down to the harbor. There were still only a few craft at the docks, but he found a good-sized boat, a leny whose lugsail could drive it at a fair clip. He had no trouble recruiting some mariners to help, even though he proposed to go up the whole Sea of Marmora with a skeletal force. They would not embark until the wind favored them, he promised, and would thus not have to row very much.

  On the day chosen, En Jaime led a small band of horsemen out of Gallipoli toward Constantinople. Lucas was so favored by the weather that he reache
d the rendezvous agreed on in little more than two days and a night. It was a fishing hamlet some miles from New Rome. He cast anchor. A boat rowed out to see what he was. He waved his sword. “Franks!” he shouted. The fishermen backed water and fled. Presently the whole population of the settlement streamed inland.

  “Will they not bring the Emperor’s men down on us?” worried a sailor.

  “They would in any honorable country,” snorted Lucas. “But Andronicus and his soldiers aren’t about to risk their precious hides fighting on behalf of mere subjects. Come, we may as well make ourselves comfortable under a roof.” When the knights arrived, they found the crew taking their ease in the fisher cottages. “Well,” laughed Lucas, “you dawdled enough, my friends. Did you find a tavern on the way?”

  Asberto Cornel bridled. “I’ve had enough of your insolence!”

  “Be calm,” said En Jaime. “He’s only jesting.” To Lucas: “Ah, this was as easy a ride as I’ve ever had. Good roads, and no sooner were we spied than all ran away from us. Saints have mercy, we were so few that two score peasants with flails could have destroyed us. And yet they ran, even those who bore proper weapons. Are they men at all?”

  “The word has gotten about,” said Lucas, “that Catalans are ten feet high, with iron skins and fiery breath, and that they eat soldiers for dinner.” Earnestness descended momentarily on him. “I think they lack leadership here, En Jaime, and a reason to fight, rather than true manhood. What is this Empire that anyone should die for it? Should even live for it? How can there be courage without devotion, or loyalty to masters who offer nothing but oppression?”

  Asberto looked still more disgusted. Before he could complain at such maundering, the headiness of the scheme took Lucas back. He pointed at the beached leny and said, “Well, gentles, do you want supper now, or shall we take refreshment in Pera?”

  They did not tarry long. Leaving four disconsolate men--chosen by lot--to guard the horses, the rest floated the leny and scrambled aboard. Lucas had cheap mantles ready, to hide armor. Theirs might have been any boat, rowing up the Bosporus on a casual errand. There was considerable water traffic at this end of the sea.

  Constantinople rose clifflike in the sunset, but Lucas continued on to the suburb of Pera--a wealthy place, where many foreign merchants dwelt and where the Byzantine overlords owned much property. Just about eventide, the boat docked. Lucas’ line of Greek banter and swearing had given the harbor guard no reason to mistrust this late arrival.

  The Catalans crossed the gangplank and threw off their disguise. For one horrible instant, the watch saw mailed men confront them, grinning faces, long Frankish swords. Then the cry rang out: “Aragon! Aragon!” The watch dropped their weapons and bolted.

  Up into Pera, Lucas led his troop. The intelligence from the Greeks he had questioned was good. He almost could have made his way blind through this town, though he had never been here before. In a few minutes, they stood in front of an uncommonly sumptuous house. A sailor threw a grapnel over the garden wall, swarmed up the rope and released the portals from within. By that time the gatekeeper had fled to warn the dinner party within the mansion. But he was too late. The Catalans entered behind him.

  Lucas looked over the throng with a calculating eye. Everyone here was rich; he wanted the richest for himself. Quickly he decided that the fat middle-aged Byzantine in green silk was a high noble. He thrust through the crowd and clapped hands on the man.

  “You belong to me,” he said cheerfully. “Come.”

  “You wretch!” stormed the other. “This will cost you your--” Lucas prodded him delicately in the stomach with a sword point. He subsided into red-faced gobbling.

  Lucas gave him a sack. “Now come,” he repeated. “You’re old enough to labor for your keep, Kyrios. I want this, and this, and this.” His blade flicked around to point out articles of gold and silver. “You, there, give me those rings you’re wearing. Ah, and I’ll have your purse, my friend over yonder behind the couch. Toss it here, then you may play hide-and-seek as much as your heart desires. . . . Let’s look in the next room. Forward march!”

  The raiders needed but little time to fill the sacks their prisoners carried. En Jaime took a lamp from its chains and led the way out. Night had fallen. The empty roads echoed to their boots. Faintly, through the twisted streets, they heard a trumpet and the shouts of men.

  “The garrison’s gotten the news,” said Asberto. “They’ll be on our necks in two Aves. I told you we should have cut down everyone in that house.”

  “It would have taken longer to play the butcher, and made more noise, than simply helping ourselves,” said Lucas. His exultation was wearing a trifle thin, his mouth felt dry and his pulse hammered. He didn’t want that. He wanted adventure. When he saw light seep from the cracks in a door and heard voices, he stopped. “Hold! I’m as thirsty as a German herring. And here’s a tavern.”

  “What?” choked En Jaime. “Have your senses departed?”

  “That’s what you asked me when first I broached this plan.” Lucas opened the door and stepped through, prodding his captive along. Silence took hold of the smoky room. Men gaped at the armed newcomers. One cup crashed to the floor, but nobody stirred.

  Lucas swung his sword so it whistled, thumping the flat of it on a table. “Landlord!” he shouted. “What sort of place is this? Wine!”

  Shaking, the boniface came forth with leather bottles. Lucas stuck his sword in a bench and raised the skin. “Wine for everyone!” he ordered. “Each man a bottle! Throw ’em out--on the table there--so! Now, valiant friends, I trust you’ll drink with me?”

  Still they regarded him with stunned expressions. A few moved, mouse cautious. Lucas waved his wineskin. “What sort of courtesy do they teach you here? Hoist bottles, I say! Open your mouths--squeeze--squirt the juice down your gullets! A toast with me: to the Lord King of Aragon!”

  They drank. Lucas flung some coins on the floor. “There, Innkeeper, the score and a bit over. Take the money without fear. I came by it as honestly as the former owner. Now, my friends, goodnight. Sweet angels guard your dreams.” He drew his sword from the bench and strode back to the door, waving the steel in salute. “Until we meet again!”

  The childish demonstration had returned his gaiety to him. The watch could now be heard very close, but none of the Catalans protested further. A reproach to Lucas would have been an admission that they feared those Greeks.

  The boat waited untouched. They clattered aboard, tripping over the thwarts and cursing in the gloom. Lucas called for help, emptied three barrels of oil over the side, and pitched the lamp when the leny was clear. Fire sprang up among the docked ships. The light painted his companions’ faces Hell color.

  “That’ll delay them awhile. They can sit down to warm their feet and roast chestnuts while they brag how they repulsed us.”

  “We’ve a long way home yet,” warned someone.

  “Oh, but we have En Berenguer de Entenza’s mistake to guide us. We’ll not go far by water. Row, lads!”

  They went swiftly, driven by the knowledge that war-craft would soon be out in search of them. Well before midnight, they were back at the hamlet. They loaded treasure and prisoners onto the extra horses and started home--overland.

  That was a joyful trip. Lucas spent much of the time bargaining with his aristocrat prisoner. They settled on the ransom and despatched a messenger. Suddenly Lucas was wealthy.

  He determined to give a feast. By now, the efforts of such conscientious officers as En Ramon Muntaner had restored some order. Word of the situation had gone abroad and merchants were beginning to arrive at Gallipoli harbor with grain and other supplies. The Catalans had good means of payment--Greek slaves for the Turkish traders, inanimate loot for the Christians. They expected business to grow brisk in the next several weeks. They felt able to live lavishly.

  Djansha still maintained Lucas’ apartment, but he set about finding a house of his own, and native servants. Meanwhile, he used En Jaime�
��s dining chamber for his banquet. A delicate parade of courses awaited the knights, nobles, and their ladies; musicians had been hired to play as the feast progressed; there was no limit to wines of good vintage. Looking about the colorfully clad assemblage, listening to spirited conversation and to compliments both fulsome and blunt, Lucas thought how fortunate he was. This was something else than being astray in the windy world.

  “A few more such exploits, Maestre, and we’ll have no choice but to make you a knight,” said Muntaner.

  “If he’s not made himself a duke first,” said En Jaime, somewhat drunkenly. “This youngster has verve, I tell you. I knew it the first hour we met.”

  “Ah, yes, be a duke,” purred the high-born Byzantine mistress of one officer. “You’d keep a cheerful court, I’ll wager. No vinegar decorum where you are.”

  A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up into Na Violante’s flushed countenance. She leaned against his chair, smiled down at him, and ran her fingers through his locks. “He’ll not be a nobleman,” she said. “What, and grow roots like any tree? No, our friend here is too good for that.”

  Her words were a little blurred with the wine that had also brightened her eyes and moistened the full red mouth. He stopped himself just short of throwing an arm around her waist and dragging her down on his lap. “I’d ask you to spare my modesty,” he said, “but hearing such words from such a vision is far too great a pleasure to let any puling virtue get in the way.”

  “Indeed?” she murmured, and leaned forward. He smelt her breath, musky with the grape. When he turned his head sideways, her lips were near his and the deep white cleft of her bosom was before him. “Pray, what other virtues would Maestre Lucas consider mere obstacles in the path of what other pleasures?”

  He didn’t think it would be wise to answer, though the drink buzzed in his own brain. She regarded him through drooping lashes. Her smile was not quite like the ones of their past teasing.

  “Yes,” she said, “you are too good to become a rich hom. Would that have suited Lancelot, Amadis, Ogier? Though I believe, myself, you are Huon of Bordeaux, he who became a lord in Faerie.” She felt his tunic. “If I looked closely, I might see a little dust of Faerie clinging to this. Like tiny stars.”