Rogue Sword

by Poul Anderson

  Asberto Cornel had gone out a few minutes ago. Now, beyond Violante’s bare plump shoulder, Lucas saw him reenter. He froze in the doorway. Even by candlelight, Lucas discerned the redness and the fury which mounted in him.

  Swiftly, he covered the length of the room. The others paid no heed until he stood looking down on his host. His fists were jammed against his hips, doubled so tightly the knuckles stood bloodless.

  Violante straightened. The color left her cheeks. In the silence which began to fall, flute and harp shrilled idiotically.

  “Before God,” said Asberto. The sound exploded against the farther wall. “Were I not a guest here, you would be dead this moment.”

  En Jaime half rose from his chair. “Nasberto,” he warned.

  “Yes. Yes.” The lesser knight continued to stare at Lucas. He swayed a little on his feet. He had been drinking heavily and joylessly all evening. “Peace among us,” he said. “For now. Oh, yes. Come, Violante, bid these people goodnight. We must leave.”

  Her lips made the word of denial, but no voice came out.

  “Come, you filthy harlot!” screamed Asberto.

  Lucas got to his feet. “Micer, that’s not the way to address a lady.”

  “I should kill you, Asberto,” said Violante, syllable by syllable. “I should have killed you long ago.”

  The Catalan snatched her wrist. She raked the nails of her free hand across his arm. Blood oozed in the scratches. He didn’t seem to notice. The noise of his breathing filled the room.

  “Nasberto, are you possessed?” demanded Muntaner. “I beg you, no, I order you--”

  “She’s mine!” Cornel shouted at them all. “My concern alone! Is she not? Who’ll deny it? Who’ll claim rights over her? Is she not my whore?”

  Violante struck him across the mouth. Her rings cut. His grip on her wrist tightened. She cursed in a whisper. He let her go and cracked his palm against her face so she staggered.

  “Well?” he rasped. The blood coursing into his beard was somehow less meaningful than the sweat which stained his doublet and ran down his countenance. “There she is. She’s no slave, I admit. She may appeal to any of you gentles if she wishes.”

  Rarely had Lucas heard so much pain.

  Violante touched the bruises already beginning to show on arm and cheek. The light glittered off half-shed tears, turning her eyes blank. As if guiding itself, Lucas’ hand reached toward her.

  Asberto’s tone became merely a snarl again. “There they are, slut,” he said to the woman. “Choose any of them. Go with him. You’re free to do so. If you come with me, you’ll taste my cane on your back once more.”

  “Signora--” began Lucas.

  She didn’t seem to hear. Asberto spat on the floor, whistled for her, and went out. She followed him.

  Chapter IX

  Lucas might have hazarded action, for Violante’s image kept him sleepless all that night. But the next morning, heat in his skin and an evil flavor on his tongue showed that more than wine had attacked him. By afternoon he lay abed, and that evening he passed into delirium.

  It stretched on, endless as damnation. Now and then he was aware of Djansha holding him in her arms and wiping the greasy moisture off him. Twice he glimpsed En Jaime’s lean anxious visage. But they were dim, unreal visions, seen through a waterfall that roared. He lost them quickly among skewed pagodas, where his mother fled singing from a fat man who hurled his teeth at her. The sky was red. When it began to press inward, he saw that it was made of iron and the red was its fiery glow as St. God hammered on it with a hammer as heavy as the world. The sky closed around his skull and he shrieked.

  An eon after Judgment Day, the first morning light grayed the windows. Lucas opened his eyes. With thin clarity he saw Djansha thrust a Catalan surgeon out the door. She had a dagger in her hand and was wild enough to frighten any man; could this be his little Circassian? “No!” she yelled. “You will not bleed him! I know what he needs! Go before I kill you!” She slammed and bolted the door. Lucas watched her stoke the brazier, cut the throat of a white cock, and begin some heathen chant. He smiled with a tender kind of exhaustion and drifted asleep.

  Whether or not her witchcraft saved him, he never knew. He told the saints he was not responsible, having been helpless at the time, but would nonetheless light many candles when he recovered. That, however, took a weary pair of weeks. Even after the last fever was gone, he seemed bonelessly feeble.

  En Jaime was often in to visit him, which greatly relieved the tedium. Others came too, but they sat about, uncomfortable, and groped for words. “By Heaven, Maestre, you’re looking better. Indeed you are. The rest of us, we’re all fine so far, God willing. If I had a mistress as handsome as yours to tend me, I think I might get sick, too. Haw. Well, you’re looking better. Take care of yourself. I, ah, I’d best be going. Work to do. Take care of yourself.”

  En Jaime crossed one long, black-hosed shank over the other, leaned back, and asked how the astrologic learning of the Saracens in Asia differed from that he had encountered in Spain.

  Toward the end of Lucas’ convalescence, the rich hom said, almost diffidently, “I fear I must desert you for a space. But you should be hale again when we return.”

  “We?” Lucas sat upright. His joints felt stiff and painful from long motionlessness. “The whole Company?”

  “The major part, anyhow. Do you know the cities Rhedestos and Panidos? They he on the shore, close to each other, halfway between Gallipoli and Constantinople. Well, the Council has decided to seize them. A much overdue task, but our folk were too occupied with gathering the first fruits of the victory at Apros. Now at last we’ll march on those towns. The day after tomorrow.”

  “Oh, by all the stinking imps in Hell!” groaned Lucas. “Here I lie!”

  “You’ll not miss any glory, I assure you. Neither place is well defended at all. What soldiers they have will likely escape by sea when first we arrive. As for the booty, I’ve arranged that you shall be considered assigned to the garrison here and thus entitled to a share.”

  Djansha entered, dropping on one knee to offer a tray with wine and fresh cakes. The Catalan waved her aside. “No, thank you, my dear. I must be gone.” As Lucas gave him a look of disappointed inquiry: “There’s always plaguey much to do, preparing for even as short and easy an expedition as this. The chief reason we go at all, besides plunder, is that Rhedestos is far better located for foraging than Gallipoli. Rocafort wishes to move our headquarters thither.” His brows drew downward. For a heartbeat, his expression was so grim that the girl shrank from him. “Also, Rhedestos is the city where our envoys to Andronicus were murdered. Hung up in the shambles like beeves! That abomination has yet to be cleansed. . . . Well, Lucas, good day. I’ll look in again tomorrow. God heal you quickly.”

  When he was gone, Djansha adjusted Lucas’ pillows, gave him the tray, and sat on the edge of the bed combing his hair. “You grow stronger each hour, my lord,” she consoled him. “No matter if you cannot be on this campaign. En Jaime himself said it will be too easy to add honor to your name. Did he not? And you know these Franks by now. When they say a task is easy, believe them! Most days, they cannot swat a mosquito without boasting of its ancient Saracen lineage and the desperate battle it gave them.”

  She spoke so demurely that he needed a little time to be startled. Then he remembered how she had driven the chirurgeon hence, and wondered if any human being ever really knew another. He mumbled asininely, “These are good cakes. Have you made them yourself?”

  She blushed with pleasure. “Yes, my lord. They are very much like those baked among the Adygei for big feasts. I had to make some changes. Some herbs I could not find, no matter how I searched the fields outside this town. And the price of honey would freeze a bonfire. I haggled for I know not how long with a Turk trader, down near the ships, but--Well, at least when I had the honey I was free to call him a bleary old pig.” She giggled. “If only you could have seen him go Emperor purple! It would h
ave refreshed you so much. But my lord is not interested in woman-doings. I have learned a new song. New for myself, I mean. Would you like to hear?”

  She danced across the room, which she had filled with blossoms and fragrant leaves. Lucas decided she must have made a special effort, day after day in the hours while he slept, to improve her Venetian. Today she wore a plain white smock, sashed at the waist, her legs bare beneath and her hair flowing free above: a liberty of dress possible only to wantons and secluded concubines. But she had not been very secluded of late, he thought. She had braved the city again and again, even gone beyond the walls, to fetch what she believed he needed.

  And yet--

  “I’ve never seen you so happy before,” he said.

  She threw him a shy glance across the one-stringed Asiatic harp she played. “I am helping my lord recover. And also, I am beginning to think--” She stopped, coloring still more deeply. “No. Best I speak no more of that until I am sure.” Her voice trilled forth in a ballad he had once remarked he liked.

  Restless and irritable, he paid scant heed. His attention went out the window, toward sunlight and birdsong. Distantly he heard a trumpet blown. Merciful Lord Jesus, how time dragged!

  A couple of days afterward, he heard the Catalan Company depart: drums, horns, boots, hoofs, metal and leather. By then he could totter about, a few more hours each attempt. He blasphemed his fate in every language he recalled. Had they waited a week, he could have gone along!

  Suddenly he broke off.

  “My lord appears to have had a happier thought,” said Djansha.

  “Well . . . yes,” he replied, but told her nothing else.

  The next morning he had her summon a barber to shave him and trim his hair. Then he ordered a good suit of garments laid out. “I’ll walk about today,” he explained. “I feel strong enough.”

  “Best you lean on me,” she said anxiously.

  “No! You are to stay here! I’m well able to get about alone. Do you understand?” As her mouth quivered, he realized he had shouted. Contrite, he said, “Forgive me. I’ll take a stick if you wish. But I must try my own unaided legs sometime, must I not?”

  She glowed at him like a small sun.

  Actually, he felt no need of the cane. The idea in him lent unexpected strength. He studied himself in a mirror. He had lost flesh, the bones of his face stood out clearly, but they were good bones, he reassured himself. Flinging a forest-green cloak across one shoulder of his cloth-of-gold tunic, he waved Djansha a gay farewell and sauntered down the corridor.

  The house seemed bare with En Jaime and his men gone. A few servants scuttered about. Lucas halted one. “Ah . . . tell me,” he said with a poor attempt at casualness, “is Nasberto Cornel about?”

  “No, the noble knight Cornel is gone with the great Lord de Caza. I thank the good saints that Despotes Greco has won back his health.”

  “The devil you do,” said Lucas, but tossed his informant a coin and hummed a tune as he continued.

  At the door of Asberto’s suite he paused. Was this honorable when the man was gone to war--? He recollected Violante leaning across his chair. His pulse grew loud. Satan might have all these niggling Catalonian niceties! In no case did an animal like Cornel merit them. Nor did he mean to force the woman. He was paying her a social call, and if something else came of that, why, she had free will to choose her actions.

  He knocked for a good five minutes.

  “Belly of Bacchus!” he said at last, disgusted, and hobbled out into the garden. There he found a maidservant who told him what he suspected. Despoina Violante had accompanied her noble protector to Rhedestos. A number of ladies had done so, in fact, for the journey was short and the attack would afford an entertaining spectacle, at a discreet distance. . . . Once, beside this fountain, Violante had wished, through her teeth, that she were a man. Of course she had gone to Rhedestos.

  Lucas slept badly that night. He woke with a decision. “I’m going after the army,” he said.

  “No!” gasped Djansha.

  “Be still.” His coldness shut her mouth. “Prepare food and clothes for me. Fetch my groom that I may give him orders.” After an hour she dared ask, “Is there anything my lord must do there, that could not wait until he is quite himself again?”

  “I’m strong enough now, God smite it!”

  “Well . . . may I come, too? I will be no trouble, I swear; and if anything should go wrong--”

  “No. Stay here.” Presently Lucas comprehended her hurt enough to say, rather impatiently: “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you my business. You’re very good to be so concerned. But after all, I am old enough to look out for myself, eh? I’ll be back in a few days. You need a rest, girl. Be glad of this chance.”

  Her farewell kiss next day was so tremblingly amorous that he was tempted to stay. However, that would make him appear a fool.

  Especially since he had no good reason, even in his own mind, to go. He could think of nothing he might accomplish in Rhedestos. He simply could not keep away.

  Leave for the jaunt had easily been cajoled out of the garrison captain. Accompanied by a pair of mounted Almugavares, Lucas rode forth at noon. By dusk he was worn out, but slept all the better and woke up ready to fight elephants. The following day’s ride, at a leisured pace under sunny breezes, was pure, healing joy. Early the third afternoon, they went by Panidos. A forlorn Imperial standard on the battlements showed that the Catalans had not yet found time to capture it. They pushed on to Rhedestos.

  Tents and wagons formed an extensive camp some distance from the latter town. Pennants fluttered jauntily through wind-whipped smoke and dust; folk swarmed about. The city gates stood open, with the Latin flag of St. George above. Carts trundled forth, toward the camp. So this place had fallen, evidently with little or no resistance, and was now being ransacked. . . . The hills ran green with grass and orchard, yellow with ripening grain, down to a sea which glittered and danced.

  “Well, Maestre, where shall we report?” asked an Almugavare.

  Lucas reined in his horse. It curvetted, restless as himself. “To En Jaime, I suppose,” he said absently. “In the camp yonder.”

  “Your pardon, Maestre, but he’s more like to be in the town till nightfall.”

  “Um-m-m . . . yes ... so he is, isn’t he? Let’s seek him there, then.”

  Time enough, Lucas told himself through a thick pounding, time enough to find Violante when less important affairs had been set in order. He might even pick up some gem today, keep it illicitly for himself, and give it to her with a suitable flourish when--”Hoy! Gee-up, there!”

  They galloped to the portal, passed a cart loaded with the contents of some Orthodox church, avoided a party of drunken men-at-arms, and clattered into Rhedestos.

  The first thing Lucas noticed was the smell. It hung heavy, sickeningly sweet, with gangrenous undertones, denser for each yard he advanced. The houses stood blind along streets where the only traffic was the looting squads. When had he ever seen so many flies in such fat black clouds?

  “Look there,” pointed one of his Almugavares. “I hope the lads got some use out of ’em first.”

  Lucas looked in the direction indicated. Half a dozen women sprawled in an alley mouth. They had been dead for two or three days. He thought lances had killed them, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Not far beyond were some dead infants. Their skulls had been dashed against a wall.

  The old, sick, helpless anger rose within Lucas. “Have the Mongols come?” he asked.

  “I see the promise to avenge our envoys was not idle,” said his other attendant with satisfaction.

  “Would I could have helped,” said the companion. He guided his horse directly over a beheaded man. Bones crunched.

  A gang of Almugavares came around a corner, with one jinete leading. They were quite drunk, and were herding along some threescore children. The children were in rags; dirt matted their hair, running sores covered their legs, thirst had crusted their li
ps. Some could still cry, most stumbled ahead as if blind. The oldest was perhaps thirteen.

  Lucas reined to a halt so hard that his mount reared. “What’re you doing?” he snapped.

  The jinete waved his sword. “Found these little vermin here and there, hiding, after the executions were finished,” he answered cheerily. “We’ll save ’em for the Turkish market. We’re off now to make eunuchs of the boys. Come along if you’d like some sport.”

  Lucas struck spurs into his horse.

  Afterward, he never remembered very well what else he saw. But when he entered the marketplace, he heard thunder in his head.

  The rest of the ride was forever a blur to him. He knew in a far-off way that he fled from the town, vomiting as he went. Later he was in camp, afoot. He had discarded his soiled upper garments someplace, and wore merely breeches and hose. And sword. He clutched the hilt of his sword as if to keep it from jumping out of the scabbard.

  He must have asked his way, though he could not recall having done so. He staggered weeping among tents, carts, cookfires, soldiers who tended armor and horses, who sat about laughing and drinking. He saw their women and older children, their Byzantine she-captives bruised and stunned and passed from hand to hand, cattle, dogs, priests who had lately said a mass of thanksgiving. ... In all that roil, no one troubled to question him. His half-nakedness shocked the Easterners but not the Latins; as for his distress, maybe the poor devil had lost a brother to some lousy Greek.

  And so in the end Lucas found Asberto’s tent.

  Violante stepped forth when he called her name. She wore a robe of white silk, loose about her hips, open in front; her hair was tumbled, and she blinked sleep from her eyes. They must have begun their siesta early today in this tent. “What in the blessed world--?” she said.