“Well?” he snapped, annoyed at his own awkwardness. “Have you no reply at all?”
“Y-y-you are kind--” She raised a sleeve to the eyes he could not see. “So kind, my lord. But--”
“Yes?” His heartbeat outshouted the wind. As if his legs belonged to another man, he took a step and one more step in her direction.
“You need not--need not marry me off.” Her voice came thin and wobbly.
“But I must get a protector for you.”
“I think En Jaime . . . would let me remain. As his servant.”
“But--”
“And you could more easily see your child.”
Lucas halted. “I may not remain here much longer,” he said.
“What?” She whirled about. Sunlight gleamed on tears. “You go away? Forever?”
“I know not,” he sighed, hardly noticing that he told her what he had confessed to none other. “Had I some country to return to--As matters stand, if I leave the Catalans I must become a soldier of fortune again. Here I have wealth and safety. Anywhere else, my gains would simply make me the prey of every freebooter and greedy lordling.... I know not what to do. But I’ll at least see to your welfare.”
“My only welfare is with you! “
Appalled at her own boldness, she shrank from him. One small fist was raised to her mouth.
His grin twisted sadly upward. “You speak without understanding, Djansha. These are not your green Caucasian glens. A camp follower’s life is filthy, dangerous, and short.”
“Would that matter?” She broke off. Slowly, her gaze went down to the burden under her heart.
“Yes,” he said. “There’s always sickness in an army. Few children outlive their first year.”
She caught her lip between her teeth.
“I know not what to do,” he repeated dully. “I’ve seen enough charnel sights here to fill all Hell, and I’m sick of them down to the marrow. Yet the Catalans only do with more vigor what every overlord and every army, from Spain to Cipangu, does as a matter of right.” Lucas beat his fist on the arbor trellis. “In Christ’s name, can a man who wants mercifulness do nothing but become a monk?”
“If my lord wishes that--” She laid a hand on his arm.
His laughter barked. “I know myself too well. They’d cast me out in half a year, and I’d thank them for it. . . . No, I can’t think what I want, or where to find it, or how to get there. I may not even have the will any longer, in this blood-guilty soul, to go off searching. But if I do, it had best be alone.”
She let him go. “Yes,” she said.
He looked at the ground again. “But before I go I’ll first get a good husband for you, Djansha.”
“No,” she said. “I beg you, no. En Jaime will stand godfather to me if you ask him. He’ll protect me. He--can raise your son to be a knight.”
“Why, so he can,” said Lucas, startled. “I’d not thought of that.” Then, roughly: “My son, a member of the Grand Company?”
“I do not wish a husband, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“It was enough to know you.”
She fled.
Lucas gaped after her. “Djansha!” he called. “Come back!”
She vanished among the hedges. With an oath, he started in pursuit. Stumbling like a blind woman, she was soon overtaken. He reached out, caught an edge of her wimple, and pulled her to a stop. The cloth tore. Suddenly her hair burned under the sky.
He snatched her around to face him. They stared at each other. She fell into his arms.
Gallipoli boiled. The rest of the Company had arrived.
Though disgruntled at finding no battle, but rather a victory more glorious than their own, they were soon rejoicing. There were to be solemn processions of thanksgiving throughout the week. On this first day, however, all made merry. Drunken gangs of men, arms linked, bawling the wild songs of Catalonia, filled the streets as they lurched from tavern to bawdyhouse and back again. The merchants gave wines, delicacies, clothes, ornaments, and trinkets in exchange for booty, at a pace whose briskness was hindered only by the need to use this rich chance of cheating. Cockfights, dogfights, boxing and wrestling matches, were varied by baiting any Greek unwise enough to show himself . . . down the street at sword point, toss him in a blanket, roll him in the mud, make him dance, throw him off the dock and see if he can swim or not! A few picked squads tramped about on guard, less anxious to prevent stabbings than fire.
Lucas guided his horse uphill toward his mansion. The headiness of yesterday was worn off by this re-entering the city. He felt as if caught in an invisible net. For how could he, indeed, travel elsewhere with Djansha, except in the sordid way of all adventurers who carried their women around . . . mud, dung, flies, coughs and runny noses and a flux in the bowels, the eternal likelihood of rape, and each year a tiny grave to dig--? Of course, he might conceivably get the patronage of some important man and settle down. But which was worse, being one of the tyrants now or one of the oppressed then? Would he not do best, for Djansha and their children if not himself, to swallow his conscience and remain here?
He squared his shoulders and clucked to the horse. Hell could have all such problems! His plans for the next several months were clear enough. Follow En Jaime’s urging. Move out to the villa, where Djansha awaited his return (she had bid him farewell this morning and skipped off to prepare the feast that would welcome him back at sunset; he could not keep his gloom in the presence of so much bubbling, singing, laughing, caressing happiness). Spend as quiet a winter as possible. Come spring, he might have discovered what he truly desired, or even have reconciled himself to the Grand Company.
After all, he thought, the Catalans are brave. Most of them have treated me well. Some few possess wit and learning. Need I ask more?
Yes, said the devil which Violante had awakened on the plaza.
He entered the courtyard of his house, summoned the major-domo, issued orders. The servants broke into a whirl of activity.
And now--This would be unpleasant. Directed by a retainer, Lucas walked down the halls to the solarium.
Violante sat listening to a girl sing. As Lucas came in, she dismissed her and watched him with unwinking dark eyes. Sunlight poured through the glazed windows, evoking sensuous colors in her garments of satin. Since the regretted impulse which shortened her hair, she had ceased defying propriety; her face was framed in its own wimple and a peaked headdress trailed gauzy veils.
“Well,” she said. “I didn’t expect you home so soon.”
“I had affairs to attend to,” he replied.
“So I hear. What a scurry throughout the house!” She did not humble herself enough to show curiosity.
He folded his arms and studied her. That part of him which asked justice reminded him how much pleasure she had given. They had fought, but oftener they had kissed, and he would always miss the quick intelligence and the voluptuousness unhindered by any shyness which he had found in her more than in any other woman. Seated there, sun and shadow rounded across the deep curves of her, she was beautiful.
This much his mind admitted. The rest of him felt horror.
“I hope you’re well now,” he made himself say.
“I was never ill. It was only your whim to pretend I was fevered, to have me bled and seek a separate chamber each night.” The stiff pride departed. She rose and held out her hands. Her smile came forth, as if stretching itself after sleep. “But you may have been right, my darling,” she said. “If so, believe me when I say I am well again.”
He did not accept the offered embrace. She stopped, puzzled, a ghost of fear in her aspect. “I am well,” she reiterated.
“God be thanked,” he said tonelessly.
“I suppose I did shock you.” Her lashes fluttered downward. “What I told you . . . after the battle . . . must have seemed unwomanly. I hoped you would understand. You understand so many things.”
He could not think of a response.
“Well,�
�� she sighed, “I was raving, then. Delirium. The sickness is past.”
“That’s good news.”
She looked up again. “I’m so glad you’re back early. You know not how I’ve missed you.”
“My lady is too gracious.”
She caught his arm with the sliding, stroking motion he well knew. The arching of her mouth invited him. “Come,” she said, “whatever your business, surely you can spare an hour or two.”
“I fear not.”
She rubbed against him. “Lucas,” she murmured. “I love you.”
He held himself unmoving, regarded the wall beyond her shoulder and said: “Na Violante, the servants are packing my gear. They’ll bring it out to En Jaime’s estate. This day.”
She blinked at him, as if she had not comprehended. “The mansion here you may keep, and of course all the female things,” he told her. “As for the cost of maintenance--”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “What are you saying?”
“That I am leaving this place.” With an attempted friendliness: “We’ve had a pleasant time together. But all things must end, must they not?”
She shook her fantastically attired head. The veils swirled. “You are leaving me,” she said in a flat, small voice. “Without even a warning.”
“I’ll make provision for you,” he said, becoming irritated, wishing only to be done with this.
“As you would for an old horse.” She stared at nothingness.
“Na Violante is too unkind to herself.” Weirdly reminded of yesterday, he said, “You needn’t fear loneliness. Anyone as fair and well born as yourself can choose a husband from--”
“No doubt you’ll go back to that whey-skinned savage.” She had not heard him.
She picked up a porcelain vase. For a while she turned it over and over in her hands, staring at the colors. Lucas eased a trifle. He had expected fireworks. But evidently the infatuation was as dead in her as in him.
She took the vase by the neck and smashed it across his face.
He flung up an arm barely in time to save his eyes. The thing shattered, cut sleeve and flesh, raked his jaw, and exploded on the floor. Violante snarled one foul sentence and ran from the room.
Lucas stood swaying and shaking until he recovered enough to call for his Greek valet. The little round man brought water and towels, and treated him.
“The hurts aren’t serious, Despotes,” he said. “Give thanks to all the kind saints.”
“I will, Alexios.” Lucas grinned lopsidedly. “From this day, I’ll heed their omen and steer clear of Xantippes.”
“Despoina Violante left the grounds. Afoot.”
“She’ll come back, but I trust we’ll be well away before then. How goes the packing?”
“Well, Despotes.”
Alexios looked so distressed that Lucas said, “What’s wrong? Speak what you will. I’m no servant beater.”
“No, Despotes, you are not. You have been merciful. You have even cared about us, helped us, as if we were your own people. I well remember how you made Zoe, the scrubwoman, stay abed for a week when she fell sick. And, and what would have become of me, had some mild saint not guided you to notice me? . . . Despotes, in Christ’s name, don’t leave us!”
“That’s a flattering wish, Alexios,” said Lucas, more moved than he dared show. “Of course, I’ll bring you along to the villa.”
“But the others! Left alone with the Despoina!”
It was like scratching a half-healed ulcer. “God’s death!” Lucas yelled. “Am I St. Christopher, to carry the world on my back? I’ve my own life to live. Get out! Get to work!”
Solitary again, he fumed up and down the chamber until he spied a carafe of wine. Having tilted that directly to his mouth, he was a little soothed. Presently he went out to speed the labor of packing.
Alexios whispered that Violante had returned, in a black temper. She had carried some bundles into the bedroom Lucas had lately been using, and bolted the door behind her. He gave little thought to the information, but a shiver went through him. These Catalans were all as proud as Lucifer. He had offended her grievously; one did not discard Na Violante de Lebia Tari like any trull. That much he could understand, and he felt a detached compassion for her. What made her gruesome to him was the lunacy he had seen revealed under a furnace noon. Thinking back, he could now recognize it in episode after episode. His skin crawled. He had no desire to see what she was doing, alone in that room.
Well, the Christ who cast out devils might yet have mercy on her. Meanwhile, Gallipoli was strangling Lucas. He wanted clean air again, and Djansha.
Toward evening, all was ready. A train of horses carried his monies and what seemed a fair share of plate from the house. En Jaime’s vaults could safeguard it for him, as they already did the loot of the rich hom and his men out there--for Muntaner was to be trusted, but not Rocafort, and thus the Company coffers in town did not seem to offer completely safe storage. Accompanied by Alexios and two grooms to drive the horses, Lucas rode forth. A serving maid wept, loudly and hopelessly, as he passed by. He tightened his heart.
An hour’s ride through lively air and evening light cheered him. When steel flashed far behind and a dust cloud bespoke several men a-gallop, he thought no evil. Armed messengers, perhaps. Or marauders, who just had word of some juicy target as a supply caravan going to Maditos. It was no concern of his. He turned onto the path toward the estate.
The gates were being opened for him when the squad drew up behind. The gatekeeper’s mouth fell wide at sight of the men in armor and the black-robed Dominican friar who accompanied them. Others came swarming to see, until the courtyard was full of menials and soldiers. Lucas glimpsed En Jaime’s lean form on the steps of the house--and yes, yes, there was Djansha, waving to him from the fringe of the crowd--
“Lucas Greco! “
The summons brought him twisting around in the saddle. The officer of the. squad shied back. Then his dusty, sweaty form straightened. “Are you Lucas, called Greco?” he queried.
“Yes. What do you want of me?”
“In the name of the Lord King of Aragon, and on behalf of the Holy Inquisition, I arrest you on the charge of witchcraft.”
Chapter XIV
En Jaime returned, bleak of aspect, with the Dominican. “It’s true,” he said. “She has means of sorcery hidden in the bedchamber I gave her. Peeled willow sticks, chips marked with heathenish symbols, a bag full of herbs and feathers.”
Djansha moved backward until the wall stopped her. They stood in the atrium of the house--she and Lucas and the soldiers. No one had thought to light candles, and as the sun went down, darkness thickened under the ceiling. The girl’s face made a white blur. Bright above her gleamed the cruel shape of a halberd.
“That is nothing,” she pleaded. “No harm. I would never harm anyone, lord. I do not know how! They were only charms I made. To keep off evil. To guard my lord and my child. I meant no harm!”
Her Catalonian was almost too thick to understand. The friar looked at her as he might look at an impaled frog. “Did your lover know anything of this?” he asked.
Speechless, she shook her head.
“Are you certain? He was with you only last night. Has he never seen you raising devils? Has he never helped you?”
Lucas strained forward. The men gripping either arm anchored him. “Of course not!” he yelled. “I own that she did a bit of magic when first I knew her. How could the poor child know it was wrong? I told her not to, but--” He broke off.
“But what, my son?” asked the black-hooded man, gently.
Lucas wet his lips. The drumming in his head made thought nearly impossible. All he could think of was a man he had once seen being racked, and the noise Djansha’s bones would make as they left their sockets.
“You must not conceal your knowledge, my son,” reproved the Dominican. “Your soul can only be cleansed by reparation.”
“She’s not yet christened,” Lucas got out. “En
Jaime will tell you I wanted her instructed and baptized, but with all the interruptions--raids, battles, the Company’s work--”
“Her salvation was neglected. You showed scant zeal.” The monk’s finger darted out in accusation. His words grew sharp. “Your own mistress in Gallipoli brought the charges. She showed me pentagrams she had discovered, drawn in blood under the carpet of your private chamber, and obscene waxen images hidden in a jar. She took oath she had often heard you muttering in an unknown language at night, and seen you make passes when you believed yourself unobserved. By your own admission, you have spent years among Tartars and Saracens; you consort with schismatical Greeks; you practice astrology; you read profane books; you came here with a heathen slave who is now revealed as a witch. You must agree the Holy Office is duty bound to investigate a matter so grave, supported by so much proof.”
“Proof trumped up by a perjuring madwoman!”
“Be careful of accusing noble persons unjustly. It will not redound to your credit.” The friar addressed the rich hom. “With your permission, En Jaime, we had best stay here overnight. The powers of evil are exalted after dark.” He crossed himself. A stirring and whispering went through that murky room, from man to man. Djansha covered her eyes. “Tomorrow we will bring them back to Gallipoli for interrogation.”
The knight stood near enough that Lucas could see how thin his mouth was drawn. “Just so, Frey Arnaldo.” His tone was not quite steady, and one fist hung clenched. “I myself will accompany you. I cannot believe Lucas truly at fault.”
“Perhaps not. There are tests. First, his witch yonder--”
“No!” Lucas burst free of the hands upon him. A soldier grabbed at him as he ran forward. Lucas caught the man on his hip, helped him along with his own motion, as they taught in Cathay. The fellow sailed through the air and crashed against the wall.
“Sorcery!” screamed a voice in the shadows. “I saw, Frey Arnaldo! I saw him make Juan fly!”
In this bad light, with a headful of supernatural terror, a man might see anything, Lucas thought. But no time to argue that now. He swept Djansha to him and whispered fiercely, “Do whatever they tell you. Can you understand me? Confess to anything they ask. Admit I wrought black magic.”
Rogue Sword Page 15
