All so a man like Philippe could take their golden menorah. Is the silver incense holder in there? The jug of anointing oil? He wanted to ask but his throat had frozen shut.
No, there were many crusaders in the synagogue looking for plunder. One of the others would have those. Tomas, maybe.
Isaac thought he would vomit, there in the stable.
“Jean!” Luc’s hushed call brought him back to himself. “Come over here. Let me give you some.”
Dumbly Isaac shook his head. He would surely throw up if he touched any of it. If he moved at all, even a step toward it.
“As you wish.” Luc stuffed another handful of coins into his pouch. How much was in that coffin? Isaac wondered. Even a knight or a lord would be unlikely to have amassed that much plunder.
“Just remember, we know each other’s secrets.” Luc let the lid back down and began hammering the nails back in with the little pick. “Find me something bigger. A stone.” Luc looked around. “There. There is one by your foot. Pick it up, man,” he added when Isaac did not move.
Numbly Isaac bent and hoisted the stone. It was hard and firm in his hand, something solid and present to drive away the ghosts of the dead. He hobbled to the wagon and handed it to Luc.
“Get his horse unsaddled,” Luc said, panting in his haste to pound the nails back into the lid of the coffin. “Do I have to tell you everything?”
Isaac was rubbing down Philippe’s war horse and Luc was scrambling down from the wagon when Tomas walked into the stable. Luc stopped dead, staring at Tomas wordlessly for a moment before he found his voice. “Is it time for us to take our meal?”
Tomas shook his head. He unbuckled his sword and handed it to Luc. Luc held it silently then placed it on the wagon bed. “I will meet him in the courtyard as soon as I am ready.” He went to his pack, lying on the innkeeper’s blanket, and untied his belt, waiting for Tomas to leave. As soon as Tomas turned his back Luc pulled off his tunic, in one motion wrapping it around his bulging purse and dropping them both onto his blanket. He pulled a second tunic from his pack and put it on. Glancing around to make sure Tomas had left the stable, Luc kneeled and unrolled the first tunic, took out his purse and buried it in the hay under his blanket.
“What if we all leave together?” Isaac asked over the back of the horse he was rubbing down, his hands pushing the rag slowly, numbly, over the sweat marks on the horse’s flank.
“I’ll find a way to put it into my pack.”
“And if the coins clatter together as they did when you jumped down from the wagon?”
“Did he hear?”
“I cannot say.”
“Will he tell?”
Isaac did not answer. Tomas must have some idea what was inside the coffin. It was possible half the treasure was his. He had begun to like the man, a terrible misjudgment on his part. He knew nothing of Tomas. Whatever he had thought he knew was wrong.
“Do you think he will tell?” Luc asked again.
“Make sure he cannot prove it.”
“How am I to do that?”
“Hide it somewhere else and walk away.”
Luc stared at him as if he had said something outrageous. “You do not know my father. He will disown me. I will be penniless, unless I bring something home. I cannot leave the purse here.”
Isaac shrugged. Not his problem. But if the treasure was found on Luc, Philippe would know Luc had stolen it while he was eating his dinner. While Isaac was here with Luc. He would never believe Isaac had not taken some also. Damn Luc! He would get them both killed.
“Sew it...” Isaac hesitated. Luc was a thief. If he told Luc what to do, Luc would know where Isaac kept his few coins. He closed his eyes to think, and saw again the bloody scene in the synagogue. He imagined he had seen Philippe’s face on one of the crusaders thundering toward him in the synagogue, trampling people in his path, swinging his sword out sideways to kill those who leapt out of the way. He had seen worse done by the crusaders, but this time it had been people he knew, people he cared about. He felt sweat bead his forehead and opened his eyes. Why had God spared him?
But he had been spared, and so he must do what he had to to stay alive. “Let him cut your tunic. If you fight well enough he will spare your life—”
“If I fight well enough?!”
Isaac ignored Luc’s outburst. “—After you fight, tell him you must sew the tear in your tunic before you eat. You have only two. Say whatever you must, but be convincing. Then come here and sew the coins and jewels into the hem of your tunic, separate them a little so they do not jingle against each other.
“You think he will kill me?”
“If he knows. Or perhaps just because he has no use for you. So fight well.”
Luc picked up Tomas’s sword slowly. “Will you come with me?”
Isaac gave the horse a final rub. It turned its head to look at him, snorting softly. He should leave now, while Philippe was distracted.
“Jean?” Luc’s voice quivered.
Luc had come to his rescue when he was in need. Damn you! He thought again.
Isaac tossed the rag over the door to the stall. “I will come.”
***
Tomas and Philippe were waiting for them in the courtyard. Philippe had removed his crusader tunic and put on a plain beige one. It did not change anything; Isaac could still see the bright red cross, as though it affixed itself to whatever the man wore on his chest.
Tomas, too, had changed into a plain tunic, as though he thought the task this evening was not one for a crusader. Was carrying stolen treasure valiant enough for a crusader? Killing women and children? Isaac could not look at him, at either of them, as he followed Luc to the middle of the yard.
Philippe stood glaring at Luc. It was impossible to tell whether Tomas had somehow indicated something was amiss in the stable, or Philippe simply did not like to be kept waiting.
Luc shot Isaac a desperate glance which stirred him to step forward. “This man you face,” he addressed Philippe without looking at him, “is not a battle-trained fighter. He has not had time to familiarize himself with the weapon you have given him, nor ever fought with a battle sword before. In truth you are not hiring a soldier; you are hiring a man to help you defend your—goods—” the word nearly choked him. He was doing this badly, his voice flat and distant as though he cared little. Which was true, he could not bring himself to care greatly for Luc when so many of his own people had died with no sword at all in their hands, “—from thieves who will not be on horseback, nor will they be armed except with knives and staffs. Those are the weapons you should test him with.”
Philippe raised his sword and swung it once thoughtfully. “Are you suggesting I lay down my sword and brawl like a peasant?” He frowned at Luc. “Are you a peasant?”
Luc took hold of Tomas’s sword with two hands, spreading his legs slightly as Isaac had shown him. “I am no peasant but the son of a wealthy merchant!”
“You have an unfair advantage, Chevalier,” Isaac said coolly.
“He challenged me, if you remember, not I, him. And we have each an advantage: I have experience; he has youth. Enough talk! Guard yourself, boy!” He ran toward Luc, his sword raised.
Luc lifted his sword to parry and had the presence of mind to dodge to the left immediately after. Philippe swung his sword backhanded where Luc had been a second before. Luc pivoted quickly and swung Tomas’s sword into Philippe’s back. But Philippe, anticipating the move, had turned; the swords clanged steel on steel. Philippe grinned as though the game had become more interesting.
They circled each other, Luc’s face taut and sweating, Philippe’s grin mocking, like a cat playing with a mouse. Suddenly Philippe leapt forward. Luc’s arms shot up in a desperate thrust but Philippe had stepped aside and turned to stab Luc in his exposed rib, tearing his tunic and drawing blood. Luc cried out, his sword clattering to the ground.
“Enough!” Isaac called.
Philippe pulled his sword back for
the final strike.
The sudden shriek of a whistle rent the air, stopping the three of them in a shocked tableau. Tomas stood with his flute in his mouth glaring at Philippe.
Philippe lowered his sword with a laugh, as though he had never intended to skewer an unarmed opponent. As though there had never been that glint in his eye when Luc stood defenseless and vulnerable before him. The bloodlust. Isaac had seen it before in certain men. In the men who had ridden into the synagogue. His own blood roared in his ears.
Without thinking he moved forward and picked up the fallen sword. He swung it twice, testing its weight and balance, doing so with a deliberate awkwardness to throw Philippe off, to call up that bestial urge at the sight of a weaker target that he knew was inside Philippe.
“You want to fight me, Cripple?” Philippe taunted, baiting him, making sure of his prey. “You want to prove you are still a man, heh?” He circled Isaac, jeering. “You should run away before I accept your challenge. You have only one leg left to lose. But if you run, you will not get your silver coins, will you? You want the money your friend demanded, do you not?”
He continued to circle Isaac, cutting him off from Luc and Tomas. Despite his words, Isaac knew Philippe would not let him walk away now. He had barely whetted his thirst for blood and must have more.
“Jean, no!” Luc cried, but Tomas’s flute was silent.
Isaac turned slowly, pivoting on his wooden leg so that he always faced Philippe. He held the sword low as though it was too heavy in his hands, when in fact it felt good, a fine weapon, well-forged. He moved with Philippe, watching Philippe’s eyes, waiting for the slight widening of his pupils that would come just before he lunged. Always a man like this, a man who liked killing, gave himself away.
“If I fight you, you must pay us both,” he said, forcing a quaver into his voice that he did not feel and emphasizing the slur caused by his scar. As though he was afraid, was considering not fighting. As though there was any question of it.
“Agreed,” Philippe said. “But when I fight you I will give no quarter.” He finished his warning with a lunge, swinging his sword hard, a blow that would have severed Isaac’s left arm below the shoulder.
But Isaac had seen the shift in his eyes, had known he would strike right after he spoke, giving Isaac no time to consider his warning and escape.
Isaac stepped back neatly, leaning away as he did, his movement so precise he felt the passage of air as Philippe’s sword whistled by his arm. While it was still moving, he stepped forward, his wooden leg never moving, only his good leg stepping back and forward again as he leaned in to swing his own sword, catching Philippe’s right arm as Philippe’s sword finished its swing, tearing through his tunic and drawing blood. Enough to hurt. Enough to goad the man, to sharpen his thirst; not enough to end the fight. Not yet.
Philippe roared. He whirled, completing his circle, the entire momentum of his body driving the sword across where Isaac had stood, at the height of his neck. But Isaac had already ducked under it and leaped back. He nearly fell, his peg leg twisting on a stone, but caught himself and straightened. Careful, careful, he told himself. Philippe was a strong, experienced fighter. He was fast and would have more stamina than Isaac. But Isaac’s arms and upper body were stronger than Philippe’s. And Philippe would underestimate him, he could only see the cripple, not the muscular arms under Isaac’s shirt. He would think the first blooding was a lucky accident. The second, when it came, would warn him, make him more cautious, perhaps. And then Isaac would be in trouble. Already Philippe was looking at him strangely, wondering why his decapitation had failed. He would have to be careful, resist the urge to draw more blood, not poke the bear until he was ready to kill it.
Isaac meant to kill Philippe. He had not consciously decided to do so but the knowledge that he would do it was there. How he would do it, that was what concerned him now. As their swords clanged against each other—thrust and parry, drive forward, step back—Isaac’s mind was cool and distant. He must stay near Philippe; he could not dance away and back or whirl in a bladed circle as Philippe could. Philippe would realize that as soon as he calmed down, when he began to take this fight seriously. He must be dead before that happened.
Their swords struck again with a force Isaac felt all the way up his arm to his shoulder. Philippe was stronger than he had thought. He bent his arm as though the force of Philippe’s sword against his was too much and saw the eagerness return to Philippe’s face. He bent backward, releasing Philippe’s sword, and this time when Philippe thrust he stepped sideways. He meant to let Philippe’s sword brush past his arm but misjudged. The sword pierced his sleeve and tore into his arm, not deep, not to the bone, but at an angle where it bled profusely. Philippe laughed.
They had laughed in the synagogue, the cowards armed and mailed and invincible, sitting on their great war horses as they murdered defenseless people. The sound drove Isaac mad. He lunged forward as he had fought when he had two good legs, and even now his leg held. The blood pounded in his head. He drove his sword again and again at Philippe, a rain of blows that Philippe struggled to block, the grin on his face dying as he dodged Isaac’s blows and parried again and again, barely in time to deflect Isaac’s furious onslaught.
Philippe fell back. Isaac followed him, relentless. How did the crusader like this, fighting a man who could fight back? How did he like being bested by a cripple? Isaac roared, an inarticulate howl of rage and pain and grief and retribution. One man, at least, would pay for what he had done in the synagogue at Acre. He raised his sword and brought it down against Philippe’s weapon with all the force of his muscular upper body. Philippe’s blade snapped. The broken sword fell from his hand. Isaac raised his sword one last time, the shrill shriek of Tomas’s whistle barely registering as he brought it down...
And drove it half-way to the hilt into the soil beside Philippe’s broken sword.
Philippe cringed before him, open-mouthed. Damn the unarmed bastard.
Isaac turned and hobbled through the gaping crowd of onlookers, everyone from the inn come to watch the slaying of a cripple. The kitchen wench had better run inside before him and have his dinner waiting when he reached the table!
***
Philippe surprised him.
“What a swordsman you are!” he cried, clapping Isaac on the back as he ate his fish stew.
The fish was slightly off but not enough to harm a man. It was Philippe’s jovial assumption that they were now fast friends that made Isaac’s stomach clench. He endured it without comment. He had only himself to blame if the man was still alive.
Philippe ignored Luc, who trailed in after Tomas and sat at the table, looking around for a bowl. The innkeeper’s wife, taking her cue from Philippe, ignored him also until Isaac gave her a steady look and cocked his head Luc’s way.
He drank a mug of the ale Philippe ordered, and a second mug of the next tankard, finishing his dinner slowly. He watched Philippe drink heartily, nodding encouragement as his jokes grew bawdier, raising a hand to stop her when the serving girl reached to take away the bread Isaac was slowly consuming, gesturing for another tankard when Philippe finished each one. He touched Luc’s hand and shook his head imperceptibly when Luc raised his mug for a third time. Still deflated by his poor showing and intimidated by Philippe’s occasional glares his way, Luc set his mug back.
“Right!” Philippe crowed, mistaking Isaac’s warning for scorn. “No more ale for the cowardly weakling who cannot hold a sword. Drinking is for men!” His words were slurred but his derision hit the mark. Luc left the inn soon after.
“Have to piss,” Isaac murmured a few minutes later, slurring the words more than usual to make himself sound as drunk as Philippe.
He found Luc in the stable wearing only his hose as he washed the dried blood from his side with the bucket of water left for the horses. He winced as he wiped at the wound. “Come to mock me, friend Jean?” he asked bitterly.
“I have come to warn you. Phil
ippe is a man to bear grudges. He will try to kill you. Take your full purse and make your escape now.”
“What grudge can he bear me? I did not so much as scratch him.” Luc spoke without looking up. He lifted his shirt from the floor beside him and scrubbed it in the water.
“You thought yourself worthy of fighting him sword to sword, and proved you were not. Besides, he cannot kill me, it would look churlish, and he must kill someone to appease his pride. He will kill you. Believe me.”
“May be you just want me to leave so you can take all the treasure.”
Isaac watched Luc a moment. He still would not look up. He seemed a great deal younger than Isaac, though they could not be even a decade apart.
“Take his horse, as well,” Isaac suggested. “He will be furious.” He smiled and let it show in his voice. “And he will not be able to follow you with these cart horses. Think how he will rage, unwilling to let you go and more unwilling to leave his lord’s corpse to follow you.”
A smile tugged at Luc’s lips. He looked up, saw Isaac’s grin, and laughed.
“I will do my best to keep him drinking in the inn until he passes out, but do not delay. You saved my life when we met, I would return the favor.”
“A war horse and a pouch of gold. My father will be delighted to see me after all.”
“Sell the horse as soon as you can and wear your torn shirt and tunic on the road. You are not going to Lyon, are you?”
Luc smiled again. “No, I am not from Lyon. And I know how to stay alive on the road. It was I who rescued you.”
“So you did. Go in peace, Luc.”
Luc rose and walked over to clasp Isaac’s hand. “Go in peace, friend Jean, whatever your real name is. You are a good man, Jew or not.”
“I am not a Jew.”
“As you say.” Luc stood a moment longer clasping his hand. Isaac’s throat tightened.
Luc cleared his throat and released his hand. “Go back and drink with the crusader, may he drown in his cups. I am sorry you did not kill him.”
The Lode Stone Page 15
