Swords From the West (16 page)

Khalil saw them and spurred toward them.

"The Mount!" he cried, and men-at-arms hurried toward him.

The Mocenigos veered off, and Khalil went after them, wresting vainly with the lashes that bound the intolerable casque upon him.

But other Venetians and Moslems had beheld the flight of their leaders. While the Damascus men hesitated, the black wave smote the camp and resolved into a bellowing and trampling herd of cattle that bore down the remaining tents and sent the frightened horses plunging into the brush. The men of Damascus had come hither to escort a lady and not to fight. When a strange knight charged at them with a strange war shout, and torches waved triumphantly upon the wall of the Mount, they took thought for themselves and vanished.

Only here and there did men stand against the lances of the riders from the Mount and the young Arabs, who were delirious now with the prospect of slaughter and loot together. And the gates of the Mount burst open. A stream of old Arabs and women and boys emerged and bore down upon the fallen tents, to pillage in their turn. The remaining Venetians threw down their arms.

Marguerite of Chatillon hastened through the uproar, looking about her in vain for a familiar face. Stumbling over ropes and dodging frightened cattle, she made her way to where Renald had taken his stand by the Mocenigos' pavilion and her own, warding off with the help of some spearmen from the Mount the attempts of the Arabs to snatch away the spoils of the pavilions. But before she could reach him, a horse came up behind her, and she turned as Sir John leaped from the saddle to the ground. She drew a quick breath of relief and looked up into his brown face.

Strangely, he was flushed, and his shoulders shook and tears dripped from his eyes. And he spoke no word to her.

"Thou art hurt!" she cried, reaching out her hands to him.

He caught them and kissed them and found his voice.

"I am near perishing-"

"You are not!" she pulled away indignantly. "You are laughing, and there is no mark on your sword. Now, take me to my uncle."

"Demoiselle," he sighed and wiped his eyes with a scarred hand. "I am Reginald of Chatillon, and Khalil is John of the Mount, and-oh, if you could have seen the Mocenigos flee in their shirts-while the cattle butted-"

He gazed around at the confusion and, seeing that the fighting was at an end, wiped his eyes again.

"But I heard my uncle's shout!"

"And have I not gone on raid and foray with Chatillon, not to know his shout? Oh, it was a notable and mighty charge we made, I and the cattle. We have captured your pavilion."

Marguerite looked at him curiously, beholding for the first time the youth and the laughter of the man who had seemed unbending as iron.

"Then you did not send the messenger to Kerak!"

"Nay, I sent off Ibrahim with a letter, to fetch a gray priest from Jerusalem."

"Sir John," she said slowly, "I have mistaken you, and now I think that you have risked yourself and this castle to aid me, and-and I will thank you, if I may. And now you will take me to Kerak."

The dark face of the knight fell serious.

"I shall not give up Marguerite of Chatillon to any man. And if Sir Reginald will have you, he must even take the castle, for you will be my wife, and he will need be a bold man to lift hand or eye to my wife."

Now Marguerite glanced up at him, incredulous, and the dark blood surged into her throat and brow.

"You dare? You would dare!"

And her eyes wavered, and then turning swiftly, she fled-ran like a shadow through the torchlight, up to the open gate of the Mount. Without heeding the din around him, the knight strode after her, into the courtyard and the hall.

Sir John was in time to see the flicker of a candle vanish up the winding stair, and with his foot on the first step, he hesitated. The exultation of the fighting throbbed in him, but now fear came upon him. Up there Marguerite had fled, and he was afraid of the darkness in her eyes and the blood that stained her throat. Surely he had frightened her, at whose feet he had laid his love-and surely now she lay stricken, fearing him. He dared not go up, to feel her eyes upon him and hear her weep, or scorn him.

But then he heard her clap her hands three times, and the Arab woman, thus summoned, brushed past him. So he paced the length of the hall, wondering how Marguerite would try to speak to the girl. And when the Arab came down and would have left the hall, he stopped her.

"Speak thou! Is my lady weeping, and what doth she seek of thee?"

"Thus, 0 my lord, she doeth." And the girl held up her open hands together, first against one side of her face, then against the other, staring at them. "She must have-" the girl smiled-"a mirror."

That cold April afternoon Brother Clement felt an ache in his heart. He expected to see Satan running over the roofs of the hamlet of Limoges, vanishing with the chimney smoke and the damp mist. Brother Clement even glanced at the ground near his sandals to see if the mark of the cloven hoof did not show in the gray snow.

"There is so much of evil afoot," he said to himself.

And he counted the evils on his fingers as if they had been the beads of a rosary. "War." Limoges lay within the frontier zone, in France. "Avarice." )Yes, Achard, lord of Chalus, bos sous.) "Rapine."

That very morning after matins some of the shepherds had lingered at the church door to tell Brother Clement that Cadoc's men had been along the road. These men, routiers-fighters for whoever paid them and spoilers on their own account-were more dangerous than a wolf pack. Cadoc himself, a noble by birth and a mercenary by trade, boasted that no man could stand up to him and live.

"And sickness." Moodily the young friar ended his check of the evils around him. He was thinking of the girl Marie, the serf girl who embroidered in Limoges castle because she was too thin and weak to do outdoor labor. The mark of the white death was on her, though she was no more than sixteen years of age. Still, she could laugh, and her eyes had a way of slanting up at him.

Because he was thinking of her, the friar strode through the stubble of wheat to the field gate of the castle where she was apt to appear at this hour of the afternoon.

Almost at once he saw her, running toward the gate. She barely paused to glance at the geese in their pen-the geese for which Brother Clement knew she was responsible. With the mist sparkling in her loose hair and her cheeks flushed, the little Marie looked lovely as an elf. "My stint of work on the loom is finished," she cried when she saw the friar waiting. "The chatelaine bade me go-"

To feed the geese, Brother Clement thought, and she had not fed them. The girl drew her wide wool mantle closer about her throat uneasily, pulling it over the chunk of bread under her arm. But not before he had seen the slice of cheese thrust into the bread. The castle folk at Limoges allowed the serfs to take bread at will. The cheese she must have stolen. And she must have stolen it for Peter, to whom she was hurrying now.

"Take warning-" he began, and changed his words. "Cadoc's routiers are on the roads. You should not go forth, Marie."

At such a time it was dangerous for any woman to venture alone beyond call of the castle guard. Marie pulled the hood of the mantle over her hair.

"I will be a mouse. Besides, I am not going by the Chalus road."

She smiled up at him appealingly, and before he could speak she closed her eyes and breathed a prayer: "0 Mary, full of grace, protect Peter wherever he goes; watch over my aunt and all her children; aid me by thy mercy to get more than thirty-one sous. And make me well-amen!" she added quickly.

Even more quickly she ran on to the gate waving to him. Brother Clement she knew to be very wise-he read pages of the written words of saints when other folks slept, by candlelight-she did not want him to read her thoughts. When the mud dragged at her feet she slowed to a walk, coughing and wiping a trace of blood from her lips.

Looking after her, the young friar murmured, "Amen." If by some means the girl Marie could leave the damp plain of France and venture south to the sun-warmed mountains-he had heard wayfarers tell of the Pyrenees-she might escape the white death. Yet how could a serf woman make such a journey, like a noblewoman? He thought: If even a sparrow falls-

Past the haystacks, in the dimness of the wood, Marie searched for the arms of the windmill, her landmark. The windmill was abandoned; people avoided it because the torn sails on the creaking arms made the spot seem eerie. Although it stood on a knoll above the Chalus road no one had come prying about the windmill when she was there with Peter Basil, dreaming that the mill was actually a ship borne by its sails over all the seas of the earth.

Lying on the chaff in the cold mill chamber, she peered through a hole in the broken boards. She could see the road, and-when the mist eddied away-the distant tower of Chalus castle. She did not see Peter Basil coming, because he ran through the trees, keeping out of view of the road.

"A wolf pack holds the road," he said, throwing himself down by her. Although he had run a league with that long stride, he did not breathe heavily.

Thin and smiling and dark with the sun he was. Taking her in his arms he bent her head back. When he did that she felt warmth in her body. The dark walls around them became friendly and safe. Marie wanted to tell him about that, but instead she held out the bread with the cheese in it.

"Wait!" Peter was excited. The shock of his dark hair hung over his eyes. Older than she in years, he was younger in mind, with his wild Gascon temper. Not touching the fresh bread, he held out a scarred fist, closed. "Little Marie, a miracle has happened here in Chalus wood." He opened his hand. "Look at it."

She smiled because he was joyful. Then she gasped. The thing he showed her was a round coin of heavy gold bearing a king's head. Marie had seen such gold in the armbands of the ladies of Limoges. "You found it," she cried, fearful that Peter had stolen it.

"An ox found it," Peter laughed, caressing it. A peasant starting his spring plowing had turned up some of the coins by a standing stone at the edge of Chalus wood. Digging down for more, the peasant had unearthed an iron pot. "Old as old." Peter nodded. "Who knows who buried it, or when?"

Gold. She touched it and shivered. Never before had she been within reach of it, and here Peter held it carelessly in his hand.

"With this you are free, Little Marie-to go. Tell me, do we need more? Three-six? Nay, six gold pieces must be worth three marks of silver."

Three marks of silver was her price. A huge sum, to pay for the labor of a serf for thirty years. Paid into the hand of the chatelaine of Limoges, it would free Marie from her service, so she could go to the south land with Peter.

"Take it back," she begged, "quickly."

Amazed, he stared at her. In a year she had been able to save only thirtyone sous-not nearly a single mark of silver. Peter never had a sou in his belt. "No," he said.

"Listen to me, Peter." Frightened, she told him carefully about finding buried coins. She had learned such matters of law by listening carefully to the talk of the Limoges ladies. True, three pieces of gold might buy her release, but how could a serf possess gold? This coin came from a treasuretrove, dug out of the land, and as the land belonged to its overlord so did such a trove. If they took even this one piece-and the peasant knew Peter had it-they would be guilty of thieving, and thieves were hanged from the trees along the high road where crows flocked to the dead flesh.

"Then I will pay them," cried the Gascon, "and they will fare but ill if they lay hand on me."

She had to be ware and yare with Peter, who knew or cared little about the seigneurs. A starveling, up from the south, he had sworn himself into five years' service as villein to Achard, lord of Chalus. Although he still had two years to serve as crossbowman, he wanted her to run away with him to the Gascon land where the wine grapes grew. When Marie thought of going with him, the two of them walking at will with their packs, she felt faint with joy. Peter was carefree as an animal; he could crawl into a cave after a bear and come out unscathed. But she could not run from Limoges because the debt of three marks would then be put upon her aunt and the children as they grew up to working age.