Читать книгу The Sword and the Rose - V. J. Banis - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

There never was a time on the March parts yet

When Scottish with English met,

But it was a marvel if the red blood ran not

As the rain does in the street.

—Battle of Otterbourn

A large band of Scottish warriors had joined the crusaders and had placed themselves under the command of the English monarch. To some this seemed odd as there had been of late—indeed, always—some friction between the Scottish and the English; but they were all of Saxon and Norman descent, speaking a common language, and some of them were allied by blood and intermarriage as well.

Moreover they were now engaged in a common war, dear to them all because of their religion, and in this crusade Scots and Englishmen had fought side by side, their rivalry only serving to make both groups fight more bravely and more fiercely, each trying to outdo the other.

Richard was a rough but open commander who made no real distinction between his own subjects and those of William the Lion of Scotland, and this made it easier for the knights to work and fight together.

When the body is under the influence of illness, however, old wounds may break out anew. In just this manner, when Richard took ill and the circumstances of the crusaders became more critical, old frictions began to appear between the various bands of crusaders.

Both Scottish and English were jealous and high spirited, and the Scottish were quicker to take offense because they were the poorer and the weaker nation. The Scots would admit to no superiority over them and the English would admit no equality. As the truce forbade the warriors to wreak their vengeance upon the Saracens, they who had been good comrades in victory now turned on one another.

One of the Scottish knights, Sir Kenneth as he was called, was known also as the Falcon because on his surcoat and on his shield he wore the emblem of a sleek hawk, poised for flight, and beneath it the motto Swift and Terrible. Those who had seen him fight said that the emblem and the motto were fitting, for he fought with a savage intensity and a swiftness that belied his heavy armor.

Sir Kenneth had joined the crusade impulsively and for motives of his own, and being impetuous he had come ill supplied except for a few loyal followers. The wars and their deprivation, and their vow to give their lives in the crusade—a promise many of them had kept—had reduced his little band so that he now had for company only one old servant, and his dog Krouba, a magnificent deerhound, as fine a specimen of the breed as could be found.

Just now these two, Sir Kenneth and Krouba, were returning from the hunt. It had been necessary for the knight to find in nature the food he needed to keep himself and his little band alive and, as the animal life on this vast desert was limited, this had proven an increasingly difficult task. On this day he had found only a small bag full of rock partridges. The hills nearby sometimes supplied deer or wild pig, but he had not been lucky this time.

It was late afternoon and he was on his way back to the camp now. Beyond the crusaders’ camp and in his path as he rode was a second camp, of the so-called “followers”; this was the camp of that second army of people who followed behind the knights and the royal court, depending mostly upon them for sustenance in one fashion or another. Here there were service people—tailors, tinkers, smiths and other diverse craftsmen; here too were people who made their living entertaining others—actors, jugglers, acrobats, dancers and troubadours. And of course there were the women—painted lovelies who strolled through the crusaders’ camp at night plying their wares among the lonely knights.

It was a colorful little city, this second camp, made up as it was of various “colonies”—the area given over to the Jews, for instance, and another to the gypsies, while still another was filled with English freedmen. Like an Oriental city, one rode through it to a cacophony of sounds and impressions; music, from the plaintive wail of the Jew to the jingling tambourine of the gypsy; myriad languages; scents of varying cooking styles and methods, and the colorful costumes of the exotic inhabitants. There were even some Saracens in the camp, for the camp followers are mostly a nation unto themselves, owing loyalty first of all to the army they are following, at least until it is defeated, when they at once attach themselves to the victor.

As he rode now through this camp, Sir Kenneth was enjoying the varied sights and sounds, his quick eye everywhere, his ear picking up snatches of conversation in half a dozen different languages. Someone was roasting a pig and the delicious odor made his mouth water; he hadn’t eaten since downing some moldy bread and some ale at daybreak, when he set out hunting. Krouba, who had caught some breed of desert rat, had fared better than he had.

Suddenly one sound penetrated the others, the cry of a woman in distress. “Help! Help me!” a voice cried.

Kenneth reined his horse to the right, following the sound. He rode past a group of gypsy tents and saw in the distance a young woman pursued by a handful of English knights, who were laughing and hooting with lustful glee.

“Help, for the love of God,” she screamed, but the inhabitants of the camp were all too afraid of the armed knights to come to her aid.

Such sights were not uncommon here; indeed many of the women in this camp improved their desirability with a show of resistance. But this swarthy gypsy girl, as he recognized her to be, seemed genuinely frightened and desperate to escape her pursuers.

And of course, they were English, and Sir Kenneth was Scottish. He rode to the rescue, his armor clanging, his steed’s hooves drumming the hard ground.

As the English knights were afoot, it was an easy matter to outdistance them and, despite his armor and mail, lean down and sweep the girl from her feet, onto his horse. Her bare feet still ran, treading the air, as he slowed his horse’s gallop.

Thinking him to be another of her tormentors, she struggled in his arms and tried to strike him, but in her position, flung across the horse’s shoulders, she could do little more than beat on that noble animal’s body.

“English pig,” she cried and would have thrown herself to the ground had he not held her firmly at the waist.

“Not English but Scottish,” he said, laughing, “and not a pig but a falcon, if you will but see. Hold still now before I send you back to your suitors.”

“Scotsman,” one of the English knights cried, “find your own sport. That one’s too pretty for the likes of you anyway.”

“Ay, lass,” another cried raucously. “Surely you wouldn’t choose a Scot over a man.” That brought a round of jeers and howls from his friends. Kenneth had reined in his horse now and turned toward them, and he saw at a glance that they were all fired up with drink.

“Begone, Englishers,” he called to them. “Save your temper for the Turks, who might be frightened of it.”

One of the knights had drawn his sword and he called, “Come closer with your friend, Scot. I’ve got something to stick in each of you.”

If the man had been sober, Kenneth would no doubt have dismounted and accepted the challenge, but from the way the man staggered and swayed drunkenly, as if cast about by a mighty wind, he knew that it would be no fight at all. Instead, he drew his sword and rode closer, meaning only to disarm the man.

It was not necessary to do even that, though. The English knight swung with his sword before Sir Kenneth was within two horses’ lengths of him and his sword slipped from his fingers to go crashing to the ground.

“Help me, lads,” he cried to his companions but, looking over his shoulder, he discovered that they had chosen the better part of valor and were already running away. For a moment he hesitated, then he too turned and ran, disappearing quickly into the maze of tents and huts that made up the camp.

Kenneth looked after them and laughed at their drunken flight; but his laugh was suddenly cut short.

One of the rogues had not fled but stood off to the side, out of Kenneth’s range of vision. Now, seeing Kenneth’s back to him, he lifted his mace—a weighted ball on the end of a club—and, swinging it over his head, threw it at the Scotsman’s head.

A warning cry from the gypsy girl, who saw the weapon thrown, brought Kenneth around in his saddle so that the blow, which might otherwise have opened his skull in an instant, was only a glancing one. Even so, it opened a gash alongside his head from which the blood began at once to spurt. He swayed dizzily in his saddle, his vision blurring as the ground seemed to rock and heave beneath him.

Had the villain who struck the cowardly blow followed up his advantage, it would have been no difficult matter to kill the knight on the spot; no doubt he would have done so had it not been for the intervention of Krouba, Kenneth’s faithful dog. That creature, seeing his master struck, turned toward his attacker and with a terrifying snarl, leapt at him.

It was a brave man who could see that enraged beast setting upon him and not be frightened. This one gave a shriek of alarm and turned to run, tripping over his own feet and falling headlong.

In an instant Krouba was upon him, his snarls and growls mingling with the man’s terrified bleating and the laughter of the crowd that had gathered to watch the show.

It was not hard to judge what the outcome of this would have been had not Kenneth, never a vengeful man, called his dog back to his side, letting the English knight flee, his tunic and his pride in shreds.

The onlookers, convinced that the entertainment was over, began to drift away. For a moment Kenneth sat as he was, becoming gradually aware of the gypsy girl in his arms. She, discovering that he was no enemy but her protector, had ceased struggling against him and had managed to right herself, so that she now clung to him in the saddle. His arm remained about her waist, and he was aware of the feel of soft warm flesh beneath his hand. The scent of perfume drifted up from her dark curly hair, and when he looked down he found her gazing up into his face. Her eyes were green, a mysterious shadowy green like the surface of an English pond in the shade of the willows.

“You’re wounded,” she said in a low, throaty voice.

“It’s nothing,” he said. The ground had ceased its rocking motions and he would ignore the throbbing pain that pulsed from the wound through his entire head. “Show me which is your tent and I’ll return you safely to it.”

The gypsy girl, though, had been watching the knight throughout the incident. Once over her fear of him, she had discovered that here indeed was a fair “son of the cross.” Although he wore his weapons and armor, his mail headpiece was back, revealing a handsome man with a ruggedly chiseled face. His hair was brown, but touched with highlights of red and gold as if it had absorbed the fiery sun of the desert.

Looking up into his handsome face, she decided that at the moment the solitary “safety” of her tent was the least of her desires.

She whimpered and pressed her face against a broad, powerful shoulder. “I’m frightened,” she said in a whisper. “Suppose they come looking for me again. Who will protect me when you are gone?”

“Most of the women here are not so averse to a man’s attention,” he said frankly.

Her anger at his implication made her forget to be “afraid” and she tilted her face to look up at him again, her eye flashing like green fires.

“I’m not a whore,” she said angrily. “Why do you think I was running from those English beasts?”

“It’s a game I’ve seen played before,” he said.

She gave a snarl, not unlike the snarl of the deer-hound, and lifted a hand to slap him. With a chuckle he caught her wrist in a powerful grip.

“In truth, I don’t think you were playing,” he said. His voice had such an obvious ring of sincerity that it was impossible not to accept what he said as fact, and her anger faded. For a moment more the two of them sat on the horse, looking at one another frankly.

“Who are you, and what do you do here?” he asked.

“My name is Elaine. I traveled originally with my father, but the journey proved too arduous for him and I buried him many miles back. Now I make my living pleasing men, but only with my singing and dancing.”

“And those three were the first to demand more?” he asked.

She shrugged and said, “It’s usually night when I entertain. The men drink ale or wine and there are other women among them, tending to their physical needs and emptying their purses. Usually when I have finished and collected the coins they throw, I slip away into the darkness.”

“Usually?” He cocked an eyebrow.

She met his gaze openly and her brilliantly painted lips curved into a smile. “Yes, usually. I said I was not a whore, Sir Knight. But I’m no English virgin either.”

He smiled back at her; the invitation in her eyes was obvious and her physical presence was no less inviting. She exuded a warm, womanly scent that mingled with her perfume and teased his senses.

“I could dress that wound for you,” she said. “I’m very gifted with herbs and medicines.”

“I’ll bring you back to your tent later,” he said, “when it’s dark. Then you can elude whoever you want to.”

It was nearing evening when they approached his camp. It was no more than a few miserable huts, hastily constructed of boughs and palm leaves and now mostly deserted. The central hut was his, as he was the leader of this almost extinguished band, and a swallow-tailed pennon on the point of a spear marked the hut as the chiefs. But no pages or squires waited by the pennon and that emblem of feudal power hung limply, as if sickening under the scorching Eastern sun. Only reputation defended this knightly emblem from insult, for it had no other guard.

The old servant came out to meet them as they rode up. If he was surprised to see his master accompanied by a woman he gave no sign of it, but helped the gypsy girl down as deferentially as if she were a highborn lady.

Kenneth dismounted more slowly. The blow to his head from the mace had been more serious than he had realized at first, and on the ride back he had found himself more than once on the brink of unconsciousness. Only an iron will had kept him in his saddle and so composed that the girl with him might never have guessed he had been injured except for the blood that still flowed from the ugly gash. She had tried to stop it with a piece torn from her own tunic, but her experienced eye told her the cut needed immediate and skilled attention.

As he got down from his horse, Kenneth’s will finally failed him and before he could say a word to his servant he sank to the ground with a groan.

“That wound needs care,” Elaine said, kneeling quickly over him. “Help me take him inside.”

The servant, seeing the wound for the first time, wordlessly did as she bade. Between the two of them they managed to half drag, half carry him into the dark interior of the hut.

“Water,” she ordered, “and if your bread has molded, bring me some of the mold.”

With the servant’s help she quickly gathered some wild plants and made a healing paste, applying it to the wound, which she then bandaged. The two of them undressed the still-unconscious knight and put him into his bed. This was not the first naked man she had ever seen, and she did not hesitate nor blush when his last garments had been removed and his body lay stretched naked before her. Indeed, her opinion as to his masculine beauty was only enhanced by the brief view before she covered him carefully. He had the lean, hard body of a pagan god; here, she thought, was a man indeed, and as she checked the wound’s dressing, she began to hum a little song to herself.

“I’ll spend the night with him,” she said when the servant returned from fetching fresh water. “He may need a fresh bandage during the night.”

He looked vaguely amused at the explanation but he did not quarrel with it and went outside to sleep. Krouba had remained in the hut beside his master’s bed throughout Elaine’s ministrations. She did not attempt to drive him out now; for one thing, she thought that although he had been quiet and docile, he might turn on her if she tried to separate him from the knight. Anyway, he would make good protection and notwithstanding the noble purpose of this expedition she knew from experience that a crusaders’ camp was not the safest place to be at night.

The servant had cooked the fowl the knight brought back with him and now she nibbled on a leg, tossing the scraps to the dog. Then she stood and shed her tunic; she hesitated for a moment, then shed her chemise too and slipped into the bed beside the Scottish knight. The desert air turned cool once the sun had fallen, and she snuggled against him for warmth, quickly dropping asleep.