Читать книгу The Sword and the Rose - V. J. Banis - Страница 8

CHAPTER FOUR

...They, too, retired

To the wilderness, but ’twas with arms.

—Paradise Regained

Kenneth awoke slowly. He had been dreaming of the beautiful Lady Joan, the king’s cousin. Since first laying eyes upon her, he had been in love with the beautiful noblewoman, with a love as hopeless as it was fervent—what chance had he, after all, with a kinswoman of the Lionhearted?

His dream became superimposed upon reality. He grew faintly aware of the feel of naked female flesh close against his body, and for a time in his dream it was Joan whom he held in his arms, turning now toward her and gently beginning to stroke the curve of her back, the voluptuous hill of her hip. In his mind’s eye he saw her pale yellow hair falling across his shoulder; her eyes, as blue as the Scottish sky on a spring morn, gazed lovingly up into his.

Gradually sleep fled, the dream faded; but the reality of naked warmth in his arms, of womanly flesh against his flesh, these remained. He opened his eyes, half sitting up as he did. For a moment he looked with bewilderment at the woman with him. Certainly she was not Lady Joan, for this creature’s hair was black, her complexion swarthy, and her eyes green. At first he could not think how she had come to be here; there was a dull ache in his head. Had he drunk too much—a rare occurrence—and picked up one of the whores from the followers’ camp, so rare an occurrence it had never happened before?

He put a hand to his head and, feeling the bandage there, memory flooded back to him. “Elaine.” He whispered her name.

She looked pleased that he remembered. “Does your head hurt?” she asked.

“Only a little,” he said. “You are skilled with your medicines.”

“I am skilled at caring for a man’s needs,” she said, a smile curving her lips.

He realized then, belatedly, why she had asked about his head. For a moment he thought again of Lady Joan. But that love was afar indeed, while this reality was very near. And she was very desirable too, in a ripe, overblown way. Her breasts, bared for his inspection, were like those big, delicious melons they had discovered in this foreign land, and looked as sweet.

The ache in his head was only a dull throb, after all, not enough to dampen a man’s spirit; and as close as they were, as naked as they were, she was as aware as he that he was in every other way sound of limb.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“They call me The Falcon,” he whispered. He lowered his mouth to hers. Her arms came up about him and her thighs parted in an ageless gesture of welcome.

* * * *

Later she brought him breakfast—some cold roast fowl and some fruit that she had stolen from the followers’ camp. He ate with gusto and while he ate she hummed to herself and mended a tear in his undertunic. She hadn’t been so content in months; she knew herself well enough to know that she was never really satisfied without a man to fuss over. When her father had been alive, caring for him had filled the need to some extent, and of course there had been lovers.

She had been honest in telling the Scotsman that she was no virgin. She liked a bout of lovemaking now and again as well as any man, but she liked one man as a lover, and she liked to be able to care for him in every way—preparing his food, mending his clothes. In short, she wanted a husband, but none of the men she had met had suited her that far—none until now, anyway.

When he had eaten and dressed, he came to where she was sitting at the door of his hut. “I’ll take you home,” he said.

She shrugged and said, “There is no need. I can stay here and care for you.”

He looked down at her for a moment. The feel of her body beneath his was still fresh in his memory, and he was tempted to agree; the memory was so pleasant.

But it was useless to confuse physical desire with love, and however futile, he loved another. To take this lusty gypsy girl for his woman would be false to both of them.

“I’m sorry, Elaine,” he said, touching her raven hair with the tips of his fingers. “It would not do.”

At first she was hurt and confused, then angry. “I can find my own way,” she said when he again offered to return her to her own camp, and she flounced off with her head held high. He watched her walk away, his eyes following the swing of her wide hips, and was nearly tempted to call her back and tell her he had changed his mind.

Before he could do so, though, a messenger approached the Scottish camp, his eyes looking about him with an air of disapproval.

“I come from His Grace the Archbishop,” he said, “with instructions to bring to him a knight from this camp, the Falcon, as he is known.”

“I’m Sir Kenneth,” the knight replied, surprised that so august a person as the archbishop could have need of his services. “Sometimes called the Falcon. What does His Grace want with me?”

The messenger, hardly more than a lad, gave a shrug of his shoulders and said, “I’m to bring you to the Council of Princes. They aren’t likely to confide their plans in me.”

“You more than I,” Kenneth thought, but aloud he said, “Let’s go then.”

He was brought in short order to the tent in which the Council of Princes commonly met. A wide ring of open ground was kept around the tent and guarded by several sentries who seemed to know the messenger, as they were not hindered in their progress.

The archbishop waited just inside the vast tent. A throne, larger than any used by King Richard, was placed there for him, although at the arrival of Sir Kenneth and the messenger he was standing and pacing to and fro.

The boy showed Kenneth inside and then, with no word, disappeared, leaving the knight in the presence not only of the archbishop but of the many sovereigns of the crusade, who he could see seated about the tent.

Kenneth dropped to his knees before the archbishop.

“Are you the knight they call the Falcon?” the holy man demanded.

“I have been called that. Sir Kenneth, a Scots knight, at your service, Your Grace.”

“Rise, Sir Kenneth,” he said, “and be at ease. We have heard good report of you and stand in need of your services.”

Kenneth was duly awed, not only by that unexpected remark but by the very presence of the holy man. This was the same William, Archbishop of Tyre, who had in part instigated this Third Crusade and who had blessed King Richard and Philip Augustus at Vezelay. He was a striking figure of commanding aspect. Kenneth had been told that in his youth William was very handsome, and even in age he was hardly less so. His episcopal dress was of very rich fashion, trimmed in precious fur and surrounded by a cope of elaborate needlework. On his fingers he wore rings worth a good barony, and the hood that he wore unclasped and thrown back, for it was stifling in the tent, had gold fastenings.

He had a long beard, now silver with age. He was served by two youthful and handsome acolytes, one of whom, in the Eastern fashion, held an umbrella of palm leaves over the archbishop’s head while the other fanned him with a fan of peacock feathers, their brilliant colors winking in the sunlight coming through the opening of the tent.

“I will serve in any way I can, Your Grace,” Kenneth replied, proud that he had been deemed worthy of such an honor.

“There lives at Engaddi, a few days’ journey from here, a holy man, a hermit. We wish you to take this packet to him. Say that it is our understanding that he is on friendly terms with Saladin. And add your own pleas that, as he loves God and the Holy Church of Rome, he will intervene with the sultan on behalf of the request contained in these letters.”

“If I am to plead the cause,” Kenneth said boldly, for it was not his place to question God’s representative upon this holy crusade, “might I not know the nature of the cause? Is it an extension of the truce?”

For a moment the archbishop’s eyes flashed, but then he stroked his beard thoughtfully and said, “It will be better to tell you some of the truth than to spawn rumors. But, at peril of your immortal soul, I mark this secret between yourself and this council. We seek agreement from Saladin to a lasting peace, and the withdrawal of our armies from Palestine.”

“Saint George,” Kenneth said in astonishment, forgetting himself briefly. “But—”

“Good knight,” the archbishop interrupted him wearily, “we have told you the nature of your mission. Do not tax our good nature too sorely.”

Murmuring “My lord,” Kenneth again bowed his head. “I will deliver your message and return at once, God willing.”

“God is willing,” the archbishop said dryly. He touched the knight faintly on the shoulder. “Bless you, my son, and God keep you.”

Kenneth thought, going out, that he would need God’s protection, for he knew well enough the hardships of the great desert, which would have made the journey treacherous even if the land were peopled by allies instead of by enemies.

* * * *

By evening he had made arrangements to leave in the early morning hours. Before retiring, he checked the wound on his head and found it healing nicely, the pain almost completely gone. He smiled and thought of the gypsy wench; everything she had done for him she had done well. Perhaps he would see her again when he returned from his mission.

He shed his clothes and dropped to his bed. He had not quite drifted off to sleep when Krouba, sleeping on the floor beside him, roused him with a low, warning growl.

At once Kenneth grabbed his sword and called, “Who goes there?”

There was a rustle of movement near the door of his hut, and a throaty feminine voice said, “Hush, don’t rouse the camp.” In a moment Elaine had slipped into the bed with him.

“I thought you had gone back to your own camp,” he said.

“What kind of doctor would I be if I did not check on my patient?” she asked in a petulant tone. “Perhaps you have a fever, Sir Knight. You are warm to the touch.”

“And getting warmer,” he said with a chuckle, drawing her nearer.

* * * *

He left just at dawn the following day. Elaine did not awaken and he was loath to disturb her. He left Krouba in the care of his servant and set out while the camp was just beginning to stir.

He journeyed for that entire day and into the second. Syria’s burning sun had again begun to descend to the horizon when he paced the sandy deserts which lie near the Dead Sea. There the waves of the Jordan pour themselves into an inland sea from which the waters do not escape.

He had toiled among cliffs and rock walls, and leaving those rocky regions had come to that great plain where in ancient days the accursed cities provoked the dreadful vengeance of the Almighty.

The effort, the dangers, the thrust of his journey were forgotten in a burst of emotion as he viewed these scenes, long familiar to his imagination but now looked upon for the first time. There was the once fair and fertile valley of Siddim, now a parched and blighted waste, condemned to eternal sterility.

The sun shone upon this scene of desolation with almost intolerable splendor. All life seemed to have hidden itself from the burning rays but for his own solitary figure moving through the shifting sand at a slow pace and his horse, whom he was now leading.

He admitted again what he had already had ample occasion to realize, that the dress of the crusaders and the accoutrements of their horses were ill suited to the country through which they traveled.

He had donned full armor for the journey, not knowing what he might encounter. In the fashion of the day he wore not only a shirt and an undertunic, but a hauberk—a coat of linked mail—with mail gauntlets. As if this were not enough weight, there was in addition the triangular shield which hung round his neck and a barrel helmet of steel; under the helmet he wore a coif-de-mailles—a hood and collar of mail. His lower limbs too were sheathed in flexible mail, as were his feet.

Over all this he wore an embroidered surcoat, the purpose of which was to protect his armor from the burning rays of the sun.

As for weaponry, on one side he wore a stout quillon dagger and on the other a long, broad, single-edged falchion, its handle forming a cross. He carried a long, steel-headed lance, with one end resting on his stirrup and at the tip a little pennoncel to dally with whatever faint breeze might pass his way.

Nor was his horse clothed less weightily; he wore a heavy saddle hung with mail, covered in front with a peytrel of leather and mail and behind with a padded crupper to cover the loins. A mace hung from the saddlebow; the reins were secured by chainwork while the chamfroy over his face was in fact a steel plate, with openings for the eyes and nostrils and having in its middle a sharp spike which gave the beast the appearance of the famed unicorns, which some claimed to have seen here in Araby.

Many crusaders had died in the burning climate, their end no doubt hastened by the weight of their armor. But to Kenneth it was only an inconvenience.

The Good Lord he had come here to serve had cast his limbs in a mold of uncommon strength and endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs, which he took as a sure sign that he was to take up sword in His cause.

Traveling as he did alone, he had had time to ponder some matters that were much on his mind of late. Since coming to the Holy Land, his slender purse had melted away. Many of his fellow crusaders, as he well knew, made it a policy to replenish their wealth at the expense of the Palestinians, but he had exacted no gifts from the natives nor held any prisoners for ransom, both of which practices were common. The small party he had brought with him from Scotland had gradually dwindled. This alone did not particularly alarm him, as he was accustomed to think of his good sword as his safest escort and his own thought as his best companion.

Still it behooved him to face the fact that his straits were dire, and aside from spiritual privileges he saw no rewards that would come to himself as a result of this campaign. He had come without permission of his father, who had more than one reason to be offended, and so he could probably expect little welcome when he returned to Scotland.

Nature had begun to make demands for refreshment and repose, so he was glad when he saw two or three palm trees in the distance which he was sure marked the well he had been told to watch for. His good horse too, who had plodded forward with steady endurance, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and quickened his pace.

Rest was not to be gained so easily however. As he gazed at the distant cluster of trees it seemed to him as if something was moving among them. The distant form separated itself from the trees and began to move toward him with a speed that soon indicated a mounted horseman. His turban, long spear and green caftan, which floated behind him in the wind, revealed that he was a Saracen cavalier.

“In the desert no man meets a friend,” as an Eastern proverb has it. The Saracen, flying as if borne on the wings of an eagle, did not come as a friend. Kenneth mounted his horse, disengaging the lance from his saddle and, seizing it with his right hand, placed it in rest with its point half-elevated. He gathered up his reins in his left hand, put spurs to his horse and prepared to meet the charge of the stranger.

The Arabs are born horsemen, and this one was no exception. He came on at a speedy gallop, managing the horse more with his seat and the suggestions of his body than by use of the reins. He wore at his arm a lightweight round buckler—or shield—of rhinoceros skin, ornamented with silver loops, and he swung this as if he meant to defend himself with it against the knight’s formidable lance. He carried his own long spear not couched, as was Kenneth’s, but grasped by the middle in his right hand, and brandished it at arm’s length above his head.

He approached at a full gallop as if he expected Kenneth to put his own horse to the gallop to encounter him. But Kenneth was well acquainted by this time with the wiles of these Saracen warriors, and had no intention of exhausting his good horse unnecessarily. He made a dead halt, confident that should the Saracen advance to the actual shock, his weight and that of his horse would give him the advantage.

Apparently the approaching Arab thought the same thing; when he had approached within two spear lengths, he wheeled his horse nimbly to the left and rode twice around the knight while Kenneth, wheeling, but presenting always his face to him, prevented any attack at an unguarded point. At last, reining in his horse, the Arab retreated to a distance of a hundred yards.

A second time he swooped down upon Kenneth, and a second time thought the better of a close struggle, and retreated to a distance.

Kenneth could see that this elusive warfare might serve in time to wear him out or at least make him careless and when the Arab approached the third time, Kenneth seized the mace hanging at his saddlebow and hurled it against the head of his enemy.

The Saracen, who had the look of a man of rank, saw the danger almost too late and although he raised his light buckler to the defense, it did not prevent a grazing blow on his turban, which brought him off his horse.

Kenneth had little opportunity to take the advantage, however, for before he could have even dismounted the Saracen had called his horse to his side and leapt astride him again, without even using the stirrups.

On the other hand, Kenneth had recovered his mace and the Arab, remembering how he had used it, was cautious to stay out of reach of that weapon and some distance from the knight.

Now the Arab produced a short bow and, once more galloping in a circle around the knight, shot several arrows at him that, had it not been for his heavy armor, would have produced as many wounds.

Kenneth perceived that something must be done to change the nature of the contest. Grasping his side where an arrow had struck, he fell from his horse. Instantly his enemy was at his side, bending over him.

His wound had been only a ruse, however, and now Kenneth seized the Saracen for close combat. But the Arab was saved by his quickness and his presence of mind. Unable to rise swiftly, Kenneth had seized him by the sword belt, thinking to hold him while he rose; but the Saracen unloosed the belt and was gone again. His faithful charger seemed to watch his master’s movements with keen intelligence and understand all that transpired, and again he was there at the Saracen’s side, and again the Saracen mounted and rode off.

But this time he suffered a disadvantage because he was without his sword and his quiver of arrows, which had been attached to the girdle he had been obliged to abandon. This disadvantage—or the stalemate they had reached—seemed to give the Saracen thought. He approached again, but this time slowly and with his right hand extended in what Kenneth recognized as a gesture of peace.

“There is a truce between our two countries,” he said, using the lingua franca which was commonly used between the crusaders. “Therefore, why should we be at war? Why should there not be peace between us?”

“I have no objections to a peace,” Kenneth said. “But what security do you offer that you will observe the truce between us?”

“The word of a follower of the Prophet is never broken,” he said. “It is from you, brave Nazarene, that I would demand security, but for one thing. I know that treason is seldom combined in the same breast with such courage as you have displayed.”

His words made Kenneth rather ashamed of his own doubts, for what he had said was undoubtedly true. Kenneth put his hand to his weapon, but this time not threateningly.

“By the cross of my sword,” he said, “and by the cross that I follow, I will be a true companion, Saracen, while we are in company together.”

“By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet, there is no treachery in my heart toward you. And now let us travel to yonder fountain. The hour of rest is at hand and the stream had barely cooled my lips when I was called to battle by your approach.”

Kenneth yielded a ready and courteous assent, and at the side of his erstwhile foe, without any angry look or a gesture of doubt on either side, rode toward the little cluster of palm trees.