Читать книгу The Sword and the Rose - V. J. Banis - Страница 9

CHAPTER FIVE

’tis true that we are in great danger....

—King Henry V

“How on earth far is this dreadful place?” Berengaria made a disgusted face across at Joan.

“Another day’s travel, they say,” Joan replied, brushing a hand wearily across her brow. They were riding pillion behind two serving men; another time the queen would have ridden in a litter, but that would have made her identity too conspicuous for this journey. Behind them came the queen’s ladies, Clorise, Callista and Amy, each riding the pillion seat behind a servant on horseback. Two knights and a bowman rode in front of them, and another such group behind them. The late afternoon sun glinted on the exposed metal of the knights’ armor, hurting Joan’s eyes.

It was late in the afternoon when they stopped to pitch camp. The servants set about putting up the tents for the ladies and building fires to cook supper, while the knights took up positions in a ring around the camp.

“What an awful place,” Berengaria complained, her pretty lips forming a pout while she surveyed the rugged terrain. “I’m sorry we came. Why couldn’t that holy man have come to see us? After all, I am the queen of England, am I not? Shouldn’t that carry some weight?”

“Perhaps not with a man who has withdrawn from the world,” Joan said patiently. “And the good bishop has said many times there is a special blessing upon those who make a holy pilgrimage.”

“Well, the good bishop never had to spend days on end journeying through this godforsaken land.”

Joan let her gaze go to the mountains rising up before them. The sun had turned the rocks into precious metals and gems; that outcropping there was gold, surely, and that ridge there burning crimson was carnelian, was it not? The heat had burned the blue of the sky to an almost white tint with no trace of a cloud. Here and there on the hills could be seen the green of grass and shrub, thickening as the terrain mounted higher. Not a dozen feet from where they stood, a snake slithered behind a rock with a faint, rustling sound.

It was a savage place, true, but she was willing to concede it a wild beauty that could not but stir something within her. Perhaps it was the lion’s blood that ran in her kinsman’s veins, and in some diluted part in hers as well. How tame, how simple and rustic, would England look after these dramatic vistas.

“If,” she told herself, “I ever see England again.”

For she had begun to consider what she would never have voiced to her companions; the possibility that they—that all of their vast entourage—might perish here in this desert. It was common talk outside of the royal tents that supplies were running perilously low, and soon they must either push forward to some place where they could seize new ones or retreat. If Richard were well, perhaps they would be able to push on; but without him she had begun to wonder if they would even be able to effect a safe retreat.

Once, as a girl, she had made her way down to the kitchens of her father’s castle. In the kitchen yard she had watched the cook slaying fowl for their dinner. Cook began by severing their heads, then releasing the headless bodies. The poor creatures ran about the yard as if unaware their heads were gone, flapping their wings, their steps growing weaker; gradually they sank to the ground, making little kicking motions, and at last they were still.

Illness had removed the head of their army; if he did not recover, it would be permanent. In the meantime they were like the bodies of those poor fowl; for a time they continued in motion, as if alive. But gradually their efforts grew weaker, their lifeblood spilling from them, until they soon would be able to do nothing but sink wearily to the ground and, with a few futile kicks, die.

Her attention was brought sharply back to the present; something was happening. One of the knights had suddenly cried out and run toward his companions, his armor clanging.

“What is it?” Berengaria asked. She made a face as she took a step. “Oh, those fool horses, why couldn’t I have ridden in a litter? What’s happening, Joan?”

Joan had followed the knight’s pointing finger; in the distance she saw a cloud of dust. Even as she watched it grew, drawing nearer, and she saw a flash of sunlight upon metal.

She felt a flash of something within herself too, a quickening of her senses. Too long had she sat in the royal tents, chafing with boredom and inactivity. Her nostrils flared as she seemed to catch the scent of danger blowing on the wind.

“I think, royal madam, that we are being attacked,” she said aloud.

“Attacked?” There was a squeal from the other ladies, who had heard only the one word.

“What do you mean, Joan?” Berengaria demanded, her voice ascending on the last to a near shriek.

Joan pointed. “Surely those are Arab horsemen,” she said. “See, you can make out their turbans now. And I think, with their javelins raised like that, they aren’t coming in peace.”

Berengaria and the ladies looked and their screams rent the air. “This is your fault,” the queen berated Joan. “We could have been escorted by an army instead of half a dozen men.”

“We could have stayed at home,” Joan said smiling, “but travelers must be content.”

The knight who was in charge, a burly fellow of Norman descent, came to where the ladies had gathered.

“Your Highness and royal ladies, I think it best if you retire to your tents,” he said.

Berengaria and the others were quick to comply, running with little shrieks and sobs for the illusory safety of their cloth tents, but Joan remained where she was, staring toward the riders who now approached within the range of arrows. What did she care to hide in a tent? That would not protect her from Arab swords.

“Madam,” the knight began, but she interrupted him.

“Go, defend us, and God be with you,” she said, putting a gentle hand upon his mail-encased arm. “I will retire in good time.”

He had scant time in which to argue with her. One of his fellows called to him, and with a last anxious glance at her, he turned and strode quickly to join the defense.

The knights had formed a semicircle between the camp and the approaching horsemen. The bowmen knelt behind the knights so that they were protected, but could still fire from between them upon the enemy.

By this time Joan had seen that there were perhaps two or three dozen Arabs in the attacking band. The little ring of knights and bowmen—six men in all—backed by the servants armed with knives and clubs, looked pitifully inadequate to withstand the attack.

“We should have stayed with Richard,” she told herself; but even as she said it, she gave a little laugh of excitement. How she would have liked to be a man now! She put her hand down and felt the hilt of the dagger she had fastened to her belt. Let the Saracens come. One of them at least would taste the steel of her blade, and would know that an Englishwoman was more than fair hair and white thighs, as she had once heard a French knight say.

The fight had begun in earnest now. As quickly as they were able the bowmen loosed their arrows, while the English knights fought off with lance and broadsword the attacks of the bolder Arabs. The Arabs had begun to circle them on horseback, sending their own arrows into the English camp, charging in singly with sword or javelin flashing to clash metal with a knight and then dashing back out of reach. The dust raised by their horses’ hooves now choked the air, making Joan cough. As they fought, the Arabs let loose bloodcurdling cries that cut through the flesh as surely as any sword. Joan could smell blood and dust and the sweat of horses and men. Still she did not run to her tent but remained where she was, her eyes missing none of the action.

Even to her woman’s eyes it was apparent that the tide was against the English knights. The great numbers of the Arabs, the mobility their horses gave them against the unmounted knights, and the lightning swiftness of their sallies were telling upon the armored knights. One of the knights and one of the bowmen had fallen, and another of the knights fought bravely with one arm while the other hung bleeding and useless at his side.

Suddenly one of the Arabs broke through the ranks of the defenders and, almost before Joan realized what was happening, he was charging down upon her. She could see the sweat glistening on his brow and the light of lust flashing in his eyes. Her hand went to her dagger.

Before she could draw it, though, the remaining bowman had turned and loosed an arrow that entered the man’s back and came straight through, its point suddenly erupting from his chest in a gush of blood. The horse thundered past Joan, and the Arab, lifeless already, tumbled from the saddle to fall at her feet.

The English bowman, however, had given his life to save hers. He had turned his back upon the enemy and, before he could turn again and reload his weapon, an Arab sword had slashed across his shoulders, all but severing his head.

By now the fight was nearly over. Another knight had fallen and only two armored men, one of them severely wounded, and a handful of servants with sticks, stood to resist the charge of the horsemen. The Arabs regrouped their forces and with dreadful shouts and cries raced into the camp, flinging men aside, lashing left and right with their swords. The ground had turned to crimson mud.

Joan turned and walked rather than ran back to her tent, her head held high. Although her heart was pounding anyone who saw her might have thought she was out for a stroll in the keep of her father’s castle. Her royal pride would not let her show her fear; she was cousin to Richard, the greatest king of England, and though she must die, she would die accordingly.

Behind her metal clanged and there was a stench of death in the air. She could hear the ladies and the queen, in the queen’s tent, shrieking and sobbing with one another. She did not care to join them, desiring instead the solitude of her own little tent. It was dark and cool inside, and the silken walls muffled the sounds from without.

She had hardly entered the tent before there was a footstep from without and the curtain was ripped aside to reveal an Arab warrior. He paused in the opening, his dark eyes raking her hungrily. His lips were parted in a cruel grin, revealing teeth that gleamed in startling contrast to his darkened skin. He was tall, with the tawny coloring of a desert animal.

Now he strode boldly across the tent and put out a hand to seize her.

The blade of her knife cut through the air and slashed across the back of his hand.

He was quicker than she was, though, and jerked his hand aside so that the blade left only a superficial wound. In a twinkling he had leapt toward her and seized her wrist in a viselike grip. He was slim and looked somewhat puny, but she discovered now that his long, slender fingers possessed a wiry strength she would never have suspected. She fought against him, but despite her efforts the weapon was wrested from her and flung aside.

“And now, my beautiful English rose,” he said. With an evil laugh he seized the fabric of her bliaut and tore it away from her shoulders. The cloth was like paper in his hands, nor did her undertunic and her chemise offer him any greater difficulty. In an instant her upper clothes had been ripped apart down to her girdle and hung like rags about her hips, leaving her body from the waist up naked to his hungry gaze.

“Our orders were to leave the queen unharmed,” he said, running his tongue over his lips, “but we have no such orders regarding you. You will pay dearly for that scratch on my hand.”

She tried vainly to cover her breasts with her hands. A shudder of terror went through her.