Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 Page 4

  His recent venture east as part of Juliannes honour-guard had been curtailed, but had still reaped a taste of trouble among the Elessi.

  Now, though - now he was headed directly into the heart of Outremer, and could not hope to escape the public eye. All down this long road there would be petty grandees offering food and wine and hospitality, offering their sons to the adventure, perhaps throwing their marriageable daughters into this lordly company. Blustering barons, hopeful boys and giggling girls alike would seek to learn his name.

  Above all there would be constant fresh arrivals, recruits come to join this building army. The Order might make the hammerhead, but every hammer needs a solid shaft. There were swords, bows, axes in their hundreds aboard the wagons at the columns tail. Any man who offered would be armed and welcomed to the march; every lordling who answered the preceptors summons would be given his place of honour, and would mingle as of right among the knights. Anton could no more lie about his history than he could hope to hide his face. Anton d'Escrivey rode out into the world again, after so long silence; let the world make what it would of the fact, of him. He would be interested to see the results.

  And might see them sooner even than he'd budgeted for; a group of men was waiting at a crossroads up ahead, two of them mounted and the rest afoot. Some minor noble and his eldest son, this ought to be, with a dozen retainers, all that their estate could spare. First to join, and they would carry that like a banner, Anton thought: before the horde, before our liege lord even, there were the Ransomers and there was us, they treated us like brothers...

  So much so that Fulke himself rode on ahead to greet them, to offer honour where it was so manifestly due, so manifestly expected. He could be a diplomat, then, as well as an inspired preacher; whether he was or could learn to be a soldier, that was yet to be seen.

  There was - of course! - a shrine at the crossroads; there was also, mirabile dictu, a spring that still gave water in this height of summer. Or not such a miracle, perhaps: he'd grown so used to the drouth of the Roq and its lands of dust, he'd forgotten how fertile the Kingdom was in its long lie between the mountains and the sea. Even one morning's ride south into Tallis, a rising purple shadow to the east gave better protection from the desert wind and the drifting sand. There was more roll than jut to the hills, more soil than rock, more green than grey. The spring was a slow bubbling pool rather than an overrunning freshet and they daren't let the animals near for fear of their hooves churning it into an undrinkable mire, but if the column rested for an hour—and if the brothers and squires worked all that hour, fetching and filling with their knees in the mud — every horse and ox could be refreshed. Never lose a chance to water your mount was an order ingrained into every man of the Order, after a few months' service at the Roq. Of course, they would pause.

  And of course the knights would not scurry about with their boys and their black-robed comrades, after they had all knelt before the shrine to say the midday service with Marshal Fulke. Of course they would gather in a separate and superior group, to eat and talk quietly among themselves. And of course Anton would linger with them, sooner than make a target of himself, one man apart from all. And of course the nobles son would drift away from his father, towards the young men whose dress and armour bespoke their rank, whose bearing and demeanour must seem so attractive.

  He was an open-faced, cheery lad no older than the squires who were busy tending their masters' horses, sixteen or seventeen at most, and he was possessed of a tongue that wouldn't stop wagging. Anton was more accustomed to shyness and quiet obedience among the young, after his years in the Order; this boy was almost a revelation, certainly a reminder that he was riding into a different world.

  .. This isn't my place, not really, it ought to be my brothers, to ride with Father; but he's been sick for weeks, he's had the fever, and our mother wouldn't let him come. He swears he's well enough now, but he's thin yet and he can't stop coughing. So Father said I could come in his stead. Mother was against that too, she thinks I'm too young, but he said he wouldn't ride alone while he had two sons and one strong enough to bear arms for the King and the God. It's what I've always wanted anyway, always. Not Roben, that's my brother, he has a farmer's soul, Father says, he loves our land and never wants to leave it; it's a blessing, ‘think, that he's been so ill. Now that he's getting better, I mean. He can stay, as he really wants to, and I can go to the war.

  'Roben would never make a soldier anyway, but I think I will. I mean, I hope so. I've never been afraid to fight. Not that Roben's afraid, I don't mean to say that; nor a weakling either, it's just that his heart's in the land, do you see what I mean ... ?'

  'Emphatically,' Raffel murmured. 'Halben, a soldier's first duty is service—which is generally taken to include standing quiet among his betters, as a good servant does. Do you think you could manage that?'

  'Oh. Forgive me, sieur. My mother always says I was born with a brook running out of my mouth, but

  'I'm sure she does. Its all right, lad, I was teasing. It is true, though, that a young warrior should look first to serve; have you ever thought of offering your service to the God? As we do, I mean, as knights of the Order?'

  'All my life,' the boy said simply. 'Father wouldn't countenance it, though, he says its too expensive. If I had been the elder, then perhaps; I think he would have liked to see my brother take the white for a year, and earn his badge. But Roben doesn't want it, and Father won't pay for me to stand in my brother's place.'

  'He may change his mind, if he sees you do well with us.' Even from where he stood on the edge of the circle, Anton could see the look on the boy's face, and guessed that that idea had already occurred. He hid his smile better than some of his confreres, but then lost it completely as Raffel went on, 'If you cannot make your vows to the Order, you can at least offer us your service before we come to battle. One among us has need of a squire, if you would be willing . . . ?'

  Of course Halben was willing, his speaking face said so even before his thrilled voice could confirm it. Anton felt his own face darken in response, with that clouding scowl he'd seen so often mirrored in others' wide and frightened eyes. For once he took the necessary moment to dispel it, before he pushed his way through the mill to where he had least intended to find himself, the centre of the circle and the focus of each man's gaze. Raffel wouldn't frighten, after all, and the boy was an innocent in this, he didn't deserve even the margin of Anton's anger.

  He didn't deserve even as much as Anton must give him, here and now.

  'A soldier's duty is to serve, perhaps; a soldier's wisdom is never to volunteer, at least until he knows to what he has promised himself. To whom. I am the one my brother speaks of so casually. When you have heard my name, you may not be so eager to stand as my servant.'

  'Sieur, I will gladly attend any Knight Ransomer who thinks me worthy...'

  Perhaps there was some trace left after all of Anton's scowl; the boy stuttered into an unaccustomed silence, as their eyes met.

  'It is not your worthiness that is in question, Halben.' Anton tried a smile, but even he could feel the bitterness of it as he went on, 'I am called Anton d'Escrivey. If you have not heard that name, you should ask your father's advice before you commit yourself to it.'

  No need for that, transparently. The boy had heard the name, and some at least of the stories attached to it. He went first pale, and then scarlet beneath his farmer's tan; his feet carried him backwards seemingly against his intent while his arms flailed to shape excuses in the air, while his tongue ran loose and desperate. He should not give himself against his father's express desire, his father would in any case require a squire's service of him, his mother had always cursed him for a clumsy oaf who couldn't serve a cup of wine without spilling it, and usually on whichever poor man it was whom he was serving ...

  By the time the lad had squirmed his way through the press of men at his back and scurried off to join his parent, still apparently crying alibis to the wind, Anton ha
d a better hold of his temper.

  'Raffel,' he said, and felt pleased with himself for the moderate tone in which he said it, 'that was not fair.'

  'Was it not? Then I apologise. But you could not have hoped to keep the secret longer than a day or two, Anton. There will be many more who join us, and there must be some to know you, you have not changed so much

  'I have no intention of keeping secrets. I meant that it was unfair to the boy, to offer me as the fulfilment of his dreams. He was all on fire with delight, with this chance and this company; likely now some part of him at least wants to creep home to his mother. ‘‘He will know that he can never be quite comfortable with us again, even if you do not.'

  And never a word about his own discomfort, or his own distress. To have been offered a lively younger son as squire and companion, a boy who couldn't stop talking about his brother - no, that had been neither fair nor kind, at a time when Anton must needs confront ghosts with every mile of the ride, and it was the ghost of his own brother who overshadowed all. Almost, Anton could find himself longing to be back at the Roq again, and only yearning for Marron's impossible return. Almost...

  All afternoon, small groups of men joined the column, petty nobles and landowners with their retinues. There were enough youngsters among them that Halben found his courage, left his fathers side and spread his whispers widely: you see that man, that one there, the dark head and the haughty glare? That's Anton d'Escrivey Yes, that's right, the fratricide who fled his brother's body and his father's wrath to hide in the arms of the Order. They say he's a boy-lover too, that his brother caught him at it and so died; and he asked me to be his squire, me...

  That much Anton could live with, as he must do. There would be weeks more of it to come. He urged his mount and a few chosen companions forward, to ride in the columns vanguard and so escape the sidelong glances, put some little distance between himself and the muttering boys; but that only provided the chance that broke him for this day. They met a priest on the road and gathered about him for his blessing, threw back their hoods to show the strength of their vows — and Anton saw an accusing finger rise to point him out, heard his own infamy declaimed.

  'You! I know your face and style, however you try to mask yourself in holy robes. I had heard that you ran to the Ransomers for sanctuary, that you sought to flee the Kings justice by buying a place among their ranks; I had not thought to see you ride out so brazenly, in defiance of all honour. You are a marked man, Anton d'Escrivey. Your dress and vows may shield you from your desserts, though it is shame to the Order that it granted you so much favour; they will not shield you from your disgrace.'

  'My disgrace is my own,' as was his sudden fury, though that at least he did try to mask behind the chill of a long-practised voice, 'for me to carry as I may. My soul and honour are given, not sold, to the God. As are yours, if your own dress speak you true. My sins have been confessed,' or some of them, those that the world twisted in whispers, 'and I have served penance for them all. Do you not believe in redemption, that the Church says may be granted to all who repent?'

  'I believe in the King's law, that says murderers shall answer for their crime, and suffer death when it is proved against them.'

  'So do I, but the God's law takes precedence even over the King's. Besides, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have never yet been a murderer. Now stand aside, or I may have a better case to answer.' He could keep the anger out of his voice, but his body rebelled against control; his hand touched the hilt of his sword Josette.

  'Would you threaten a priest, sworn to the God's service?'

  'No, but I see no priest here. Only a man whose words deny his robes, who sets public gossip before the teachings of the Church, whose blessing would taint our venture. Stand aside, or I will ride you down.'

  He urged Alembert forward; the man scurried to the side of the road in a swirl of skirts and dust, as Anton's companions closed around him. At their backs, they heard a shrill curse sent against them. Some made the sign of the God superstitiously against brow or breast; Anton kept both hands on the reins, and his eyes firmly on the horizon.

  'Anton, was that well done?'

  'No, probably not. But it has been done, and may need to be done again and yet again before we come to Surayon. You need not ride beside me, if you fear the curses of the stupid.'

  It was a sign of how things had so recently changed for him, that his confreres laughed at that and promised to stay close. It was a sign of how he was not so immune as he had thought himself, that he led them deliberately slowly until others could catch up, Marshal Fulke among them.

  'Magister,' he said then, 'the sun will be setting in an hour; it might be good if some few of us rode a little ahead, to find a place where the army may camp for the night. Unless you know this land ... ?'

  'Not I. All Outremer is new to me. But I had thought to press on until we reached Allansford. We will be late, but we can say the service as we ride, the Order has dispensation to do that on campaign; and the preceptors messengers told men to gather there ...'

  'All the more reason to avoid it until the morning. If we arrive tonight, in the dark, it will be chaos and we'll get no rest. Come the light they'll be looking for us, and we can arrange the column as we wish.'

  Fulke nodded slowly. 'Ride on, then, see what comfort you can find. The knights will want ground to pitch their tents, no doubt, and the animals will want water. You know what is needful, Sieur Anton. Go and seek it, with my blessing.'

  Was there perhaps an extra meaning to that, as though the marshal had met a raving, cursing priest beside the road? Anton wasn't certain, but he said his thanks more gracefully than he might otherwise have done, before he spurred forward to rejoin his companions.

  Anton knew this country little better than Fulke did. He had travelled all the length of Outremer, which few of his generation could claim, but only the once and only to reach Roq de Ran con, to be as far as the land could take him from any word of home. His mind had not been on the landscape then, his eyes had been focused on matter less solid and more real than the trees and fields he had passed by. He had almost no memory of those weeks, only that he had ridden his horse and himself to exhaustion every day. He must have bought or begged food on the journey, but could not remember a meal; he must have slept, but only when he was too weary to sit the saddle any longer. He thought he did remember toppling to the ground more than once, and waking next morning where he had fallen.

  Now he gazed about him as he rode, and saw fields of corn and millet on either side. Alembert’s hooves splashed through streams in the valley bottoms; where the land rose too high and dry to support crops, ancient fig and olive trees spread their twisted branches above twisting roots. He began to wonder whether they would find any stretch of ground clear enough to make an encampment for even this small force, these few hundreds of men; whether they might not after all have to ride on in the dark till they came to the township at Allansford.

  After another valley with an infant river in its cleft, though, there came another ridge; and the road climbed higher than ever yet, through olive-groves to a rocky summit too bare to nourish any tree. There was no water, but the beasts could be picketed along the river-bank below while the men made camp on the height. If the baggage-wagons must come up with his confreres' tents and kettles, no doubt the brothers could haul them.

  'This will do,' he said, turning his eyes southerly and seeing nothing better in the long, late shadows that cloaked the road. 'Torres, will you ride back and tell the marshal what we have found? Quickly, before the sun sets? Say your prayers with him; and tell him that we will make a beacon here, to catch the eyes of the Order and promise rest after a long day's ride.'

  He had no right of command, but the knights listened to him now, where they had only laughed before. Torres nodded, turned his mount and went swiftly back down the ridge.

  'Come, then! Hewers of wood and drawers of water we must be, while the sun lingers. Raffel, will you take the
horses down to drink, while we gather windfall branches for a blaze?'

  'Gladly, if Tomas will assist. Give me your reins here. A knight may care for his mount and his companions' at need, but gleaning wood is brothers' labour. Brothers or peasants, and I am neither.'

  'There's no disgrace in labour. Brother.' A hard word for Anton to say, and he meant it hardly. And would you deny our confreres a light to fix their eyes on, a sign of journey's end? They'll welcome it, I swear to you ...'

  He spoke lightly, teasingly against Raffel’s pride, but Anton meant it deeply. It was what he had looked for every night from the castle walls and been denied, what he had truly never hoped to see, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. He could offer to others what no one offered to him, and that was another change in him, he thought.

  Sherard carried an axe at his saddle-bow, but would not use it. 'No sense in angering the master of these lands. They are not our trees to fell. And if they were, still I would not touch them. Older than us, older than the Kingdom: some of these olives are older than your family, d'Escrivey, or mine. Some might have been rooted here before the God walked this country. Would you cut that thread of history, would you kill a tree that the God Himself might have seen and touched and eaten from, for the sake of a fire on a hot night?'

  'Not I,' Anton murmured, smiling. 'Olives as old as these will drop their branches under the suns weight as a boy with cracked knuckles drops his sword. Let s gather what they've let fall, and be thankful.'

  Collecting wood meant unaccustomed labour, scrambling over steep slopes with uncertain footing, dragging awkward branches. Anton was not the first to strip off his heavy cloak and mail, nor the last to envy Raffel and Tomas their easier task with the horses.

  Eventually, though, Anton could strike a light from flint and tinder, to coax a fire into life. As the boughs began to catch, he straightened and turned his back to the rising flames, in time to see the last red touch of the sun flare across the distant line of the sea.