The Leopard Sword (14 page)

I sat beside a large red clay urn that was bursting with rosemary, the fragrant medicinal herb luxuriating in the afternoon sun.

I turned at the sound of a step nearby, but to my surprise it was Nigel. He was dressed in a smock of rich blue, a leopard in scarlet on his breast. Hours before, we had hurried through the gates of the envoy's dwelling, and Fulke had successfully persuaded the Orsini allies to retreat and be prepared to negotiate for Tomasso's release.

“I'm told,” said my master,“that if I stand way over at one end of this roof garden, I can gaze across the River Tiber and see the tomb of Hadrian the Great.”

I hid my disappointment that my visitor was not the person I had been expecting. “A great emperor of Rome,” I said, remembering my studies. “He mastered the pagan tribes of England, or do I confuse him with some other champion?”

“He's long reduced to bone dust, I'm sure. But his monument remains.”

I wondered if Nigel, who was capable of both interesting and tedious discourse, had climbed the stairs to provide me with a lesson in Roman history.

I had been wanting to ask all afternoon, “How did Sir Rannulf capture Tomasso?”

“In my friend's usual manner,” said Nigel. “He took a blow or two, I'm sorry to say, but then he used his sword to snap a few halberds. He killed Tomasso's horse with one blow to the neck—you've seen it done—and then he stood, one foot on the stunned Roman's throat until the fellow had wits enough to surrender. I believe Rannulf would have killed him, if I hadn't asked him not to.”

“It was not a pretty fight?”

“Is it ever?” Nigel laughed.

“What will Sir Maurice do with Tomasso?” I asked.

“Treat him well, with meat and drink,” said Nigel. “Politics is often a matter of taking hostages, and holding them until some favor is produced.These Romans are accustomed to this—it is a dangerous sport, I believe. Sometimes the lord Pope helps negotiate a particularly difficult agreement.”

“Perhaps,” I said with a laugh, “I am fortunate to be so ignorant of the ways of great cities.”

“I have tidings for you, Squire Hubert,” said Sir Nigel, sitting down beside me. “Sir Maurice has offered you a position, here in Rome.”

“Doing what duty, my lord?” I managed to stammer.

“The lady Galena, it seems, has high praise for your alertness and courage today. If you wish to be an assistant to the royal envoy in Rome, and learn the ways of royal intrigue, here is your future.”

And, I told myself, if I wished to stay close to the envoy's daughter.

“And you, my lord—would you be able to stay?”

“I have a mission to London with Sir Luke.” Neither Nigel nor Rannulf had admired King Richard's prowess as a commander. It was true, however, that Richard was an anointed monarch, and the opportunity to serve him was an honorable way to secure the future.

“And Edmund?”

“The position is yours alone, Hubert—if I give my consent. Edmund will travel with us to England, and we leave tomorrow on a trip that could take months.”

A richly detailed vision rose within me—a dream of myself as an envoy in the making, ordering servants, receiving messengers, washing my hands in a wide, silver bowl held by a servant.

A dream of taking Galena in my arms.

Rome is a city of bells, every church and chapel sounding forth its glory. Now a distant bell beat out a cascade of sounds, and where a moment before I had heard only a bell's clapper striking bronze, now I heard the far-off bell make a sound like words:
Stay here, stay here.

Or was it
Go home, go home
?

“Look!” exclaimed Maurice. “See here what the kitchen servants found in the gizzard of tonight's goose.”

He held up a coin and passed it around, the inscription and profile on the money worn nearly smooth.

We were dining, as before, without Galena, although Tomasso joined us, dressed in a sunny tunic, an amber ring on his forefinger. Two spearmen accompanied us tonight, standing against the wall, and Rannulf kept a pleasant but proprietary eye on our prisoner-guest. Occasionally Tomasso ran his eyes over to the shadowy spearmen and back to Rannulf, who met the Roman's glance with a friendly glance of his own. The two made efforts to communicate, searching for common words for
salt, bread, bruise.

Rannulf's brow was discolored, and a cut along his neck bore a smear of medicine, some knight's concoction no doubt, perhaps carrot root and cooking grease. Rannulf often behaved like a man who believed himself made of hardwood—but he was not.

I had not discussed the opportunity Sir Maurice had offered me with anyone—and certainly not with Edmund. I suffered keen inward turmoil, even the freshly baked bread tasteless in my mouth. I wished I could ask Father Giles for advice on how to guess the will of Heaven.

“I've seen objects show up in fowl from time to time, my lord,” Nigel was saying. “I believe there are English geese that feed strictly on lost buttons.”

“And I heard of a goose cut open in Derby,” I said, “with a red agate ring in its crop.”

Tomasso listened to our conversation, perhaps with a little comprehension, and passed the coin along to Edmund.

“But surely,” said Sir Maurice, with a slightly exasperated smile,“it is just a little unusual to find gold in the innards of the evening's meal.”

“It isn't fine gold, my lords,” said Edmund. “If you'll permit me—it's copper with a bare alloy of gold and perhaps tin.”

“Ah,” said Sir Maurice. He took a sip of wine, and inquired, “And how does a squire from Nottingham know that?”

Edmund blushed, his eyes suddenly downcast. “No doubt I'm mistaken, my lord.”

Sir Nigel held out his cup for more wine, and a servant filled it to the brim.“Since we are all men-at-arms together,” said Nigel, “and we all count ourselves loyal, squire and knight, I may explain Edmund's expertise on the subject of debased coinage, with the permission of my lord.”

Nigel gave a graceful, brisk account of Edmund's employer and master, the late moneyer Otto, who had been killed by the Exchequer's men. Edmund himself had faced brutal punishment, and Nigel recounted Edmund's appointment as his squire by the lord sheriff of Nottingham. Sir Nigel offered, in conclusion, the opinion that Edmund had “proved himself equal to any squire on Crusade.”

“More than equal,” said Rannulf.

“I was blessed in my master,” said Edmund, with the earnest directness that marked so much of his speech, “and in my friend.” With this last remark he gave me a warm glance.

“Heaven's blessing on us all,” said Sir Maurice, evidently pleased. Every good-hearted Christian loves a story of a sinner earning God's forgiveness, especially on the field of battle.

“Which man of us,” Rannulf surprised me by saying, “does not have sins that require cleansing with enemy blood?”

“Which indeed?” said Sir Maurice.The banneret frowned thoughtfully, and ran a finger over his lips.“But I hope you'll not take offense if I have one suggestion for all of you.”

“A suggestion from you, my lord,” said Nigel, taking another long drink of wine,“is worth more than any gizzard trove.”

“Be wary,” said Sir Maurice, “of enemies on your return to England.”

“Who would challenge the four of us, my lord?” inquired Nigel.

“None of us is safe,” said Maurice.

“I pray God I have no enemies,” said Edmund, sounding shaken.

“Of course you don't,” responded Sir Maurice good-naturedly. “But I myself fear Prince John is stealing into power in London.”

I felt a chill in my belly, spreading out into my limbs. “What can the prince do there, my lord?” I asked.

“Our own King Richard,” Maurice continued, “God's chosen monarch, is afraid that his own brother might creep like a creature on many little legs onto the throne.”

The banneret lowered his voice. “Edmund, if anyone spreads the slander that you did not acquit yourself bravely during battle, or that you continued the sin of thievery while you voyaged, then you will face punishment on your return—as though you had never joined these worthy knights on Crusade.”

That night rain pattered on the shuttered window. I could not sleep.

I prayed to Saint Julian, the patron saint of wanderers in special need. I understood that only seamen and carters prayed to such a saint. My family kept faith a simple, correct matter, never dreaming of soiling our knees in sudden prayer, like the devout plowman frightened by thunder.

But lying there in my bed, I felt the tug of Heaven.

I had already made my decision, as soon as I heard Sir Maurice's warning.

Just before we left Nottingham—it seemed a lifetime ago—Nigel had received a warrant for Edmund's further arrest. Nigel had ignored the warrant with a dry laugh, explaining that it lacked an official seal. I wondered now whether people in positions of power might continue to consider Edmund a felon.

Especially if someone arrived there before us, to slander my friend.

 

 

I rose from my bed in the predawn gray and scurried through the house, hurrying from hall to corridor, until I could follow the sound of voices.

Sir Maurice and Sir Nigel were sharing their morning wine, dipping white bread into the beverage—the morning meal of noblemen.

“I shall give you a letter of credence,” Sir Maurice was saying, indicating a sealed scroll at his elbow.“Unless you run afoul of Prince John's men, you shall pass every sentry without any trouble.”

I knelt before them and waited for them to realize I was there.

“A squire joins us,” said Nigel.

“Does he?” said Sir Maurice, and I realized, with some embarrassment, that I had been on his blind side.

“Good morning to you both, my lords,” I said, still kneeling.

“Ah,” said Sir Maurice, endowing the syllable with a dignified sorrow.“I can tell by the sword at your side what your decision turns out to be.”

“Hubert, you understand that I could forbid you to depart with us,” said Nigel. “I could choose to command you, on pain of punishment, to serve the worthy envoy here in Rome, whether you wish it or not.”

“My lords,” I began, Nigel's remark causing me pain. “I pray your forgiveness if I've offended.”

“Rise up, good Squire Hubert,” said Maurice with a laugh. “And save your strength for a long and bitter voyage to our unsettled home.”

 

 

 

Edmund and I were in the cellar of the envoy's house, meeting with Anselm Waybridge, the armorer. Rannulf had directed us to this craftsman's attention, saying that our weapons would benefit from care before our travels.

The armorer used a
fylor,
a rasping metal tool, to put an edge on our swords. The armorer was English, attached to Sir Maurice's household, but came from a corner of the kingdom where some local dialect and a bristling accent made it very difficult for us to understand him.This occurrence was fairly common—one hundred miles from home the innkeepers spoke foreign-sounding words. But this man made every effort to speak as we did, even hazarding a little Frankish, and the result was a halting, confused—if friendly—conversation.

“No one wants to go on a journey,” he seemed to say, “without a keen-edged sword.”

“No, we certainly don't,” I agreed.

He made a motion of waves with his hands, and indicated that the sea—perhaps he meant the salt air—was not good for sword metal.

Edmund and I agreed heartily.

Anselm peered along the edge of my weapon, where the blade had struck the wall. He offered something critical about my luck, or the hardness of the wall, but smiled and said that a few licks of his tool would set it right.

A step whispered, and I turned.

“If the good Squire Hubert,” said Blanche in a stiff, haughty tone, “could spare only one moment of his very precious time.”

 

 

Galena's usually plaited hair had been brushed over her shoulders. Her silk gown whispered when she moved.When she passed before the light that spilled through a window, the morning sun illuminated the sea-blue folds of her garment.

“I understand,” she said, “that you have decided to leave for England today.”

“I follow my duty,” I said, hating the wooden sound of my own speech.

Women did not usually appear before men with their hair down, preferring to have it plaited, veiled, or fully covered. These long, loose tresses betokened illness, or even bereavement. Her hair caught the light as she paced, and she spoke as though to Blanche, barely looking at me.

“Duty,” she said, “is evidently both a complicated and powerful force—little understood by women.”

There is an art of conversation known to courtly folk. A man seeking to discuss carnal affection might touch upon the subject of the loom, the bobbing of the loom weight, the passing in and out of scarlet thread among the beige. I had heard enough poetry to attempt such conversation—when my wits were not clouded by feeling.

But now my mouth spoke words without my ability to choose or to stop them. “I will dream of this city,” I said. “And of you.”

I had never made such a bold—and truthful—assertion to a woman in my life.

Galena stopped pacing and looked at me. “I wish it were so,” she said.

“My lady, I will come back to Rome,” I said. “If it is in my power.”