The Dragon Throne (5 page)

And the winding, homely streets of Nottingham—he'd be able to walk the muddy lanes and see the tavern louts and the street-pigs. He wanted to go home.

“You'd ride with manhunters trailing you every step of the way,” cautioned the priest.

Hubert leaned forward, and continued intently, “Please find Edmund a sword—or a war hammer, if it is in your power.”

“And you'll need mounts, and enough coin to pay for your bread and ale,” said the priest with an air of mock-exasperation.

“Yes,” agreed Hubert, “we'll need all of that.”

Father Catald's words were solemn but his eyes merry as he added, “Do I look like a man of miracles?”

THE EARLY MORNING WAS COLD.

The four knights rode north. The road was bright with the previous night's rain. A holy man leaned on his staff and raised a shaky gesture of blessing. Such wandering souls were poor and sometimes so devout that they spoke only to pray.

Edmund searched in the new leather purse and selected a silver penny, stamped with the likeness of old King Henry—Father Catald had been generous. Edmund asked, the holy man, “Have any men-at-arms passed this way?”

“None but you, blessed Crusaders,” came the trembling response. The holy traveler was gaunt, and clung to his staff with a red-knuckled fist. A silver penny was more money than most poor folk saw in months, and he gazed at the coin in disbelief as his fingers closed around it.

 

A determined three-day ride could bring them to Nottingham, some one hundred English miles away, if rivers had not overflowed their banks and outlaws did not attack them. Rannulf held back at times, listening, and sometimes circling far off so that his three companions lost sight of him. Relief overcame Edmund each time Rannulf's mount cantered back into view.

Nigel insisted that he had no headache, none at all, and that no man in the kingdom felt better than he. He stopped twice to empty his belly, however, vomiting hard without leaving the saddle, and at last conceded that in his travels to the Holy Land he had grown unused to English wine.

Given the parlous state of horse trading in London, they were all reasonably well mounted. Father Catald had said that between the horse levies taking worthy mounts on Crusade, and the greed of Prince John, every animal at the weekly Smooth Field market was likely to be “in an evil condition.” But the Templar religious order was far from impoverished and stabled the best horses the town could offer.

Edmund rode a
lyard
—spotted gray—horse, a stocky, spirited steed. Hubert rode a dun-colored mount of similar character. Edmund privately christened his horse Surefoot, hoping that the name might work some magic.

The two older knights urged on two charcoal-dark steeds that had appeared serviceable in the early dawn light of the Templar stables. The tails of both dark beasts had been docked—cut short. Edmund wondered if this harsh practice had soured the creatures toward men in general. Rannulf had by far the most quarrelsome animal, the horse complaining through its bit, and tossing its rein chains, the fine Templar equipment chiming noisily.

“He's a scold, this one,” was all Rannulf would say. For all his harsh appearance, he was steady with his mount, even gentle, and made soft hushing sounds through his scarred lips.

Peasants straightened from their work at the approach of the four knights. That they were Crusaders home from abroad could be determined by the fading crosses displayed on their surcoats, and any hope that they might pass unremarked grew faint in Edmund's heart as farmers and goose maids waved and called out, “God speed you home!”

As forest closed around them, Edmund put a hand to his new sword. Of every act of generosity and advice Father Catald had offered, this was, in Edmund's view, the most thrilling. The sword was one of many that had belonged to the legendary Raymund of Chalk, a knight who had once fought the renowned Baldwin of Bec and had been briefly taken hostage, only to escape when Baldwin's squire slipped and fell into a ditch full of brewing lees.

What made the weapon all the more remarkable was that within its pommel, well secured beneath an inset of rock crystal, was a dark fleck of bone—the relic of a saint.

 

Rannulf approached again, and his charger pranced and complained as the bearded knights reined to a stop.

“Five men riding, after us,” he said, “in the prince's livery and not sure of the route.”

“Are they lost?” asked Hubert hopefully.

“Not lost,” said Rannulf, with a dry laugh, “and they can just about tell our tracks from the general muck along the road.” The knight drew the blade from his scabbard and examined its edge in the late morning sun. He cut at a mote in the shaft of sunlight, the heavy weapon making a low-toned whisper.

“Rannulf, your horse has worms,” said Nigel. He was leaning from the saddle, examining the dung just now deposited by Rannulf's animal.

“Worms or not,” said Rannulf, “I've already taught him to be a fighting man's mount.”

“Every animal you ever rode was ruled by fear, Rannulf,” teased Nigel. “I handle my mounts with a loving touch, as I handle a woman.”

“I wager a full penny,” said Rannulf, “that I could ride even a worm-shot hackney through the trackless wood, and out the other side, leaving you in the mud.”

Nigel laughed. Although he had been injured in the Battle of Arsuf—so badly that he had been forced to retire from the Holy Land, and might never regain perfect strength—no knight, Edmund thought, had a more resilient spirit.

“Take the wager or not,” said Rannulf.

Edmund realized that the two older knights were giving themselves a joking rationale for parting company with their younger companions. But it was a pleasing fiction, this mock challenge, and it would give the prince's men a trail to confuse them, wending off into the oak-wood hunting reserve.

Besides, even now Rannulf's horse was lifting his nose and giving out an equine equivalent of “Why are we waiting?” Soon the prince's men would be able to hunt them by sound alone.

Nigel took the bridle of Edmund's horse in his gloved hand. “We'll meet in Nottingham.”

 

Before Edmund could protest, the two older knights worked their horses over cart-ruts of the road, and into the twilight of the surrounding forest.

Edmund and Hubert rode on for a while. “We'll meet in Nottingham,” said Hubert, sounding very much like the drink-punished Nigel.

Edmund gave a laugh, but it sounded mirthless in his own ears.

The shadows shifted and shrank. Some evil-sounding bird—or phantom—chuckled overhead. “I had forgotten how unholy an English forest can be,” breathed Hubert.

Edmund put his hand once more on the pommel of the sword. This relic, a mere freckle of bone, was a blessed remnant of Saint Breoc, a divine noted for his acts of charity. Putting his hand on the weapon's hilt made Edmund feel closer to Heaven.

“I've heard,” said Edmund, with an affected carelessness, “that every tree hides a devil.”

“A ghost,” amended Hubert.

“The headless wraith of a murdered woman,” asserted Edmund, not to be outdone, “lurks behind every hornbeam bush.”

Edmund and Elviva had sat near the fire talking about the high fairies who lived in such woods. It seemed so long ago to Edmund now. No Christian alive enjoyed a wilderness setting, whether wood or scrubland, beach or windy moor. Any such place was wasteland, in the view of most folk. Although a peat-cutter or an outlaw might have some grudging appreciation of a wild scene for practical reasons, no one in Edmund's experience had ever looked upon a forest with love.

Edmund's father had been a cooper—a freedman who had lived by cutting oak into barrel staves. The family had dwelled in a thatched cottage at the edge of Sherwood Forest, and Edmund recalled legends of a naked man with antlers like a stag who lived near the Knaresborough cliffs.

A further birdcall echoed, and a branch somewhere crashed in the shadowy vaults of the place, a resounding presence that spread a baffled, half-lost murmur that faded into silence.

“Heaven be my shield,” said Hubert fervently. “I would not travel alone through this forest for my weight in silk.”

Edmund was about to add his hearty agreement, but the sound of approaching horsemen from behind spurred them to ride faster.

Their saddles were gently curved riding saddles, not the heavy war or jousting furnishings. And the horses responded to their riders, taking sport in what for them must have been a willing race against the horses far behind, giving way to a rocking rhythm they could continue for a long time without fatigue.

But whenever Edmund and Hubert paused to let their chargers rest or nuzzle the shadow-clawed waters of a stream, the sound of pursuit was ever closer, along with the voices of men urging their mounts.

 

At last Edmund seized Hubert's arm as they splashed through a stream spilling across the road.

The riders following them were many more than Edmund had expected. Judging by the noise they made, they were a gathering force, chain mail jingling as they came on.

Hubert gave a gesture,
Follow me.

The two entered the tangled woodland. A pair of wings darted off in alarm. A branch caught at Edmund's sleeve, and his horse half-stumbled on a bristling, moss-shaggy log.

It seemed to Edmund that at once they were lost.

BUT THEY MADE GOOD PROGRESS, DOWN deer trails and through streams, disturbing the broad, gleaming leaves of bracken-fern. Wood-gathering women directed them northward, charcoal burners and fowlers encouraging them with ever more northern-sounding accents. “It's only two day's ride now, my lords,” said a leech-collector beside a pond.

They slept little, and ate cheese and barley-loaf they bought from cottagers along the way.

“Oh, Nottingham's a day off, my lords,” said a matronly woman in a rough-spun apron, shielding her eyes to get a good look at two returning Crusaders. “And God keep you safe,” she added, “from the prince's men.”

“Are they so very dangerous?” asked Hubert with a carefree-sounding laugh.

“As every soul knows, my lords,” said the matron. “Aye, and they're not far behind you even now, judging by the way the birds fall silent through the woodland.”

 

Three days passed.

The two knights parted company, Hubert heading off toward Bakewell, just a short journey away. Edmund was bound for his old home, and it seemed to him that the hoofbeats sounded out the name of the city,
Nottingham, Nottingham
, just as the jingling bridle chimed
Elviva, Elviva
.

 

At last Edmund stood in the hall of a great house.

The knight was not tired—an unpleasant shock had just now struck all the weariness from his body.

“I had to ask the guards at the city gates,” Edmund found the power to say, “where you were dwelling.”

“I am glad,” Elviva responded, her voice little more than a whisper, “that they were courteous enough to show you the way.”

Servants in tunics of blue indigo passed by the doorway beyond, making a show of rearranging the linen on the table, applying a cloth to a brass candlestick, contriving all the while, Edmund sensed, to eavesdrop excitedly.

“They pulled me along, lane by lane, a whole gathering of welcoming faces,” Edmund said, with what he hoped was appropriate courtesy. It was a miracle, he knew, that he could make a sound, as stunned as he was at what he had found in this splendid limestone-and-mortar house.

After identifying himself to the initially skeptical gate-keepers, Edmund had found increasing jubilation in the people he met. Guards called out the tidings to householder and tavern keeper alike, and happy voices were raised.

“It's Edmund, back from Crusade!” cried more than one person the knight remembered well from his childhood.

It had touched him to hear the familiar accents of folk who had known his parents, and despite his mud-spattered weariness he had felt new strength in his step. No Crusader had yet returned to this part of England, and every question was a version of: Had King Richard captured Jerusalem?

The guards had, it was true, used a degree of circumspection in describing Elviva's new abode, and now Edmund understood why.

The young woman certainly looked much like the Elviva of old, but in many subtle ways she had altered. She was arrayed in brilliantly embroidered clothing, a grander gown than she ever would have worn before. It was blue, with a cunning pattern of wood roses stitched all the way down the flowing
skyrtes
, the trailing part of her garment. She had the familiar green eyes, but her features had undergone some subtle and thorough alteration, her face growing more round and her skin more pale.

This house was new, a dwelling with high stone archways and a rare stone-paved floor, gracefully strewn with sweet-scented rushes. In a city of timber buildings, this was unmistakably the home of a wealthy man—a man with treasure to defend. There would be a cellar, Edmund guessed, with a strongbox of silver. Most dwellings in Edmund's experience did not have separate chambers, but were composed of one large hall around a fireplace. This building had a staircase, step by step leading up into evening shadow. The place was so new that a few of the limestone blocks were still marked with mason's chalk.

Walter fitz Walter himself stood beside a brazier, an iron tub of glowing coals, and offered a smile more hopeful than happy, looking sideways at Edmund. He was a tall thin man in a mantle of fine white lamb's wool, and he stood very still.