The High Crusade

Chapter IX

During the long wait before Tharixan reached its noontide, my master summoned his captains to a council. A trestle table was erected before the central building, and there we all sat.

“By God’s grace,” he said, “we’re spared awhile. You’ll note that I’ve even made them land all their ships. I’ll wrangle to win us as much more respite as may be. That time must be put to use. We must strengthen our defenses. Also, we’ll ransack this fort, seeking especially maps, books, and other sources of information. Those of our men who’re at all gifted in the mechanic arts must study and test every machine we find, so that we can learn how to erect force screens and fly and otherwise match our foes. But all this has to be done secretly, in places hidden from enemy eyes. For if ever they learn we don’t already know all about such implements—” He smiled and drew a finger across his throat.

Good Father Simon, his chaplain, turned a little green. “Must you?” he said faintly.

Sir Roger nodded at him. “I’ve work for you, too. I shall need Brother Parvus to interpret Wersgor for me. But we have one prisoner, Branithar, who speaks Latin—”

“I would not say that, sire,” I interrupted. “His declensions are atrocious, and what he does to irregular verbs may not be described in gentle company.”

“Nevertheless, until he’s mastered enough English, a cleric is needed to talk to him. You see, he must explain whatever our students of the captured engines do not understand, and must interpret for any other Wersgor prisoners whom we may question.”

“Ah, but will he do so?” said Father Simon. “He is a most recalcitrant heathen, my son, if indeed he has any soul at all. Why, only a few days ago on the ship, in hopes of softening his hard heart, I stood in his cell reading aloud the generations from Adam to Noah, and had scarcely gotten past Jared when I saw that he had fallen asleep!’

“Have him brought hither,” commanded my lord. “Also, find One-Eyed Hubert and tell him to come in full regalia.”

While we waited, talking in hushed voices, Alfred Edgarson noticed how I sat quiet. “Well, now, Brother Parvus,” he boomed, “what ails you? Methinks you’ve little to fear, being a godly fellow. Even the rest of us, if we conduct ourselves well, have naught to fear but a sweating time in Purgatory. And then we’ll join St. Michael at sentry-go on heaven’s walls. Not so?”

I was loath to dishearten them by voicing what had occurred to me, but when they insisted, I said, “Alas, good men, worse may already have befallen us.”

“Well?” barked Sir Brian Fitz-William. “What is it? Don’t just sit there sniveling!”

“We had no sure way to tell time on the voyage hither,” I whispered. “Hourglasses are too inaccurate, and since reaching this devil-made place we’ve neglected even to turn them. How long is the day here? What time is it on our earth?”

Sir Brian looked a trifle blank. “Indeed, I know not. What of it?”

“I presume you had a haunch of beef to break your fast,” I said. “Are you sure it is not Friday?”

They gasped and regarded each other with round eyes.

“When is it Sunday?” I cried. “Will you tell me the date of Advent? How shall we observe Lent and Easter, with two moons morris-dancing about to confuse the issue?”

Thomas Bullard buried his face in his hands. “We’re ruined!”

Sir Roger stood up. “No!” he shouted into the strickenness. “I’m no priest, nor even very godly. But did not Our Lord himself say the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath?”

Father Simon looked doubtful. “I can grant special dispensations under extraordinary circumstances,” he said, “but I am really not sure how far I can strain such powers.”

“I like it not,” mumbled Bullard. “I take this to be a sign that Cod has turned His face from us, withdrawing the due times of the fasts and sacraments.”

Sir Roger grew red. He stood a moment more, watching the courage drain from his men like wine from a broken cup. Then he calmed himself, laughed aloud, and cried:

“Did not Our Lord command His followers to go forth as far as they were able, bringing His word, and He would be with them always? But let’s not bandy texts. Perhaps we are venially sinning in this matter. Well, if that be so, a man should not grovel but should make amends. We’ll make costly offerings in atonement. To get the means for such offerings … have we not the entire Wersgor Empire to hand, to squeeze for a ransom till its yellow eyes pop? This proves that God Himself has commanded us to this war!” He drew his sword, blinding in the daylight, and held it before him hilt uppermost. “By this, my knightly sigil and arm, which is also the sign of the Cross, I vow to do battle for God’s glory!”

He tossed the weapon so it swung glittering in the hot air, caught it again and swung it so it shrieked. “With this blade will I fight!”

The men gave him a rather feeble cheer. Only glum Bullard hung back. Sir Roger leaned down to that captain, and I heard him hiss: “The clinching proof of my reasoning is, that I’ll cut anyone who argues further into dogmeat.”

Actually, I felt that in his crude way my master had gasped truth. In my spare time I would recast his logic into proper syllogistic form, to make sure; but meanwhile I was much encouraged, and the others were at least not demoralized.

Now a man-at-arms fetched Branithar, who stood glaring at us. “Good day,” said Sir Roger mildly, through me. “We shall want you to help interrogate prisoners and instruct us in our studies of captured engines.”

The Wersgor drew himself up with a warrior’s pride. “Save your breath,” he spat. “Behead me and be done with it. I misjudged your capabilities once, and it has cost many lives of my people. I shall not betray them further.’

Sir Roger nodded. “I looked for such an answer,” he said. “What became of One-Eyed Hubert?”

“Here I am, sire, here I am, here’s good old Hubert,” and the baron’s executioner hobbled up, adjusting his hood. The ax was tucked under one scrawny arm, and the noosed rope laid around his hump. “I was only wandering about, sire, picking flowers for me youngest grandchild, sire. You know her, the little girl with long gold curls and she’s so honeysweet fond o’ daisies. I hoped I could find one or other o’ these paynim blooms might remind her o’ our dear Lincolnshire daisies, and we could weave a daisy chain together—”

“I’ve work for you,” said Sir Roger.

“Ah, yes, sire, yes, yes, indeed.” The old man’s single rheumy eye blinked about, he rubbed his hands and chuckled. “Ah, thank you, sire! ’Tis not that I mean to criticize, that ain’t old Hubert’s place, and he knows his humble place, him who has served man and boy, and his father and grandsire afore him, executioners to the noble de Tournevilles. No, sire, I knows me place and I keeps it as Holy Writ commands. But Cod’s truth, you’ve kept poor old Hubert very idle all these years. Now your father, sire, Sir Raymond, him we called Raymond Red-Hand, there was a man what appreciated art! Though I remember his father, your grandsire, me lord, old Nevil Rip-Talon, and his justice was the talk o’ three shires. In his day, sire, the commons knew their place and gentlefolk could get a decent servant at a decent wage, not like now when you let ’em off with a fine or maybe a day in the stocks. Why, ’tis a scandal—”

“Enough,” said Sir Roger. “The blueface here is stubborn. Can you persuade him?”

“Well, sire! Well, well, well!” Hubert sucked toothless gums with a pure and simple delight. He walked around our rigid captive, studying him from all angles, “Well, sire, now this is another matter, ’tis like the good old days come back, ’tis, yes, yes, yes, Heaven bless my good kind master! Now o’ course I took little equipment with me, only a few thumbscrews and pincers and suchlike, but it won’t take me no time, sire, to knock together a rack. And maybe we can get a nice kettle of oil. I always says, sire, on a cold gray day there ain’t nothing so cozy as a glowing brazier and a nice hot kettle of oil. I think o’ my dear old daddy and I gets tears in this old eye, yes, sire, that I do. Let me see, let me see, tum-te-tum-te-tum.” He began measuring Branithar with his rope.

The Wersgor flinched away. His smattering of English was enough to give him the drift of conversation. “You won’t!’ he yelled. “No civilized folk would ever—”

“Now let’s just see your hand, if you please.” Hubert took a thumbscrew from his pouch and held it against the blue fingers. “Yes, yes, ’twill fit snug and proper.” He unpacked an array of little knives. “Sumer is icumen in,” he hummed, “ihude sing cucu.”

Branithar gulped. “But you’re not civilized,” he said weakly. Choking and snarling: “Very well. I will do it. Curse you for a pack of beasts! When my people have smashed you, it will be my turn!”

“I can wait,” I assured him.

Sir Roger beamed. But suddenly his face fell again. The deaf old executioner was still counting over his apparatus. “Brother Parvus,” said my lord, “would you… could you… break the news to Hubert? I confess I’ve not the heart to tell him.”

I consoled the old fellow with the thought that if Branithar were caught lying, or otherwise failing to give us honest help, there would be punishment. This sent him hobbling happily off to construct a rack. I told Branithar’s guard to make sure the Wersgor saw that work.