The High Crusade

Chapter XVII

I come now to a grievous part of this history, and the most difficult to write. Nor was I present, save at the very end.

This was because Sir Roger hurled himself into his crusade as if he fled from something — which in a way was true — and I was dragged with him like a leaf whirled along in a gale. I was his interpreter, but at every moment when we had naught else to do I became his teacher and would instruct him in Wersgor until my poor weak flesh could endure no more. My last glimpse, ere I toppled into sleep, would be of candlelight guttering on my lord’s haggard face. Then he would often as not summon a doctor of the Jair language, who would teach him until dawn. At this rate, it was not many weeks before he could curse hideously in both tongues.

Meanwhile, he drove his allies nigh as hard as he did himself. The Wersgorix must be given no chance to recover. Planet after planet must be attacked, reduced, and garrisoned, so that the foe always fought off balance, on the defensive. In this task, we had much help from enslaved native populations. As a rule, these need only be given arms and leadership. Then they attacked their masters in such hordes, with such ferocity, that the latter fled to us for protection. Jairs, Ashenkoghli, and Pr?*tans were horrified. They had no experience in such matters; whereas Sir Roger had encountered the Jacquene in France. In their bewilderment, his fellow chieftains came more and more to accept his unquestioned leadership.

The ins and outs of what happened are too complex, too various from world to world, for this paltry record. But in essence, on each inhabited planet, the Wersgorix had destroyed whatever original civilization existed. Now the Wersgor system in turn was toppled. Into this vacuum — unreligion, anarchy, banditry, famine, the ever — present menace of a blueface return, the necessity of training the natives themselves to eke out our thin garrisons — Sir Roger stepped. He had a solution to these problems, one hammered out in Europe during those not dissimilar centuries after Rome fell: the feudal system.

But just when he was thus laying the cornerstone of victory, it crumbled for him. God rest his soul! No more gallant knight ever lived. Even now, a lifetime later, tears dim my old eyes, and I were fain to hurry over this part of the chronicle. Since I witnessed so little, it would be excusable for me to do so.

However, those who betrayed their lord did not rush into it. They stumbled. Had Sir Roger not been blind to all warning signs, it would never have happened. Therefore I shall not set it down in cold words, but fall back on the earlier (and, I think, truer) practice of inventing whole scenes, that folk now dust may live again and be known, not as abstract villainies, but as fallible souls: on whom perhaps God, at the very last, had mercy.

We begin on Tharixan. The fleet had just departed to seize the first Wersgor colony of its long campaign. A Jair garrison occupied Darova. But those English women, children, and grandsires who had so valiantly held fast, were given what reward lay in Sir Roger s power. He moved them to that island where our kine were pastured. There they could dwell in woods and fields, erecting houses, herding, hunting, sowing and reaping, almost as if it were home. Lady Catherine was set to rule over them. She kept Branithar, of the Wersgor captives, as much to prevent his revealing too much to the Jairs as to continue giving instruction in his language. She also had a small fast spaceship for emergency use. Visits from the Jairs across the sea were discouraged, lest they observe too closely.

It was a peaceful time, save in my lady’s heart.

For her the great grief began the day after Sir Roger embarked. She walked across a flowery meadow, hearing wind sough in the trees. A pair of her maids followed behind. Through the woods came voices, the ring of an ax, the bark of a dog, but to her they seemed of dreamlike remoteness.

Suddenly she halted. For a moment she could only stare. Then one hand stole to the crucifix on her breast. “Mary, have pity.” Her maids, well-trained, slipped back out of earshot.

Sir Owain Montbelle hobbled from the glade. He was in his gayest garb, nothing but a sword to remind her of war. The crutch on which he leaned hardly interfered with his gracefulness as he swept off his plumed bonnet in a bow.

“Ah,” he cried, “this instant the place has become Arcady, and old Hob the swineherd whom I just met is heathen Apollo, harping a hymn to the great witch Venus.

“What’s this?” Catherine’s eyes were blue dismay. “Has the fleet returned?”

“Nay.” Sir Owain shrugged. “Blame my own awkwardness yestre’en. I was frolicking about, playing ball, when I stumbled. My ankle twisted, and remains so weak and tender that I’d be useless in battle. Perforce I deputed my command to young Hugh Thorne and flitted hither in an aircraft. Now I must wait till I am healed, then borrow a ship and a Jair pilot to rejoin my comrades.”

Catherine tried desperately to speak sober words. “In . … in his language lessons … Branithar has mentioned that the star folk have s-s-strange chirurgic arts.” She flushed like fire. “Their lenses can look even inside a living body … and they inject simples which heal the worst wound in days.”

“I thought of that,” said Sir Owain. “For of course I would not be a laggard in war. But then I remembered my lord’s strict orders, that our entire hope depends for the nonce on convincing these demon races we are as learned as they.”

She clasped the crucifix still tighter.

“So I dared not ask help of their physicians,” he continued. “I told them instead that I remain behind to attend certain matters of moment, and carry this crutch as a penance for sin. When nature has healed me, I will depart. Though in truth, ’twill be like tearing out my own heart, to be from you.”

“Does Sir Roger know?’

He nodded. They passed hastily to something else. That nod was a black lie. Sir Roger did not know. None of his men dared tell him. I might have ventured it, for he would not strike a man of the cloth, but I was also ignorant. Since the baron avoided Sir Owain’s company these days, and had enough else to occupy his mind, he never thought of it. I suppose in his inmost soul he did not want to think of it.

Whether Sir Owain really hurt his ankle, I dare not say. But it would be a strange coincidence. However, I doubt if he had planned his final treason in detail. Most likely his wish was to continue certain talks with Branithar and see what developed.

He leaned close to Catherine. His laughter rang out. “Until I go,” he said, “I feel free to bless the accident.”

She looked away, and trembled. “Why?”

“I think you know.” He took her hand.

She withdrew it. “I beg you, remember my husband is at war.”

“Misdoubt me not!” he exclaimed. “I would sooner lie dead than be dishonored in your eyes.”

“I could never … misdoubt … so courteous a knight.”

’Is that all I am? Courteous only? Amusing? A jester for your weary moments? Well-a-day, better Catherine’s fool than Venus’ lover. So let me then entertain you.” And he lifted his clear voice in a roundel to her praise.

“No—” She moved from him, like a doe edging clear of the hunter. “I am … I gave pledges—”

“In the courts of Love,” he said, “there is only one pledge, Love itself.” The sunlight burnished his hair.

“I have two children to think of,” she begged.

He grew somber. “Indeed, my lady. I’ve often dandied Robert and little Matilda on my knee. I hope I may do it again, while God allows.”

She faced him afresh, almost crouching. “What do you mean?”

“Oh — Nay.” He looked into the murmurous woods, whose leaves were of no shape or color ever seen on Earth. “I would not voice disloyalty.”

“But the children!” This time it was she who seized his hand. “In Christ’s holy name, Owain, if you know aught, speak!”

He kept his face turned from her. He had a fine profile. “I am not privy to any secrets, Catherine,” he said. “Belike you can judge the question better than I. For you know the baron best.”

“Does anyone know him?” she asked in bitterness. He said, very low, “It seems to me that his dreams grow with each new turn of fate. At first he was content to fly to France and join the King. Then he would liberate the Holy Land. Brought here by evil fortune, he responded nobly: none can deny that. But having gained a respite. has he sought Terra again? No, he took this whole world. Now he is off to conquer suns. Where will it end?”

“Where—” She could not continue. Nor could she pull her gaze from Sir Owain.

The knight said, “God puts bounds to all things. Unlimited ambition is the egg of Satan, from which only woe can hatch. Does it not seem to you, my lady, when you lie sleepless at night, that we will overreach ourselves and be ruined?”

After a long while he added: “Wherefore I say, Christ and His Mother help all the little children.”

“What can we do?” she cried in her anguish. “We’ve lost our way to Earth!”

“It might be found again,” he said.

“In a hundred years of search?”

He watched her in silence for a while before he answered:

“I would not raise false hopes in so sweet a bosom. But from time to time I’ve conversed a little with Branithar. Our knowledge of each other’s tongues is but scant, and certes he does not trust any human overmuch. Yet … a few things he has said… make me think that perhaps the road home might be found.”

“What?” Both her frantic hands seized him. “How? Where? Owain, are you gone mad?”

“No.” he said with studied roughness. “But let us suppose this be true, than Branithar can guide us despite all. He’ll not do so without a price, I suppose. Do you think Sir Roger would renounce his crusade and go quietly back to England?”

“He— why—”

“Has he not said again and yet again: while the Wersgor power remains, England lies m mortal danger? Would not the rediscovery of Terra only lead him to redouble his efforts? Nay, what use is it to learn our way back? The war would still continue, until it ended in our destruction.”

She shuddered and crossed herself.

“Since I am here,” Sir Owain finished, “I may as well try to learn if the homeward route can indeed be found. Perhaps you can think of some means to use that knowledge, ere it is too late.”

He bade her a courtly good day, which she did not hear, and limped on into the forest.