The High Crusade

Chapter XXI

The next evening, we departed New Avalon.

Sir Roger and I went alone, in a tiny unarmed space lifeboat. We ourselves were but little stronger. I had my cassock and rosary as always: no more. He was clad in a yeoman’s doublet and hose, though he wore sword and dagger and his gilt spurs were on his boots. His big form sat the pilot chair as it were a saddle, but his eyes, turned heavenward, were full of winter.

We had told our captains that this was only a short flight to view some special thing Sir Owain had fetched. The camp sensed a lie and rumbled with unease. Red John broke two quarterstaffs before he restored order. It seemed to me as I embarked that our enterprise was suddenly rusted. Men sat so quiet. It was a windless evening, our banners drooped on their staffs, and I noticed how faded and torn they were.

Our boat split the blue sky and entered blackness, like Lucifer expelled. Briefly I glimpsed a battleship, patrolling in orbit, and would have been much comforted to have those great guns at my back. But we must take only this helpless splinter. Sir Owain had made that clear, when we talked a second time along the far-speaker beam. “If you wish, de Tourneville, we’ll receive you for a parley. But you must come alone, in a plain lifeboat, and unarmed… Oh, very well, you can have your friar, too… I shall tell you what orbit to assume. At a certain point thereof, my ship will meet you. If my telescopes and detectors show any sign of treachery on your part, I’ll go straight to Wersgorixan instead.”

We accelerated outward through a silence that thickened. Once I ventured to say, “If you two can be reconciled, it will put heart back in our people. I think then they would be truly invincible.”

“Catherine and I?” barked Sir Roger.

“Why, I— I— I meant you and Sir Owain—” I stammered. But the truth opened up before me: I had indeed been thinking of the lady. Owain was nothing in himself. Sir Roger was the one on whom our whole fate rested. Yet he could not continue much longer, sundered from her who possessed his soul.

She, and the children they had had together, were the reason he came so meekly to beg Owain’s indulgence.

Outward and outward we fled. The planet shrank to a tarnished coin behind us. I had not felt so alone before, not even when we were first borne from our Earth.

But at last a few of the many stars were obscured. I saw the lean black form of the spaceship grow, as it matched velocities. We could have tossed a bombshell by hand and destroyed it. But Sir Owain knew well we would never do that, while Catherine and Robert and Matilda were aboard. Presently a magnetic grapnel clanked against our hull. The ships drew together, portal to portal, a cold kiss. We opened our own gates and waited.

Branithar himself stepped through. Victory flamed in him. He recoiled when he saw Sir Roger’s glaive and misericord. “You were to have no weapons!” he rasped.

“Oh? Oh, aye. Aye.” The baron looked dully down at the blades. “I never thought … they’re like my spurs, insignia of what I am … naught more.”

“Give them over,” said Branithar.

Sir Roger unbelted both and handed them to the Wersgor in their sheaths. Branithar passed them to another blue and searched our bodies himself. “No hidden guns,” he decided. I felt my cheeks burn at the insult, but Sir Roger hardly seemed to notice. “Very well,” said Brarnthar, “follow me.”

We went down a corridor to the salon cabin. Sir Owain sat behind a table of inlaid wood. He himself was somber in black velvet, but jewels flashed on the hand which covered a fire-gun laid in front of him. Lady Catherine wore a gray gown and wimple. She had overlooked a stray lock of hair, which fell across her brow like smoldering fire.

Sir Roger halted just within the cabin door. “Where are the children?” he said.

“They are in my bedchamber with the maidservants.” His wife spoke like a machine. “They are well.”

“Be seated, sire,” urged Sir Owain glibly. His gaze flickered about the room. Branithar had lain the sword and dagger down by him, and stood on his right hand. The other Wersgor, and a third one who had waited here, stood with folded arms by the entrance, just behind us. I took them to be the physician and navigator which had been mentioned, the two gunners must be at their turrets, the pilot by his controls, in case aught went amiss. Lady Catherine stood, a waxen image, against the rear wall to Owain’s left.

“You bear no grudges, I trust,” said the recreant. “All’s fair in love and war.”

Catherine lifted a hand to protest. “In war only.” She could scarce be heard. The hand fell down again.

Sir Roger and I kept our feet. He spat on the deck. Owain reddened. “Look you,” he exclaimed, “let’s have no cant about broken vows. Your own position is more than doubtful. You’ve arrogated to yourself the right of creating noblemen out of peasants and serfs, disposing of fiefs, dealing with foreign kings. Why, you’d make yourself king if you could! What then of your pledges to sovereign Edward?”

“I’ve done naught to his harm,” Sir Roger answered, shaken of voice. “If ever I find Terra, I’ll add my conquests to his domain. Until then, we must manage somehow, and have no choice but establish our own feudality.”

“That may have been the case hitherto,” Sir Owain admitted. His smile returned. “But you should thank me, Roger, that I’ve lifted this necessity from you. We can go back home!”

“As Wersgor cattle?”

“I think not. But do be seated, you two. I shall have wine and cakes brought. You’re my guests now, you know.”

“Nay. I’ll not break bread with you.”

“Then you’ll starve to death,” said Sir Owain merrily.

Roger became like stone. I noticed for the first time that Lady Catherine wore a holster but that it was empty. Owain must have gotten her weapon on some pretext. Now he alone was armed.

He turned grave as he read our expressions. “My lord,” he said, “when you offered to come parley, you could not expect me to refuse such a chance. You’ll remain with us.”

Catherine stirred. “Owain, no!” she cried. “You never told me — you said he’d be free to leave this ship if—”

He turned his fine profile to her view and said gently:

“Think, my lady. Was it not your highest wish, to save him? But you wept, fearing his pride would never let him yield. Now he is a prisoner. Your wish is granted. All the dishonor is on myself. I bear that burden lightly, since ’tis for my lady’s dear sake.”

She trembled so I could see it. “I had no part in this, Roger,” she pleaded. “I never imagined—’

Her husband did not look at her. His voice chopped hers off. “What d’ you plan, Montbelle?”

“This new situation has given me new hopes,” answered the other knight. “I confess I was never overly joyed at thought of bargaining with the Wersgorix. Now ’tis not needful. We can go directly home. The weapons and chests of gold aboard this vessel will win me as much as I care to possess.”

Branithar, the only nonhuman there who understood his English, barked: “Hoy, what of me and my friends here?’

Owain answered coolly, “Why should you not accompany us? Without Sir Roger de Tourneville, the English cause must soon collapse, so you’ll have done your duty to your own people. I’ve studied your way of thinking — a particular place means nothing to you. We’ll pick up some females of your race along the way. As my loyal vassals, you can win as much power and land on Terra as anywhere else; your descendants will share the planet with mine. True, you sacrifice a certain amount of wonted social intercourse, but on the other hand, you fain a degree of liberty your own government never allowed you.

He had the weapons. Yet I think Branithar yielded to the argument itself, and that his slow mumble of agreement was honest.

“And us?” breathed Lady Catherine.

“You and Roger shall have your estate in England,” pledged Sir Owain. “I’ll add thereto one at Winchester.”

Perhaps he was also honest. Or perhaps he thought, once he was the overlord of Europe, he could do as he wished with her husband and herself. She was too shaken to foresee the latter chance. I saw her suddenly enclouded with dream. She faced Sir Roger, smiling and weeping. “My love, we can go home again!”

He glanced at her, once. “But what of the folk we led hither?” he asked.

“Nay, I cannot risk taking them with us.” Sir Owain shrugged. “They’re lowborn anyway.”

Sir Roger nodded. “Ah,” he said. “So.”

Once more he looked at his wife. Then he kicked backward. The spur of knighthood struck into the belly of the Wersgor behind him. He ripped downward.

Falling with the same motion, he rolled across the deck. Sir Owain yelled and leaped up. His fire gun blasted the air. It missed. The baron was too quick, reached upward, seized the other stupefied Wersgor and pulled him down on top. The second fire blast struck that living shield.

Sir Roger heaved the corpse before him, rising and advancing in one gigantic surge of motion. Owain had time for a last shot, which charred the dead flesh. Then Roger threw the body across the table, into the other man’s face.

Owain went down beneath it. Sir Roger snatched for his sword. Branithar had already put a hand on it. Sir Roger got the dagger instead. It flared from the sheath. I heard the thunk as he drove it through Branithar’s hand, into the table, to the very hilt.

“Wait there for me!” snarled Sir Roger. He drew the sword. “Haro! God send the right!”

Sir Owain had scrambled free and risen, still clutching the gun. I found myself a-pant just across the table from him. He aimed squarely at the baron’s midriff. I promised the saints many candles and smacked my rosary across the traitor’s wrist. He howled. The gun fell from his hand and skidded across the table. Sir Roger’s great glaive whistled. Owain was barely fast enough to dodge. The edged steel crashed into the wood. A moment Sir Roger must struggle to free it. The fire gun lay on the deck. I dove for it. So did Lady Catherine, who had dashed around the table. Our brows met. When my wits came back, I was sitting up and Roger was chasing Owain out the door.

Catherine screamed.

Roger stopped as if noosed. She rose in a swirl of garments. “The children, my lord! They’re aft, in the bedchamber — where the extra weapons are—”

He cursed and sped out. She followed. I picked myself up, a trifle groggily, the gun which they had both forgotten in my grasp. Branithar bared teeth at me. He tugged against the knife that pinioned him, but only made the blood run faster. I judged him safely held. My attention was elsewhere. The Wersgor whom my master had disemboweled was still alive, but would not remain so for long. A moment I hesitated … where did my duty lie, to my lord and his lady or to a dying heathen? … I bent above the contorted blue face. “Father,” he gasped. I know not who, or Who, he called upon, but I led him through such poor rites as the circumstances allowed and held him while he died. I pray he may at least have won to Limbo.

Sir Roger came back, wiping his sword. He grinned all over, I have rarely seen such joy in a man. “The little wolf!” he whooped. “Aye, Norman blood is ever easy to tell!”

“What happened?” I asked, rising in my soiled raiment.

“Owain didn’t make for the arms chest after all,” Sir Roger told me. “He must have turned forward instead, to the control turret. But the other crewmen, the gunners, had heard the fight, Judging the chance ripe and the need clear, they went to equip themselves. I saw one of them pass through the boudoir door. The other was at his heels, armed with a long wrench. I fell upon him with my sword, but he fought well and it took a while to get him slain. Meantime Catherine pursued the first and fought him barehanded till ~he struck her down. Those chickenheaded maidservants did naught but cower and scream, as expected. But then! Listen, Brother Parvus! My son Robert opened the weapon chest, took forth a gun and plugged that Wersgor as neatly as Red John could have. Oh, the little devil-cub!”

My lady entered. Her braids hung loose, and one fair cheek was purpled with a bruise. But she said as impersonally as any sergeant reporting an assignment of pickets: “I quieted the children down.”

’Poor tiny Matilda,” murmured her husband. “Was she very much frightened?”

Lady Catherine looked indignant. “They both wanted to come fight!”

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go deal with Owain and the pilot.”

She drew a shaken breath. “Must I forever hide away when my lord goes into peril?”

He stopped still and looked upon her. “But I thought—” he began, oddly helpless.

“That I betrayed you merely to win home again? Aye.” She stared at the deck. “I think you’ll forgive me for that long ere I can ever forgive myself. Yet I did what seemed best… for you, too… I was confused. ’Twas like a fever dream. You should not have left me alone so long, my lord. I missed you too much.”

Very slowly he nodded. “’Tis I who must beg pardon,” he said. “God grant me years enough to become worthy of you.”

Clasping her shoulders: “But remain here. ’Tis needful you guard yon blueface. If I should kill Owain and the pilot—”

“Do that!” she cried in upsurging fury.

“I’d prefer not,” he said with the same gentleness as he used toward her. “Looking upon you, I can understand him so well. But — if worst come to worst — Branithar can guide us home. So watch him.”

She took the gun from me and sat down. The nailed captive stood rigid with defiance.

’Come, Brother Parvus,” said Sir Roger. “I may need your skill with words.”

He carried his sword and had thrust a fire gun from the weapon chest into his belt. We made our way along a corridor, up a ramp, and so to the entrance of the control turret. Its door was shut, locked from within.

Sir Roger beat upon it with the pommel of his glaive. “You two in there! he shouted. “Yield yourselves!”

“And if we do not?” Owain’s voice drifted faintly through the panels.

“If naught else,” said Roger starkly, “I’ll wreck the engines and depart in my boat, leaving you adrift. But see here: I’ve rid myself of anger. Everything has ended for the best, and we shall indeed go home after these stars have been made safe for Englishmen. You and I were friends once, Owain. Give me your hand again. I swear no harm shall come to you.”

Silence lay heavy.

Until the man behind the door said: “Aye. You were never one to break an oath, were you? Very well, come on through, Roger.”

I heard the bolt click down. The baron put his hand to the door. I know not what impelled me to say, “Wait, sire,” and shove myself before him with unheard-of ill manners.

“What is it?” He blinked, bemused in his gladness.

I opened the door and stepped over the threshold. Two iron bars smashed down on my head.

The rest of this adventure must needs be told from hearsay, for I was not to come to my senses for a week. I toppled in blood, and Sir Roger thought me slain.

The moment they saw it was not the baron they had gotten, Owain and the pilot attacked him. They were armed with two unscrewed stanchions, as long and heavy as swords. Sir Roger’s blade flashed. The pilot threw up his club. The blade glanced off in a shower of sparks. Sir Roger howled so the walls echoed. “You murderers of innocence—” His second blow knocked the bar out of a numbed hand. At his third, the blue head sprang from its shoulders and bounced down the ramp.

Catherine heard the uproar. She went to the door of the salon and looked forward, as if terror could sharpen her eyes to pierce the walls between. Branithar set his teeth together. He seized the misericord with his free hand. Muscles jumped forth in his shoulders. Few men could have drawn that blade, but Branithar did.

My lady heard the noise and whirled. Branithar was rounding the table. His right hand hung torn, astream with blood, but the knife gleamed in his left.

She raised her gun. “Back!” she yelled.

“Put that down,” he said scornfully. “You’d never use it. You never saw enough stars at Terra, with wise enough vision. If anything goes wrong in the bows, I am your only way home.’

She looked into the eyes of her husband’s enemy, and shot him dead. Then she ran toward the turret.

Sir Owain Montbelle had scampered back into that chamber. He could not fend off the sheer fury of Sir Roger’s assault. The baron drew his gun. Owain snatched up a book and held it before his breast.

“Have a care!” he panted. “This is the ship’s log. It has the notes on Terra’s position. There are no others.”

“You lie. There’s Branithar’s mind.” Nonetheless, Sir Roger thrust the gun back in his belt as he stalked forward. “I’m sorry to outrage clean steel with your blood. For you killed Brother Parvus and you’re going to die.”

Owain poised. His stanchion was a clumsy weapon. But he raised his arm and hurled it. Struck across the brow, Sir Roger lurched backward. Owain sprang, snatched the gun from the stunned man’s belt, and dodged a feeble sword-slash. He scuttled clear, yelling his triumph. Roger stumbled toward him. Owain too aim.

Catherine appeared in the door. Her gun flamed. The book of her journey vanished in smoke and ash. Owain screamed in anguish. Coldly, she fired again, and he fell.

She flung herself into Roger’s arms and wept. He comforted her. Yet I wonder which of them gave the most strength to the other.

Afterward he said ruefully: “I fear we’ve managed ill. Now the way home is indeed lost.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “Where you are, there is England.”