Read Online Rogue Sword by Poul Anderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Poul Anderson
Tags: Historical fiction
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brassards, elbowpieces, tasses, and greaves were added to the hauberk that protected his neck and arms, the ringmail on his thighs. A red cloak fluttered at his shoulders and a plume on his conical, visored helmet. There was a coat of arms on his oblong shield and a pennant on the mastlike lance he gripped in one gauntleted hand.
Teeth flashed white through his beard. He said in Catalonian: “Keep away from that pike of his. Put an arrow in him, Arslan. Be ready to catch the girl if she runs, Ferrando. We’ll take her into the house.”
Catalan traders were nearly as ubiquitous as Venetian or Genoese. Lucas had gained fluency in their tongue while he was working out of Sinope. “Wait!” he cried. “In God’s name, Micer, what is it you do?”
The knight reined back his big gray stallion. “I thought you a Greek,” he said. His tone was rough and unschooled. “Well, then, what are you?”
Lucas hesitated. How had the story gone--? Oh, yes, the Genoese had seized the ships of the Catalan Company. “Venetian.”
“All alone here?” The leader raised shaggy brows. He was a hulking figure of a man, with a heavy and deeply-pocked face. His nose had been broken in the past, a few teeth were missing, a scar zigzagged past one brown eye. “How does that happen?”
“A petty misunderstanding. If Micer Knight will let me explain at length--”
“If you’re an outlaw, you’ve no value. Be off!” Death-white, Djansha looked from one rider to the next. A Turcopol leered at her. “Leave the woman, Venice dweller,” he said in bad Catalonian.
“On second thought,” said the knight, “he could make trouble later. Kill him, Arslan.”
It leaped forlornly to Lucas’ tongue: “Wait, I say! I have a message for En Jaime!”
“Who?” The leader gaped. The archer lowered his bow.
“The rich hom En Jaime de Caza, of course.” Lucas stamped the butt of his pike on the ground. “I suppose you can take me to him. Do so!”
“Hold!” rapped the knight to his followers. “Hold off, you whoresons! Back, there. . . . Uh. Your pardon, Micer de Venezia. I didn’t know. As soon as we’ve stripped yonder house, I’ll be glad to bring you and your lady before my lord.”
Chapter V
The house in Gallipoli had belonged to a noble of Byzantium. Now En Jaime and his staff occupied it. By day, boots racketed across mosaic floors, weapons clattered and horses tramped in the formal garden, a cowed servant corps waited on unwashed men-at-arms with a kick and a curse to speed them.
This evening, however, the knight baron used a dining room whose riches of carpet and tapestry had escaped such treatment. Between slender columns, candles in silver brackets lit the stiff depictions of East Romans many centuries dead. A glazed window overlooked a steep downhill view. Here and there a light glimmered from some other house, or the bobbing torches of a sentry squad. There was more illumination beyond the city walls, at the waterfront: not only the moon but a pharos, high on one of the cliffs, revealed a few ships tied at otherwise empty docks.
En Jaime nodded toward the harbor. “Those vessels brought men to enlist with us,” he said. “Certain Turks--and Greeks, who hate their degenerate overlords so much they’ll shave their heads and join us as Turcopols. They have come, and we’ve sent envoys whom we expect will recruit many more such allies.”
The years had changed him little in outward appearance. His hair was slightly gray at the temples, and the narrow hook-nosed face bore deeper lines. But his bearing was as soldierly as Lucas remembered, his elegance of white linen and black velvet as unpretentious. He turned about, hands behind his back, to give Lucas the old thin smile. “Enough of the future,” he declared. “We have many yesterdays to learn about. It seems to be my destiny to pull you from one fire of your own lighting after another. But good to see you again, you scapegrace!”
Lucas lounged
Teeth flashed white through his beard. He said in Catalonian: “Keep away from that pike of his. Put an arrow in him, Arslan. Be ready to catch the girl if she runs, Ferrando. We’ll take her into the house.”
Catalan traders were nearly as ubiquitous as Venetian or Genoese. Lucas had gained fluency in their tongue while he was working out of Sinope. “Wait!” he cried. “In God’s name, Micer, what is it you do?”
The knight reined back his big gray stallion. “I thought you a Greek,” he said. His tone was rough and unschooled. “Well, then, what are you?”
Lucas hesitated. How had the story gone--? Oh, yes, the Genoese had seized the ships of the Catalan Company. “Venetian.”
“All alone here?” The leader raised shaggy brows. He was a hulking figure of a man, with a heavy and deeply-pocked face. His nose had been broken in the past, a few teeth were missing, a scar zigzagged past one brown eye. “How does that happen?”
“A petty misunderstanding. If Micer Knight will let me explain at length--”
“If you’re an outlaw, you’ve no value. Be off!” Death-white, Djansha looked from one rider to the next. A Turcopol leered at her. “Leave the woman, Venice dweller,” he said in bad Catalonian.
“On second thought,” said the knight, “he could make trouble later. Kill him, Arslan.”
It leaped forlornly to Lucas’ tongue: “Wait, I say! I have a message for En Jaime!”
“Who?” The leader gaped. The archer lowered his bow.
“The rich hom En Jaime de Caza, of course.” Lucas stamped the butt of his pike on the ground. “I suppose you can take me to him. Do so!”
“Hold!” rapped the knight to his followers. “Hold off, you whoresons! Back, there. . . . Uh. Your pardon, Micer de Venezia. I didn’t know. As soon as we’ve stripped yonder house, I’ll be glad to bring you and your lady before my lord.”
Chapter V
The house in Gallipoli had belonged to a noble of Byzantium. Now En Jaime and his staff occupied it. By day, boots racketed across mosaic floors, weapons clattered and horses tramped in the formal garden, a cowed servant corps waited on unwashed men-at-arms with a kick and a curse to speed them.
This evening, however, the knight baron used a dining room whose riches of carpet and tapestry had escaped such treatment. Between slender columns, candles in silver brackets lit the stiff depictions of East Romans many centuries dead. A glazed window overlooked a steep downhill view. Here and there a light glimmered from some other house, or the bobbing torches of a sentry squad. There was more illumination beyond the city walls, at the waterfront: not only the moon but a pharos, high on one of the cliffs, revealed a few ships tied at otherwise empty docks.
En Jaime nodded toward the harbor. “Those vessels brought men to enlist with us,” he said. “Certain Turks--and Greeks, who hate their degenerate overlords so much they’ll shave their heads and join us as Turcopols. They have come, and we’ve sent envoys whom we expect will recruit many more such allies.”
The years had changed him little in outward appearance. His hair was slightly gray at the temples, and the narrow hook-nosed face bore deeper lines. But his bearing was as soldierly as Lucas remembered, his elegance of white linen and black velvet as unpretentious. He turned about, hands behind his back, to give Lucas the old thin smile. “Enough of the future,” he declared. “We have many yesterdays to learn about. It seems to be my destiny to pull you from one fire of your own lighting after another. But good to see you again, you scapegrace!”
Lucas lounged
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