The Book of the Lion by Michael Cadnum

chained here forever?” asked Hubert, with no self-pity but with an urgent, personal curiosity.
    â€œForever?” asked Wenstan. He considered—or perhaps he paused because of his stammer. “Nothing lasts so long.”
    â€œWhat happened to my cape?” I heard myself croak.
    â€œThat rag you were wearing?” said Wenstan airily. “It has been returned to its rightful owner, along with the money.” Wenstan had trouble with the last word. “The money,” he repeated. “The coins you stole.”
    â€œI stole nothing,” I said, in my most knightly voice, but inwardly I crumbled.
    â€œThe night watchman,” said Wenstan. “He recognized the purse.”

chapter NINETEEN
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    I found the water barrel and drank deeply, scoop after scoop, until Hubert stepped in to lead me away.
    Nigel affected not to see, standing with his hands on his hips by the tiller, a man challenging the weather to attack. Rannulf did not spare us a glance, working with Miles on his weapon kit, polishing his short sword and oiling the seams of his chain mail. The sailors would not meet my eyes, and I felt like Jonah, a man who brought such bad luck to his shipmates that he was fed to a giant fish.
    Venice had vanished. A black range of cloud jutted from the north. The ship wallowed. The sea puckered and dimpled, but no waves lifted and the wind was dead. The air was warm, and scented with the smell of decay, almost sweet, although the nearest land was a bare hint far to the west.
    We carried a cargo of pigs and horses, and enough other beasts to populate a farm. The unfamiliar steeds rolled their eyes and screamed through their noses, hysterical and dangerous to anyone who mis-timed his approach. The pigs were more phlegmatic but equally vocal, questioning, protesting. Their odor was bitter and very strong.
    We had a few new passengers, too, among them a canon priest from Padua named Father Urbino, who sat with a leather bucket beside him. He emptied the contents of his stomach with the regularity with which a clerk dips a quill in ink. A, big, blond man, he had three rings on his fingers, one a pink coral carved into a sacred image, the other two pink gold.
    Christendom was attended by ordinary priests, who lived under one roof, and traveling priests, who were free to walk the land. Such traveling priests were often scholars and the sons of gentlemen, and so I appreciated the kind smile Father Urbino gave me. A few Frankish knights had joined us as passengers, too, along with their squires. The deck was a jumble of ration bags and lances.
    The duty was punishment, but I was happy to be around the animals. Hubert and I bucketed salt water over the feces and urine of these bleating, squalling creatures. Our own horses, including Shadow and Winter Star, heard the newer animals snorting and joined the chorus.
    The sailors swung mauls, large wooden hammers, pegging down hatches. Scoops and pails, rope and awl, any tool or tether that was not lashed or stowed was spirited away into the hold, which was already filled with sacks of wheat flour, oats, and cubits of hay.
    Partly out of anxiety about what I saw in the sky, and partly to discover Nigel’s humor, I said, “Hard weather is descending,” in what I thought was a seaman-like turn of phrase.
    Sir Nigel did not look my way, leaning against the side of the ship, paring his thumbnail with a small and shiny blade. “What a foul smell swine have,” he said over his shoulder to Rannulf.
    Rannulf made no comment, at work on his shield strap, kneading it with oil. Miles sat with him, soothing a whetstone across the blade of a knife with an ivory handle. I envied Miles at that moment, garbed in the same dark cloth Rannulf was wearing.
    â€œI owe you and all aboard this ship my humblest apologies, and I beg, unworthy though I am, your mercy.” This was my speech, and I had prepared it with care. I knelt on the