The Leopard Sword by Michael Cadnum Page B

crossroads of an empire. Either a brutal army had swept through this civic core, or the rubble was all so much older than I could imagine. Oxen lowed in a make-shift pen, among fallen columns. Men in coarse-spun aprons fed lengths of marble into a kiln.
    â€œThey are turning chunks of pagan temples into lime, for stone mortar,” explained Sir Nigel.
    â€œIs it wise,” I found myself asking, “to consume the famous ruins?”
    â€œI think God takes no great offense,” replied Sir Nigel.
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    Men in livery—fine, flowing silks—eyed us as we passed, swords cocked jauntily at their hips. They put their heads together and laughed, and I knew how shabby we looked, like prisoners or mendicant paupers, not at all like men-at-arms. And women would not give us a second glance— well-formed, graceful women, enjoying the music of the fountains as they talked, ignoring us.
    I hated our worn shoes, our monk-woven garments. I wanted to sing out that we were Crusaders, but I knew my carefully tutored Latin would sound stiff. Merchants and tradesmen took a moment to eye us. They were clad in bright clothing, the finest examples of the dyer’s art. They turned back to their fruit stalls or their gossip, speaking a fluid, rapid tongue.
    Our guards were heavy men, too fat for active battle, or thin and wide-eyed, youths pressed into service. At the corner of a narrow street the herald knocked at a studded oak door. A servant opened it and bowed courteously.
    We were left alone in an outer chamber. Sir Nigel and Sir Rannulf consulted each other. An army of masons, they agreed, could not construct such a town, the existence of which, Sir Nigel asserted, was itself testimony to the glory of Our Lord.
    Edmund and I stood shoulder to shoulder.This Holy City was a cold place, I thought, and I shivered.
    We were taken into a room lit by tapers, fine candles, long and slender, that did not smoke and sputter as they burned.
    There stood a man in a richly dyed scarlet mantle. The dancing candle shadows half hid him, but I could make out a short sword, with a red jasper decorating its hilt. He had fair eyebrows, nearly white eyelashes, and the thick muscular neck of a fighting man. Fulke the herald watched from the shadows.
    The nobleman introduced himself as Luke de Warrene, a knight of the royal household, and steward to King Richard’s ambassador to Rome. He spoke in clear London English.
    I gave the most flowery introduction I could manage, announcing the worshipful Crusaders Sir Nigel of Nottingham and Sir Rannulf of Josselin, and the squire-at-arms Edward Strongarm. “I am Hubert de Bakewell,” I concluded, conscious of my own name’s lack of poetry.
    Sir Luke considered our names silently for a moment, like a man afraid of ill tidings. “How can I believe, my good squire, that you have set foot in the Holy Land?”
    â€œMy lord,” I protested, “we are men of honor.”
    â€œTravelers have told many tales in recent weeks,” said Sir Luke. “Or perhaps they aren’t mere rumors. We hear that King Richard is imprisoned in Sicily, that he took a quarrel in the neck outside Acre, that he is buried on the shore there. How can I believe that you four know anything of Crusading?”
    I could not hide my anger, but Sir Nigel gave my arm a squeeze. “You’re doing surpassingly well, Hubert,” he whispered.
    Perhaps this emboldened me. I said, “And how can we trust you, my lord, to deserve an account of our travels?”
    Sir Nigel hissed through his teeth.
    â€œIf you will,” I was quick to add, “permit me to ask.”
    The mantle-clad man approached me.
    He wore a brooch, and at the sight of it I was plunged into silence.
    It was an enamel insignia, a leopard with his right paw upraised. While some called Richard Lionheart, and many praised the king’s lionlike bravery, the royal symbol for his court was this leopard, an