We went back to the dining hall, where Roland called for more beer. But when the page went to pour some for me, I told him I wasn't allowed to drink more than one a day—that this limit was a custom among nobility in my country. The fact was, I wasn't used to drinking—at home dad would pour us kids a mug only on festive days. And although the local beer seemed to be weak, I didn't want to risk getting fuzzy-headed.
Roland scowled; I guess he felt I'd offended his hospitality. Arno didn't even blink; maybe he knew my real reason. Father Drogo's eyes were back on me again, and I had no idea what he was thinking.
"Well," Arno said, looking at Roland, "you have seen what one small boat can do, with a crew of one man, one woman, and a dog. It is easy to imagine what we can accomplish with a warship. A kingdom can be ours, and then an empire."
"Um-m."
Apparently Roland wanted to dicker about something.
"You disagree?" asked Arno.
"As you say, it is easy to imagine," Roland replied, "but something else to bring about. I have not seen this warship and neither have you. And if it is so powerful, how are we to capture it?"
Arno was starting to look irritated. "I have already explained that to you."
Roland nodded, trying to look wise and reasonable. "True. But ... the odds against success sound damnably poor."
Just then the baron sounded ... treacherous felt like the right word. What he said was true all right, but the way he said it... He was up to something—maybe even he didn't know what just yet. I got the feeling that he was sort of feeling around mentally for some way to trick us.
He stood up. "Nonetheless, I admit the project has its attractions. Let me confer with my priest on the matter."
The more he said, the worse it felt. Roland didn't even sound like the same man I'd listened to that morning—rough and ready. Now he sounded oily, phony, and that could only mean he was up to something.
He and Father Drogo both left the room, along with the oldest of Roland's knights. I looked at Arno. He didn't look a bit happy. He knew Roland better than I did, and looked like he distrusted him now at least as much.
The baron and the priest were gone for about five minutes, and when they came back, the older knight wasn't with them. Now Arno really looked grim. Father Drogo didn't look happy, either. He didn't look hostile or distrustful, just plain unhappy. I felt almost sure that Roland had ordered the priest to do something bad—something he didn't want to do.
Roland came to the table but didn't sit down. He leaned his big fists on it and looked sternly at me. That felt phony, too. "It is up to Father Drogo," he said. "He will question you further. If he decides you are not from the Devil, then I will agree to take part in this venture, if Arno and I can agree on certain points. But if Father Drogo decides against you, then you must leave, and consider yourself lucky to go with your life.
"Meanwhile, I must talk further with this knight"—he indicated Arno—"about leadership, and who receives what, should I decide to join with you."
I looked at Arno. He and his six men were my best insurance, and now I was supposed to leave their protection. If Roland had people waiting to take me hostage, I could try to fight my way out with my blaster, and might succeed in spite of the bows and arrows I'd seen around. But it seemed to me that that could kill the whole project for us, and we'd never rescue Deneen then—not in the time we had left. So I couldn't just start shooting; I needed to stick with it and see what I could manage.
Arno gave a little nod. I swallowed the lump in my throat, got up, and left the room with Father Drogo. I only flinched a little bit when I stepped through the door. No one was waiting to grab me, not there anyway, and we went down the hall toward the chapel, Drogo leading. When we got there he opened the door and motioned me through. But his eyes were trying to tell me something, and he gave a little warning shake of his head as he started to speak.
"Enter, Sir Larn," he said. "We have much to talk about."
"Of course, Father Drogo." And with that I darted forward, crouched low, giving the door a sudden hard push backward with my shoulder as I lunged through. At the same time I was drawing my stunner, and at the end of my lunge, I whirled. Behind the door was the older knight. One of the sergeants stood waiting with his back against the wall on the other side. In their hands, both had stout clubs of firewood, which they dropped as I thumbed the firing stud on the stunner. Unfortunately, Father Drogo stood exposed in the open door as the stunner beam swept from one warrior to the other, and he went down, too.
Well, I thought, that would give him a good excuse not to start yelling an alarm. And this way, nobody would accuse him of treachery against the baron. Now I had to get out of there as quickly as possible without alarming anyone.
I grabbed Father Drogo and pulled him into the chapel, then closed the door. Then I checked my stunner. I was sure I'd set it back to medium after shooting the Man Stomper, and sure enough I had. Medium was still pretty heavy duty, of course, but Father Drogo was the oldest and least strong, and his pulse was still beating evenly, so I figured I hadn't killed anyone.
There was a table in the chapel, with different kinds of metal dishes and things on it, well-shined, and a table cloth that went all the way to the floor. I grabbed the old knight by the feet and dragged him there, then rolled him under it. He was heavier than I would have thought, and probably all muscle. I did the same with the sergeant. Father Drogo I didn't drag by the feet; I took him under the arms and pulled him. He'd done what he could for me, and I owed him the extra courtesy.
With them out of sight, I straightened up and looked around. Somehow I felt strong and sure of myself just then, really about as good as I'd ever felt in my life. Seeing nothing more that needed doing there, I went out a back door of the chapel. It definitely wouldn't do to go back into the hallway, where I might run into someone from the meeting.
I didn't go around to the steps that led down the front of the mound, either. I just trotted right down the grassy side and out an unattended back gate of the inner palisade. Then I headed for the stable, checking the sky as I went, on the off hope that dad was still up there with the cutter. He wasn't.
Rainulf was in the stable, filing a horse's hoof. (Horses' hooves aren't split like a gorm's; they're a single piece.) I told him to bridle and saddle my horse for me. He didn't ask any questions, just nodded and did it while I waited there in the smell of horses, hay, and horse wastes. It's not a bad smell at all, in a barn. Not like in a cutter. When he was done, I led the horse out, looking back when I'd gone through the door, to see if Rainulf looked at all suspicious. I was prepared to put him to sleep, too, but he was already back filing the hoof again.
I climbed into the saddle, jogged easily across the sun-soaked bailey and out the gate, saluting the gate guard as I passed. He saluted back. Once over the bridge, I kicked the horse into a trot and headed down the road, westward, the way I'd come.
I reviewed my problems as I rode. They might come after me or they might not. Roland had seen the blaster in action, but on the other hand, he was a Norman. And from what I'd seen and heard, Norman meant reckless. If they hunted me down and didn't do anything too foolish, they could probably kill me. He probably felt he'd blown the deal anyway, and was no doubt ready to settle for my blaster and stunner, and my dead body.
What Arno might do under the circumstances, I had no idea. He might even go along with Roland on the hunt, on the basis that if he couldn't have a warship, he might as well settle for the blaster or stunner, too.
The next question was, when would they start after me? If Roland expected word back immediately from the knight or from Drogo, he'd start wondering pretty quickly, and send someone to the chapel to see what was going on. They might already be searching for Father Drogo and the knight. Or he might just assume for a while that everything had gone as he'd intended, and still be talking with Arno.
I looked back and saw nothing except the castle, half a mile back now, and kicked the horse into a canter. My next problem was where to go. From the air, I knew where dad would have the cutter, but I was also pretty sure I couldn't find it from the ground. It was a small wet opening maybe eighty feet across, in a big stretch of forest. I could probably get in the right general area, but find the meadow? I could pass within a hundred feet of it and never know it was there. And I didn't have time to go quartering through the forest in a real search.
Also, the worst place to have Roland catch up with me was in woods. They'd have the trees for cover, they'd be able to surround me, and that would be that.
And I couldn't hang around near the predawn meeting place. It was too near the castle. They could use their dogs, and have me before the afternoon was half over.
Another problem was that the Normans all seemed to be expert horsemen. I wasn't. Off the road, especially in the woods, I couldn't go nearly as fast as they could. Oh, my horse was fast enough all right, and these Norman horses were easy to manage. A little pressure with the reins on one side or a nudge with the heel in one flank, was all it took to steer them. Arno had taught me that. The problem was to not fall off while running full speed in the woods or on rough ground.
But on the road I had at least one speed advantage: Although I was taller than all but two or three of them, I probably weighed less than most of the warriors, and I wasn't wearing a heavy hauberk, or carrying heavy weapons.
Meanwhile, I was headed west. That was the direction of the River Orne. I wouldn't worry about finding the cutter and my parents. I'd let them find me, with Bubba's help. The main thing I needed to do was lose any pursuers, and the river would help me do that. Then I'd hide out somewhere or other.
In another half mile the fields ended, and the road entered the forest. So far, I hadn't seen any sign of pursuit, and I was starting to feel pretty confident. When my family picked me up, we'd fly over the castle with the loud-hailer on and tell Roland he could have us either as his friend or his enemy; the choice was his. Maybe we'd have his help to rescue Deneen yet.
Actually, he'd been no more treacherous than Arno had been, I reminded myself, when Arno had tried to take my "amulets" that morning in Provence not too many days ago. Yet our deal with Arno had been working out all right.
But Arno didn't feel to me like a criminal, the way Roland did. Arno was just being a Norman, and I'd liked him almost from the beginning. I didn't totally trust him, but I liked him.
The road went through forest for most of a mile then, and the terrain was kind of hilly. After that it was more level, and there were farm fields on both sides of the road again for about half a mile. I passed a small castle with an unditched palisade, off to one side, but no one galloped out to challenge me. So far, I'd had the road all to myself.
I'd slowed my horse to a trot again because I didn't have a good feel for how long he could canter without wearing himself out. I didn't want to find myself with an exhausted horse under me if I suddenly needed speed in an emergency. Trotting, though, seemed effortless for him, as if he could do it all day.
Also, a trot wasn't conspicuous. If I kept him at a canter, someone might wonder what I was hurrying for.
When we got into forest again, though, I speeded him up for a while to get a bigger lead. When, if, Roland started after me, he'd probably push his horses as hard as they'd go, probably with hunting hounds leading the way.
When I thought of hounds again, my optimism shrank.
Along the road, a lot of the land was cleared for farming. Then, a few miles and three castles farther, the road began to wind its way downhill through rough, wooded country. It seemed to me that they had to be after me by now, and I let the horse speed up on the downhill. My behind was getting sore again, but I couldn't afford to get off and walk.
The hilly country leading down to the river—the riverbreaks, we'd call it on Evdash—was heavily timbered. Some of the trees were big enough that two people together couldn't have reached around them. Leafy branches formed a roof above the road, letting only spots and patches of sunshine through. The light there had a softness, and it seemed to me a tinge of green as well.
Lush green Normandy was a beautiful place. I wished the situation were different, and that I could slow down and enjoy the country more. Meanwhile, I kept pushing, and after a while came down to the river.
This was the part of the Orne that didn't have a wide gentle valley. Wooded hills came down almost to the water. Another narrow dirt road ran along this side of the river, not far from its banks. There was also a crude wharf here on the riverbank, but no boat, which was fine with me. I knew just what I wanted to do and, guiding my horse around the end of the wharf, rode out into the water. He didn't mind a bit, and the water felt only somewhat cool on my legs.
I started angling downstream toward the far bank. What I had in mind was to take to the woods there for a little way, headed north toward the sea coast. It might not be very good riding through the woods—I couldn't see any road over there—but I'd be out of sight to anyone following the road on the east side.
The river was about two hundred feet wide, and didn't take long to cross. And the woods on the other side weren't very brushy except right along the bank, where more sunlight reached the ground. So it wasn't hard going for the horse, and we trotted right along. Now I could enjoy the woods and the beauty, and the sunshine that I hadn't seen too much of in Normandy.
Then I remembered Roland's hunting dogs, and suddenly the woods and the sunshine weren't so sweet. If the Normans had dogs with them, they'd know I'd ridden into the river, and they'd assume I'd crossed. They could easily cross, too, and the dogs would pick up my trail again. Then I'd be caught in just the situation I wanted to avoid—being chased in the woods. It occurred to me that maybe I should cross back to the east bank again.
But if they didn't bring dogs, they'd probably ride along the road there, and there I'd be. For a minute there, I didn't know what to do. Surely, though, they'd bring dogs. From what Arno had told me, they almost always hunted with dogs. And how else could they hope to track me?
I stayed on the west side for a half mile or so, long enough to be out of sight of the wharf while crossing. Then I rode back to the riverbank and into the water again. In three or four minutes we were back on the east side and on the road. And everything went perfectly fine for about five minutes.
That's when four men stepped out of the woods about fifty feet ahead of me. They weren't Roland's men; I'd never seen them before. They were grinning, but they didn't look friendly at all. All of them wore hauberks, helmets, and swords. Two held bows, slightly bent and with arrows on their bowstrings. A third carried shield and spear, in case I charged, I supposed. The fourth, wearing a tunic over his hauberk, seemed to be the leader. He carried a shield on one arm and a sword in his other hand.
Automatically I looked back over my shoulder and saw another four coming out of the woods behind me.
Eight of them! They were probably looking for bigger prey than me, but apparently I'd do for an appetizer. These didn't look at all like the clumsy ragged bandits I'd seen in Provence. They looked more like knights gone outlaw. I recalled then what Arno had told us: that Roland's father had been killed recently fighting river pirates. I wondered if that's what these were.
"Stop and dismount!" the leader shouted.
I had to act quickly or I'd be dead. I might be anyway. I stopped my horse, and as my feet hit the road, my blaster was out of my holster. I fired twice at the men ahead of me, leaping aside almost at the same instant, seeing the leader fall as I rolled into the weeds beside the road.
Bowstrings twanged both ahead and in back of me as I scrambled behind the nearest tree. I fired several quick blasts at the men to the rear as an arrow thudded into the tree next to me. Besides the leader, two of the bowmen were down, and one of the spearmen, who'd been charging me. The remaining four had melted into the woods on my side of the road, not as if they were ducking out, but like men getting ready to slip up on me through the trees.
What was the matter with these guys? I wondered. They should have been horrified by the blaster. That was another difference between Norman warriors, I told myself, and the ragged bandits of Provence. And if I stayed where I was, they were going to kill me.
Crouching, I moved ahead, and one leaned partly out from behind a tree, aiming an arrow. I got off a shot that grazed the trunk, gouging bark and wood and human flesh as the arrow shot off into the forest canopy above. Another arrow flew by from in front of me, only inches wide, as if the archer had released too soon, perhaps startled by the blast. I hit the ground behind a big tree with smooth gray bark, and lay there for a moment. I couldn't see anyone, and the two guys behind me would be coming up, slowly and cautiously, I hoped.
I didn't remember how many charges were left in the blaster, so I holstered it and drew my stunner, thumbing it on full and wide beam. We were close enough now for it to do the job. Then I jumped up and ran in the direction the last arrow had come from.
The bowman heard me running and stepped out with another arrow ready, drawing the bowstring as he moved. I hit the ground skidding on my stomach, firing at the same time. I never saw the arrow; it passed over me, I guess. All I saw was the Norman fall against the tree next to him and slide to the ground. That accounted for the four that had been in front of me, so I got up and just kept running for another sixty or eighty feet.
Then, since nothing more had happened, I ducked behind a thick trunk, panting, and looked back in the direction I'd come from. As far as I knew, there still were two behind me. If I wanted to get back to my horse, I had to go in their direction. But I didn't know how close they were, so I clipped the stunner back on my belt and drew the blaster. With it in my hand I started back, crouched and ready to sprint or to fire. The road was only a few yards to my left, and it occurred to me to angle toward it in case they decided to take the horse and call it a day.
It was exactly the right thing to do. Two of them were carrying a third man, wounded, toward the horse, apparently to load him on it. They were civilized enough to try to help their wounded. So instead of jumping out and shooting, I stepped into the road with the blaster pointed in a two-handed grip, and called to them to turn around and leave.
They stopped, stared at me for a moment, and one of them said something to the other. Carefully, they laid their partner down, then abruptly jumped for opposite sides of the road. I shot one of them, really gutting him, and it was just too much for the other. For a few seconds I got glimpses of him running hard through the trees, getting out of there.
Then I was alone, except for the guy who was wounded. I walked over to him. He was still breathing, noisily, but he was unconscious, and bleeding quite a lot. The energy bolt had torn away most of his left shoulder, and the side of his chest was torn open. His left arm would probably have torn off if his friends hadn't laid it across his stomach before they picked him up. While I watched, the blood quit pumping out of the wound, and I figured he must be dead.
I didn't feel sick or anything like that, and I certainly didn't feel guilty—I didn't even feel sorry it had happened, exactly. But now that the fight was over, I just kind of felt—wretched. I'm not sure why. They were Normans, and Arno said that almost every Norman male of noble birth, and some of common birth, dreamed of being a knight, and a hero in battle. Fighting, he'd said, was the salt of life for them.
Well, getting killed went along with that kind of thing, but I felt pretty depressed anyway.
And if I hung around there, I told myself, I was likely to get killed, too. And I didn't want to kill potential allies to defend myself. I noticed the guy with the tunic lying nearby, and went over to him. The energy bolt had torn off his left leg just above the knee, and I tried not to look at it. I might want his tunic later, when it cooled off at night. The tunic wasn't bloody—the blood had run down past his feet—and I pulled it off.
Then I went and got my horse, which surprisingly hadn't run off in spite of all the blaster fire. He was probably within twenty feet of where I'd gotten off him. Apparently Normans train their horses as skillfully as they ride them.
Normans! I'd learned a lot about Normans recently, but today I'd really learned about Normans. They were treacherous, there was no arguing about that. But they were also nearly fearless—every bit as brave as Arno said they were. They hadn't even panicked in the face of modern weapons. From what I'd seen, they really might be able to take the Federation corvette after all.
Meanwhile, some of them wanted to kill me. I kicked my horse into a brisk canter. Maybe the dead pirates in and around the road would give Roland food for thought. I was sure it would Arno.