Poul Anderson - The High Crusade

“A few days may be too much,” grumbled Sir Roger. He threw the beef bone he had been gnawing to the dogs and licked his fingers noisily. Lady Catherine frowned and pointed to the water bowl and napkin before him. “I’m sorry, my sweet,” he muttered. “I never can remember about these newfangled things.”

Sir Owain delivered him from his embarrassment by inquiring: “Why say you a few days may be too long? Surely you are not expecting another ship?”

’No. But the men will be more restless than ever. We were almost ready to depart, and now this happens!”

’So? Can we not leave anyhow on the date planned?”

“No, you blockhead!” Sir Roger’s fist landed on the table. A goblet jumped. “Cannot you see what a chance this is? It must have been given us by the saints themselves!”

As we sat awestruck, he went on rapidly: “We can take the whole company aboard that thing. Horses, cows, pigs, fowls — we’ll not be deviled by supply problems. Women, too, all the comforts of home! Aye, why not even the children? Never mind the crews hereabouts, they can stand neglect for a while and tis safer to keep everyone together lest there should be another visitation.

“I know not what powers the ship owns besides flying, but her very appearance will strike such terror we’ll scarce need to fight. So we’ll take her across the Channel and end the French war inside a month, d’ you see? Then we go on and liberate the Holy Land, and get back here in time for hay harvest!”

A long silence ended abruptly in such a storm of cheers that my own weak protests were drowned out. I thought the scheme altogether mad. So, I could see, did Lady Catherine and a few others. But the rest were laughing and shouting till the hail roared.

Sir Roger turned a flushed face to me. “It depends on you, Brother Parvus,” he said. “You’re the best of us all in matters of language. You must make the demon talk, or teach him how, whichever it is. He’s got to show us how to sail that ship!”

“My noble lord—” I quavered.

“Good!” Sir Roger slapped my back so I choked and nearly fell off my seat. “I knew you could do it. Your reward will be the privilege of coming with us!”

Indeed, it was as if the town and the army were alike possessed. Surely the one wise course was to send messages posthaste to the bishop, perhaps to Rome itself, begging counsel, But no, they must all go, at once. Wives would not leave their husbands, or parents their children, or girls their lovers. The lowliest serf looked up from his acre and dreamed of freeing the Holy Land and picking up a coffer of gold on the way.

What else can be expected of a folk bred from Saxon, Dane, and Norman?

I returned to the abbey and spent the night on my knees, praying for a sign. But the saints remained noncommittal. After matins I went with a heavy heart to my abbot and told him what the baron had commanded. He was wroth at not being allowed immediate communication with the Church authorities but decided it was best we obey for the nonce. I was released from other duties that I might study how to converse with the demon.

I girded myself and went down to the cell where he was confined. It was a narrow room, half underground, used for penances. Brother Thomas, our smith, had stapled fetters to the wails and chained the creature up. He lay on a straw pallet, a frightful sight in the gloom. His links clashed as he rose at my entry. Our relics in their chests were placed near by, just out of his impious reach, so that the thighbone of St. Osbert and the sixth-year molar of St. Willibald might keep him from bursting his bonds and escaping back to hell.

Though I would not have been at all sorry had he done so.

I crossed myself and squatted down. His yellow eyes glared at me. I had brought paper, ink, and quills, to exercise what small talent I have for drawing. I sketched a man and said, “Homo,” for it seemed wiser to teach him Latin than any language confined to a single nation. Then I drew another man and showed him that the two were called homines. Thus it went, and he was quick to learn.

Presently he signaled for the paper, and I gave it to him. He himself drew skillfully. He told me that his name was Branithar and that his race was called Wersgorix. I was unable to find these terms in any demonology. But thereafter I let him guide our studies, for his race had made the learning of new languages into a science, and our task went apace.

I worked long hours with him and saw little of the outside world in the next few days. Sir Roger kept his domain incommunicado. I think his greatest fear was that some earl or duke might seize the ship for himself. With his bolder men, the baron spent much time aboard it, trying to fathom all the wonders he encountered.

Erelong Branithar was able to complain about the bread-and-water diet and threaten revenge. I was still afraid of him but kept up a bold front. Of course, our conversation was much slower than I here render it, with many pauses while we searched for words.

“You brought this on yourself,” I told him. “You should have known better than to make an unprovoked attack on Christians.”

“What are Christians?” he asked.

Dumfounded, I thought he must be feigning ignorance. As a test, I led him through the Paternoster. He did not go up in smoke, which puzzled me.

“I think I understand,” he said. “You refer to some primitive tribal pantheon.”

“It is no such heathen thing!” I said indignantly. I started to explain the Trinity to him, but had scarcely gotten to transubstantiation when he waved an impatient blue hand. It was much like a human hand otherwise, save for the thick, sharp nails.

“No matter,” he said. “Are all Christians as ferocious as your people?”

“You would have had better luck with the French,” I admitted. “Your misfortune was landing among Englishmen.”

’A stubborn breed,” he nodded. “It will cost you dearly. But if you release me at once, I will try to mitigate the vengeance which is going to fall on you.”

My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth, but I unstuck it and asked him coolly enough to elucidate. Whence came he, and what were his intentions?

That took a long time for him to make clear, because the very concepts were strange. I thought surely he was lying, but at least he acquired more Latin in the process.

It was about two weeks after the landing when Sir Owain Montbelle appeared at the abbey and demanded audience with me. I met him in the cloister garden; we found a bench and sat down.

This Owain was the younger son, by a second marriage with a Welsh woman, of a petty baron on the Marches. I daresay the ancient conflict of two nations smoldered strangely in his breast; but the Cymric charm was also there. Made page and later esquire to a great knight in the royal court, young Owain had captured his master’s heart and been brought up with all the privilege of far higher ranks. He had traveled widely abroad, become a troubadour of some note, received the accolade — and then suddenly, there he was, penniless. In hopes of winning his fortune, he had wandered to Ansby to join the free companions. Though valiant enough, he was too darkly handsome for most men’s taste, and they said no husband felt safe when he was about. This was not quite true, for Sir Roger had taken a fancy to the youth, admired his judgment as well as his education, and was happy that at last Lady Catherine had someone to talk to about the things that most interested her.

“I come from my lord, Brother Parvus,” Sir Owain began. “He wishes to know how much longer you will need to tame this beast of ours,”

“Oh … he speaks glibly enough now,” I answered. “But he holds so firmly to out-and-out falsehoods that I have not yet thought it worth while to report.”