Swords From the West Read Online Free Page A

rolled on his shoulders, and Messer Andrea rose, pushing forward the chair to him. "Life is sweet, my lord. It is needful to write thy name on this paper." He placed the quill in the Greek's quivering fingers.
    "What evil is this?" Theodore peered at it drowsily.
    "Has your Illustriousness forgotten? It is the death of the swordsman." Again Theodore found his cup filled and from habit he drank. With the Counter guiding his hand, he scrawled his name. And Messer Andrea, tucking back his long sleeves, bestirred himself to melt red wax upon the parchment and press into it the signet ring of the almost unconscious prince. Then Theodore laid his head upon the table and slept.
    Messer Andrea blew out the candles and slipped away into the darkness to attend to other matters.
    It was late in the afternoon of the next day before Sir Bruce's guides came to fresh water-four leagues from Tana. Here the trail wound upward, among gray clay buttes overhanging the sea's edge. The servitors, resplendent in the crimson and white livery of Prince Theodore, placed the pavilion pole in a sheltered spot, and hung upon it the striped silk covering under which Marie, the maid of Rohan, was to sleep that night.
    "Glad am I," cried the girl, "to be again in the sun."
    Sir Bruce, staring through narrowed eyes at the glitter upon the sea below them, was troubled by her beauty.
    It was a miracle to Sir Bruce that he, who had not seen a woman of his race for years, now had in his charge this maid. Because he had given a promise to John of Rohan, he had wandered and searched and fought his way by land along the course the Counter's galleys had taken by water. And when he had first seen Marie the blood had throbbed in his veins. Now he was proud and exultant. Yet the grim purpose in him ever kept him silent, and she looked sidewise at him curiously.
    "Oh, this is a barren land," she said, "but Messer Andrea has given me a great store of comfort. At first I did not like him, but he was generous."
    Sir Bruce drew his hand across his chin. He wore this day his mail, a linked habergeon, with coif and thigh pieces. He stood beside the gray Arab that he had not yet unsaddled.
    "Nay," he responded bluntly, "he is no man of faith."
    "He sent his knaves to serve us."
    "Aye so." Sir Bruce knew that these men, though they wore livery, were masterless fellows, and he expected no good of them. Yet Messer Andrea had given the girl a swift-paced mare and caparisons of cloth of gold.
    "He took thought for me. See, he instructed to me a safe conduct to Constantinople."
    "To you? I must see it."
    Obediently she sought in her saddle bags until she drew forth a roll of parchment, tied and sealed with red wax. Sir Bruce took it silently and broke the string at once. He frowned over the missive, written in Arabic, and Prince Theodore's signature. After a moment's thought he went to the fire the guides were kindling and thrust the parchment into the flames.
    "That was mine!" Marie cried. "Why did you burn it?"
    "It had a name upon it, a royal name emblazoned." Sir Bruce swept his long arm around the encampment. "Here no seal of wax will avail you, my lady."
    The girl lifted her head proudly. "I have no fear. You are a harsh man, Sir Bruce, and my father said of you long since that you would turn aside neither for weapon of man nor spite of the devil."
    In the flaming tamarisk the parchment crumbled, and from it ran a thin stream of crimson, so like blood that Marie was startled and caught at the warrior's arm. "Look-"
    "Be quiet!" he bade her sternly.
    His head bent forward, the lines in his dark face deepened. Then all at once she heard the thrumming of hoofs, and from the ravine at the upper end of the valley trotted a dark mass of riders-men in dull chain mail with long cloaks and sheepskin kaftans. At sight of the pavilion they shouted and lashed their horses to a gallop.
    "Mount!" Sir Bruce's voice sounded in her ear.
    She turned, and when she fumbled with the stirrup he