The Leopard Sword Read Online Free

into words the hope Edmund and I shared—that we were, in truth, the stuff of knighthood. Surely fledglings grow into full-feathered cocks. It was true that Edmund knew too little about weapons. Knights practice lance work by tilting at the quintain—charging into a span of wood from which hung, on one end, a shield, and on the other a weighted sack. I had practiced the skill myself in England, and during my many months of training as a squire. Edmund had been named a squire just before we all left on the Crusade, and such training, and much else, would be required for Edmund to ripen into knighthood.
    â€œIf Heaven wills it,” Sir Nigel was saying, “Rannulf will teach Edmund how to carry a lance, and train Hubert in how to hold his tongue.”
    â€œWith pleasure,” said Rannulf, without the trace of a smile. Edmund had attended this famous knight, while I counted myself fortunate to have served Nigel.
    I liked to imitate Rannulf behind his back sometimes, forcing Edmund to laugh at his master despite himself. Rannulf ’s stony expressions were legendary, and I doubted he took pleasure in food or drink, or passing water, or even attending to an itch.
    While most fighting men are close-cropped and clean shaven, Rannulf was bearded, his mouth sword-scarred. He was called Rannulf of Josselin, after the famous joust in that city where he killed six men. Both Rannulf and Nigel were bachelor knights who owned no or little land, and lived well and honorably by hiring themselves to noblemen.
    Sir Nigel’s reputation convinced my father to pay him to school me in the ways of knighthood. My father would never have struck such an arrangement with Sir Rannulf. Now that Edmund had battle trove in the chest, along with the rest of us, it was truly possible that both of us had gold enough to complete the training someday, and purchase the war-kit needed to become men-at-arms.
    But then my thoughts were interrupted by Sir Jean and Nicholas, dragging a third man between them.
    â€œYour manservant,” said Nicholas, looking Edmund in the eye, “is a thief.”
    Nicholas held Osbert by the arm. Edmund’s servant tried to look as dignified as he could, forced as he was into a crab-like stoop.
    â€œNay, my lord Edmund,” protested Osbert, “I am no such creature.”
    â€œHis hand was in my gipser,” said Nicholas, indicating the leather purse on his belt. Such gipser purses are usually carried by franklins and town worthies with enough coin to make them necessary—most squires would find a belt purse inconvenient in the rough-and-tumble of a voyage.
    Squires and shield bearers glanced our way, and a few gathered, but most of the ship’s passengers drowsed, drank wine, or sweated off fever.
    â€œOsbert is a worthy servant,” said Edmund formally, “and no thief, on my honor.”
    â€œOn your honor,” echoed Nicholas.
    Edmund had spoken well, but hastily. Osbert had joined Edmund since the battle, and none of us knew his past.
    But the assertion having been made, I stepped to Osbert and took his other arm. “And on mine,” I added, trying to keep my voice steady.
    This was all hyg speche, high speech, artificial and courtly. It was also, I thought, a little foolish. Osbert had quick hands, and an eager-to-please manner I did not trust.
    Sir Nigel and Sir Rannulf looked on, their mouths set. Knights did not involve themselves in disagreements among squires, unless to protect a valued squire’s life, but neither did our two masters absent themselves, as many would have done. They remained, aloof but very much a presence, witnessing what was said.
    â€œI saw the thief at work,” said Sir Jean.
    Sir Jean’s surcoat had been stained with old blood along the hem, but now it was spattered with drying gore—and worse.
    â€œAnyone, my lord, would run from a sight such as yourself,” I offered, hoping I struck the proper joking