The Leopard Sword Read Online Free Page A

tone.
    Sir Jean had a heavy glance. My teachers had explained to me that vision originates in our eyes, sight emitting from our eyeballs the way rays of light beam outward from a lantern. I had asked Father Giles what happened when we closed our eyes—did the sunny world go dark?
    But under the gaze of Sir Jean it was easy to believe, once again, that Father Giles was right. The eye is a source of power—in this case, withering my will. I summoned a glance of my own, and breathed an inward prayer for Heaven’s strength.
    â€œWhat was taken by this thief, good Sir Jean?” asked Sir Nigel.
    I wanted to protest.
    But Sir Nigel gave me a small signal I had learned to watch for—a tiny dip of his chin, a slight shift of his eye, all directed at me. Sometimes I speak when I should not, unable to rein in my breath. But now I proved my worth by keeping silent.
    â€œIt was the attempt that gives offense,” said Sir Jean.
    â€œLeave the servant to us,” said Sir Rannulf carefully through his sword-scarred lips. It was easy to see why man and knight both respected such a voice, as though a gnarled, storm-lashed tree had been given the power of speech.
    The serving man rolled his eyes and grimaced in purest terror.
    â€œWe’ll work a confession out of him,” said Rannulf,“if he hides any sin. And feed him justice.”
    â€œYou’ll see that he confesses?” asked Sir Jean.
    â€œWith cord and sticks,” said Sir Rannulf.
    This referred to a simple device, and an effective torture, one I had seen at work in Nottingham, where the town executioner is an adept at separating men from their secrets. Two sticks are connected by a leather thong. The cord circles the offender’s head, and the twin sticks are twisted tight until, if no confession starts, the leather cinch compresses the bones of the head.
    Edmund and I were livid, quivering with silent protest, kept from blurting a word by a cool look from Sir Nigel.
    Osbert sobbed.
    Squire Nicholas leaned toward Sir Jean, murmuring into his ear.
    Sir Jean looked Edmund up and down, like a man doubtful of the value of a dray mare. “I hear this squire was a counterfeiter’s apprentice.”
    Sir Rannulf tossed the last of his wine overboard, and let the cup fall to the deck.
    He put his hand on his sword.

FIVE
    â€œEdmund Strongarm served God with King Richard’s army,” said Rannulf, speaking slowly and emphatically.
    Edmund Strongarm.
    I thrilled at the sound of this—the first time anyone had called my friend such a glorious name. Edmund himself showed no outward emotion, but prickles of pink appeared on his cheek.
    â€œAnd like any Crusading sinner,” said Sir Nigel, “his past crimes, whatever they might have been, are washed clean.”
    Sir Jean stood as tall as he could—he was a big man—and I had a flash of sympathy for him. Like many knights, he was grieved to be leaving the war, and he wanted any possible way to assert his pride.
    Nicholas released Osbert. The manservant sprawled on the deck, and then he attempted to be equal to the dignity of a squire-at-arms’s service. He stood upright, pulling at his tunic.
    Sir Jean put his hands on his hips. “Let me hear the servant confess,” he said.
    â€œWe’ll attend to this,” said Sir Nigel, “in our own time.” And then Nigel laughed and made an openhanded gesture. “Share some wine with me, each of you.”
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    The weather was sharpening, waves higher, the wind behind us strong and cold, our sail straining at its ropes.
    Edmund and I had arranged a place against the rail, a canopy of canvas, a worn sailcloth on the deck. Sir Nigel offered the serving man a cup of wine, and Osbert drank gratefully. Sir Nigel found a knob of bread wrapped in a blanket—hard, dry ship’s fare—and broke off a piece for all of us before he ate any himself.
    â€œThe next time, Edmund,