Free The Book of the Lion by Michael Cadnum Page A

long, and the river was longer, and as the days and weeks went by each one of us grew lean and brown. We rarely rode our war mounts on these long, journeying days, but kept to cobs purchased for the trip, mild animals, bred for burden, destined for the poor man’s table.
    Some breezy, rain-spattered days we traveled by cattle barge along a river, magpies stalking the vineyards. Other days we traveled by cart-rutted path, always waking well before dawn and settling for the night while the sun was still high in the sky.
    It was clear that the gray, stooped men Wenstan bargained with for cheese and bread were afraid of us. They would not meet Hubert’s eye, or mine.
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    â€œIs Saladin a monster, too?” I was asking.
    â€œA monster?” echoed Nigel. He gave his horse an absent-minded pat, waving away a wasp. The wasp persisted, and Nigel leaned from side to side, cursing, dodging the insect.
    We rode in a long line, and the horses had been nervous, their ears twitching. I shook out a sword-cloth from my pack, and snapped it at the wasp. Perhaps it was a lucky blow—the tiny creature vanished.
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    â€œYou know how I hate such pests,” said Nigel, gratefully.
    â€œThe pagan lord,” I persisted. “Is he a terrible demon, like his men, or is he built like us, with arms, and legs, and—all the other parts?”
    â€œThe pagans we call Mussulmen. I know little about them, I am pleased to say. They have taken the Holy City from the Christians, but I am certain, Edmund, that they look in great measure as we do.”
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    A dozen questions swarmed in me. Did these heathens fight with swords? Did they invoke the Devil, and did the Devil ride with them?
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    Some pigs were eating the carcass of a dray horse beside the road. Two young sows ran off at our approach, but the largest, a brown and pink matron sow stayed, snout deep in the ribs of a nearly fleshless skeleton.
    Hubert threw a stone the size of a grouse egg, small and smooth, and it struck the pig squarely on its right ham. The pig did not look up, but it did argue a little, making a sound like Sir Nigel talking in his sleep.
    Rannulf accepted the lance from his squire, swung it easily up and down to check the balance.
    Nigel cried out, “I can smell it!”
    â€œWe all nose this poor horse, my lord,” I said.
    Nigel lifted his hand. “No, Edmund—I smell the sea!”

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    The ship was called Sant’ Agnese.
    It was a holy ship. Even coiling a rope preparing for the voyage, the sailors made the sign of the Cross, so that, as Wenstan explained, a demon could not get wound up in the circles of cordage.
    â€œThis is not a ship,” breathed Hubert. “This is a castle!”
    Indeed, the Cornish boat that had carried us across the channel now seemed like an oyster-catcher’s wherry, compared to this floating cathedral. Dockers carried casks of honey, sacks of wheat and millet flour, bales of kidskin leather, barrels of wine from the Rhone vineyards. As the ship took on cargo, we feasted on roasted curlew, purchased under the sky, still hot from the spit. Provender for the voyage was brought in cages, ducks, thrusting necks through the wooden staves of the crates, hens squawking, and a single rooster in a cage by himself, crowing.
    Dozens of men manned the sweeps, and we surged away from the dock, overlooked by an image of the blessed Saint Agnes, set upright at the prow. The beloved saint held a lamb in her arms, and looked down upon us with patient love.
    One hour out of port the sail filled with wind and the bottom of the sea fell out from under us. The ship dropped straight down for a long time, a wall of water growing higher on all sides. The sunlight vanished, and the shade of the sea was chill.
    â€œBe strong, Edmund!” said Hubert softly into my ear.
    Not a single sailor looked upward with any concern, each seaman with some task that took all