The High Crusade Read online

  Chapter XV

  Of course I could not accept any such offer. Quite apart from difficult questions of consecration, I hope I know my humble place in life. Anyhow, at this stage it was mere talk. We had too much else to do, to offer God more than a Mass of thanksgiving.

  We let nearly all the recaptured Wersgorix go. On a powerful far-speaker, Sir Roger broadcast a proclamation to Tharixan. He bade every large landholder, in those areas not yet ravaged, to come make submission and take several of the homeless ones back with him. The lesson he had taught was so sharp that for the next few days it swarmed with blue visitors. I must needs deal with them, and forgot what sleep was like. But for the most part they were very meek. Indeed, this race had been supreme among the stars so long that only their soldiers now had occasion to develop a manly contempt for death. Once these had submitted, the burgesses and franklins quickly did likewise — and were so used to having an all-powerful government above them that they never dreamed it might be possible to revolt.

  Most of Sir Roger’s attention in that period went to training his folk in garrison duty. The castle machines being as simple to operate as most Wersgor equipment, he had soon had women, children, serfs, and aged manning Darova. They should be able to hold it against attack for at least a while. Those who seemed hopelessly incapable in the diabolic arts of meter-reading, button-pushing, and knob-twisting, he put on a safely distant island to care for our livestock.

  When transplanted Ansby was thus able to defend itself~ the baron gathered his free companions for yet another expedition into the sky. He explained his idea to me beforehand: as yet, I alone had any fluency in the Wersgor tongue, though Branithar (with Father Simon’s assistance) was instructing others apace.

  “We’ve done well so far, Brother Parvus,’ Sir Roger declared. “But alone, we’d never hurl back the Wersgor hosts being raised against us. I hope by now you’ve mastered their writing and numerology. At least well enough to keep watch on a native navigator and see that he doesn’t steer us where we would not go.”

  “I have studied the principles of their star maps a little, sire,” I answered, “though in truth they do not employ charts, but mere columns of figures. Nor do they have mortal steersmen on the spaceships. Rather, they instruct an artificial pilot at the start of the journey, and thereafter the homunculus operates the entire craft.”

  “How well I know that!” grunted Sir Roger. “’Twas how Branithar tricked us hither in the first instance. A dangerous wight, that, but too useful to kill. Glad I am not to have him aboard on this voyage; and yet I’m not easy in my heart at leaving him in Darova…”

  “But where are you bound, sire?” I interrupted.

  “Oh. Aye. That.’ He knuckled eyes sandy with weariness. “There are other kings than Wersgor. Lesser star-traveling nations, who dread the day when these snoutface fiends will decide to make an end of them. I shall seek allies.”

  It was an obvious enough move, but I hesitated. “Well?” demanded Sir Roger. “What ails you now?”

  “If they have not yet gone to war,” I said weakly, “why should the advent of a few backward savages like us make them do so?”

  “Hearken, Brother Parvus,” said Sir Roger. “I’m weary of this whining about our own ignorance and feebleness. We’re not ignorant of the true Faith, are we? Somewhat more to the point, maybe, while the engines of war may change through the centuries, rivalry and intrigue look no subtler out here than at home. Just because we use a different sort of weapons, we aren’t savages.”

  I could scarcely refute his argument, since it was our only hope except for a random flight in search of lost Terra.

  The best spaceships were those which had lain in the vaults of Darova. We were outfitting these, when the sun was darkened by a still greater vessel. As it hung up there like a thundercloud, it threw dismay among our folk. But Sir Owain Montbelle came running with a Wersgor engineer in tow, snatched up myself to interpret, and led us to the far-speaker. Standing out of sight of the screen, with sword drawn, Sir Owain made the captive speak with the master of the ship.

  It proved to be a merchant craft, paying a regular call at this planet. The sight of Ganturath and Stularax turned into holes horrified its crew. We could easily enough have blasted the ship down, but Sir Owain used his Wersgor puppet to tell the captain there had been a raid from space, beaten off by the Darova garrison, and that he should land here. He obeyed. As the ship’s outer portals opened, Sir Owain led a swarm of men aboard and captured it without trouble.

  For this, they cheered him night and day. And he made a brave, colorful figure, always prepared to fling a jest or a gallantry. Sir Roger, toiling without pause, grew ever more uncouth. Men stood in awe of him, and some little hatred, since he drove them to such exertions. Sir Owain contrasted, like Oberon versus a bear. Half the women must have been in love with him, though he had songs only for Lady Catherine.

  The booty from the giant ship was rich. Best of all, however, were many tons of grain. We tried some of this on our livestock on the island, which was growing thin on the detested blue grass. They accepted the feed as eagerly as if it were English oats. When he heard this, Sir Roger exclaimed, “Whatever planet that comes from is the one we must capture next.”

  I crossed myself and hurried elsewhere.

  But we had little time to lose. It was no secret that Huruga had dispatched spaceships to Wersgorixan immediately after the second battle of Ganturath. They would take a while to reach that distant planet, and the emperor would need a while more to raise a fleet among his widely scattered domains, and thereafter it would take time for the fleet to get back here. But already days had fled from us.

  To head the Darova garrison of women, children, aged, and serfs, Sir Roger appointed his wife. I am told that our chroniclers’ practice of inventing speeches for the great persons whose lives they write is unscholarly. Yet I knew those two, not just the haughty exterior but (in glimpses, for it was shy) the soul. I can all but see them, in a buried room of the alien castle.

  Lady Catherine has hung it with her tapestries, spread rushes on the floor, and left the walls darkened in favor of sconced candles, that this place might seem less eerie to her. She waits in garments of pride, while her husband bids their children farewell. Little Matilda weeps openly. Robert withholds the tears, more or less, until he has closed the door on his father: for he is a de Tourneville.

  Slowly, Sir Roger straightens. He has stopped shaving, for lack of time, and the beard curls like wire on his scarred hook-nosed face. The gray eyes look burnt out, and a muscle in his cheek will not stop twitching. Since hot water runs freely here from pipes, he has bathed; but he wears his usual rough old jerkin and patched hose. The baldric of his great sword creaks as he advances toward his wife.

  “Well,” he says awkwardly, “I must begone.”

  “Yes.” Her back is slender and very straight.

  “I believe—” He clears his throat. “I believe you’ve learned everything needful.” When she does not answer: “Remember, ’tis most important to keep those students of the Wersgor tongue hard at their lessons. Otherwise we’ll be deaf-mutes among our foes. But never trust our prisoners. Two armed men must always be with each one of them.”

  “Indeed.” She nods. She is uncoifed, and candlelight slides along the coiled auburn hair. “I shall also remember that the pigs don’t require that new grain we give the other animals.”

  “Most important! And be certain to stock this stronghold well. Those of our folk who have eaten native food are still in health, so you can requisition from Wersgor granaries.”

  Silence thickens about them.

  “Well,” he says, “I must begone.”

  “God be with you, my lord.”

  He stands a moment, studying each smallest tone in her voice. “Catherine—”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I’ve wronged you,” he forces out. “And I’ve neglected you, what’s worse.”

  Her hands reach out,
as if of their own accord. His coarse palms close about them.

  “Any man could be mistaken, now and then,” she breathes.

  He dares look into the blue eyes. “Will you give me a token?” he asks.

  “For your safe return—”

  He drops hands to her waist, draws her close and cries joyous: “And my final victory! Give me your token, and I’ll lay this empire at your feet!”

  She pulls herself free. Horror bestrides her lips. “When are you going to start looking for our Earth?”

  “What honor is there in slinking home, when we leave the very stars our enemies?” Pride clashes in his words.

  “God help me,” she whispers, and flees him. He stands a long while, until the sound of her feet has vanished down the cold corridors. Then he turns and walks out to his men.

  We could have crowded into one of the big ships but thought it best to disperse ourselves in a score. These had been repainted, using Wersgor supplies, by a lad who possessed some heraldic skill. Now they were scarlet and gold and purple, with the de Tournevile arms and the English leopards emblazoned on the flagship.

  Tharixan fell behind us. We went into that strange condition, ducking in and out of more dimensions than Euclid’s orderly three, which the Wersgorix called “super-light drive.” Again the stars flamed on every hand, and we amused ourselves with naming the new constellations — the Knight, the Plowman, the Arbalest, and more, including some which are not fit to put in this record.

  The voyage was not long: a few Earth-days only, as near as we could estimate from the clocks. It rested us, and we were keen as hounds when we coursed into the planetary system of Bodavant.

  By now we understood that there are many colors and sizes of suns, all intermingled. The Wersgorix, like humans, favored small yellow ones. Bodavant was redder and cooler. Only one of its planets was habitable (the usual case); and while this Both could have been settled by men or Wersgorix, they would find it dim and chilly. Thus our enemies had not troubled to conquer the native Jairs but merely prevented them from acquiring more colonies than they had when discovered, and forced them into grossly unfavorable trade agreements.

  The planet hung like a huge shield, mottled and rusty, against the stars, when the native warships hailed us. We brought our flotilla to an obedient halt. Rather, we ceased to accelerate, and simply plunged through space in a hyperbolic sub-light orbit which the Jair craft matched. But these problems of heavenly navigation make my poor head ache; I am content to leave them to the astrologers and the angels.

  Sir Roger invited the Jair admiral aboard our flag ship. We used the Wersgor language, of course, with myself as interpreter. But I shall only render the gist of the conversation, not the tedious byplay which actually took place.

  A reception had been prepared, with an eye to impressing the visitors. The corridor from the portal to the refectory was lined with warriors. The longbowmen had patched their green doublets and hose, made their caps gay with feathers, and rested their dreadful weapons before them. The common men-at-arms had polished what mail and flat helmets they owned, and formed an arch of pikes. Beyond, where the passage grew high and broad enough to allow, twenty cavalrymen gleamed in full armor of plate, banner and scutcheon, plume and lance, astride our biggest chargers. At the final door, Sir Roger s huntmaster stood with hawk on wrist and a pack of mastiffs at his feet. Trumpets blared, drums rolled, horses reared, dogs gave tongue, and as one we made the ship roar with the deep-throated cry: “God and St. George for merry England! Haro!”

  The Jairs looked rather daunted but continued to the refectory. It was hung with the most gorgeous of our looted fabrics. At the end of the long table, Sir Roger, in broidered garments, surrounded by halberdiers and crossbowmen, sat on a throne hastily knocked together by our carpenters. As the Jairs entered, he raised a golden Wersgor beaker and drank their health in English ale. He had wanted to use wine, but Father Simon had decided to reserve it for Holy Communion, pointing out that foreign devils wouldn’t know the difference.

  “Waes hâeil!” declaimed Sir Roger, an English phrase he loved even when speaking his more usual French.

  The Jairs hesitated until page boys showed them to their places with as much ceremony as the royal court. Thereafter I said a rosary and asked a blessing upon our conference. This was not, I confess, done for purely religious reasons. We had already gathered that the Jairs employed certain verbal formulas to invoke hidden powers of body and brain. If they were benighted enough to take my sonorous Latin for a still more impressive version of the same thing, the sin was not ours, was it?

  “Welcome, my lord,” said Sir Roger. He, too, looked much rested. There was even a sparkle of devilty about him. Only those who knew him well could have guessed what emptiness housed within. “I pray pardon for my unceremonious entrance into your domain, but the news I bear will scarcely wait.”

  The Jair admiral leaned tensely forward. He was a little taller than a man, though more slender and graceful, with soft gray fur over his body and a white ruff around his head. The face was cat-whiskered and had enormous purple eyes, but otherwise looked human. That is to say, it looked as human as the faces in a triptych painted by a not very skillful artist. He wore close-fitting garments of brown stuff, with insignia of rank. But drab indeed they looked, he and his eight associates, next to the splendor we had scraped up. His name, we found later, was Beijad sor Van. Our expectation that the one in charge of interplanetary defenses would stand high in the government proved well founded.

  “We had no idea the Wersgorix would trust any other folk enough to arm them as allies,” he said.

  Sir Roger laughed. “Hardly, gentle sir! I am come from Tharixan, which I’ve just taken over. We’re using captured Wersgor ships to eke out our own.”

  Beijad sat bolt upright. His fur bristled with excitement. “Are you another star-traveling race, then?” he cried.

  “We fight Englishmen,” Sir Roger evaded. He did not wish to lie to potential allies more than he must, for their indignation on discovering it might prove troublesome. “Our lords have extensive foreign possessions, such as Ulster, Leinster, Normandy — but I’ll not weary you with a catalogue of planets.” I alone noticed he had not actually said those counties and duchies were planets. “To put it briefly, ours is a very old civilization. Our records go back for more than five thousand years.” He used the Wersgor equivalent, as nearly as possible. And who shall deny that Holy Writ runs with absolute accuracy from the time of Adam?

  Beijad was less impressed than we had expected. “The Wersgorix boast a mere two thousand years of clearly established history, since their civilization rebuilt itself after its final internecine war,” he said. “But we Jairs possess a reliable chronology for the past eight millennia.”

  “How long have you practiced space flight?” Sir Roger asked.

  “For about two centuries.”

  “Ah. Our earliest experiments of that sort were — how long ago, would you say, Brother Parvus?”

  “About thirty-five hundred years, at a place called Babel,” I told them.

  Beljad gulped. Sir Roger continued smoothly, “This universe is so large that the expanding English kingdom did not run into the expanding Wersgor domain until very recently. They didn’t realize our true powers but attacked us unprovoked. You know their viciousness. We’re a very peaceful race ourselves.” We had learned from contemptuous prisoners that the Jair Republic deplored warfare and had never colonized a planet which already had inhabitants. Sir Roger folded his hands and rolled his eyes upward. “Indeed,” he said, “one of our most basic commandments is, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Yet it seemed a greater sin, to let so cruel and dangerous a power as Wersgorixan continue to ravage helpless folk.”

  “Hmm.” Beljad rubbed his furry brow. “Where does this England of yours lie?”

  “Now, now,” purred Sir Roger. “You can’t expect us to tell even the most honored strangers that, until a better understanding has been reached. The Wersgo
rix themselves don t know, for we captured their scoutship. This expedition of mine has come hither to punish them and gather information. As I told you, we captured Tharixan with small loss to ourselves. But ’tis not our monarch’s way to intervene in affairs that concern other intelligent species, without consulting their wishes. I swear King Edward III has never dreamed of doing so. I’d much prefer to have you Jairs, and others who’ve suffered at Wersgor hands, join me in a crusade to humble them. And thus you’ll earn the right to divide up their empire fairly and squarely with us.”

  “Are you — the head of a single military force — empowered to undertake such negotiations?” Beljad asked doubtfully.

  “Sir, I am no petty noble,” the baron answered with great stiffness. “My descent is as lofty as any in your realm. An ancestor of mine, by the name of Noah, was once admiral of the combined fleets of my planet.”

  “This is so sudden,” Beljad faltered. “Unheard of. We cannot — I cannot — it has to be discussed, and—”

  “Certes.” My lord raised his voice till the chamber rang. “But don’t dawdle overly long, gentles. I offer you a chance to help destroy the Wersgor barbarism, whose existence England can no longer suffer. If you’ll share the burden of war, you’ll share the fruits of conquest. Otherwise we English will be forced to occupy the entire Wersgor domain: for someone must keep order in it. So I say, join the crusade under my leadership, and haro for victory!”

  Chapter XVI

  The Jairs, like the other free nations, were no simpletons. They invited us to land and be guests on their planet. Strange was that stay, as if we spent it in timeless Elf Hill. I remember slim towers, bridges looped airily between, cities where buildings mingled with parks to make one gigantic pleasance, boats on bright lakes, scholars in robe and veil who would discourse with me of English learning, enormous alchemical laboratories, music that still haunts my dreams. But this is no geographical book. And even the soberest account of ancient non-human civilizations would sound wilder to a common English ear than the fantasies of that notorious Venetian, Marco Polo.