The Book of the Lion by Michael Cadnum Read Free Book Online

bodies. The scar above Rannulf’s mouth gave him a permanent sneering look, but his gaze was not unfriendly.
    The iron had been fire-forged, and as I labored I was aware of the absurdity of my attempt. The blow that had caved in this strong helmet had been a master-stroke, delivered by a battle-ax or a mace. How could I, not even an apprentice at arms, begin to equal the force of such a blow?
    Rannulf watched without a word. As I hammered sweat seeped into my eyes. My grip grew numb. My ears, blow by blow, went half deaf, the only sound the ringing of my hammer on the peen, a long steel chisel with a round knob instead of a blade. Work as I might, I accomplished nothing.
    You’re not equal to this, staver’s son, said a sour voice in my heart.
    Rannulf met my eyes. He made no sound, but his eyes flickered from me, to the helmet, and back.
    I could not believe what I was hearing when he spoke, softly, in an even voice, his words clear despite the scar along his lips.
    He said, “God give you strength.”
    God’s strength. It was a phrase Father Joseph used, encouraging my father as he faced death. Perhaps, I thought, Rannulf is not such a prayerless man after all.
    My tool struck sparks. My hammer found its rhythm, driving the injury out of the helmet, until it was whole.

chapter NINE
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    We rode into town early the next morning, all of us having spent a hectic and sleepless night, and, in the company of the priest, confessed our sins.
    Afterward, outside the church, a crowd of our neighbors gathered. My master’s wife—his widow—Maud swept me into her arms, a long, breath-stopping hug.
    â€œDon’t worry about me, Edmund,” she said. “I’ll be living with my brother and his wife, with God’s blessing.”
    Every week Maud loaded a basket with loaves and cheese and delivered it to the almshouse, where the poor and sick took shelter. She told me once that helping a bereft person was like helping Christ Himself. While always quick with her opinions, she viewed the world through the impatient cheerfulness of her own spirit. I could not meet her eyes just then, hoping she did not think me a great sinner.
    â€œYou were Otto’s right hand,” she said. “But a hand has to obey its master.”
    â€œThe saints protect you,” I said, tears in my voice.
    With the cheering of the throng, I could not hear what Maud was saying as I pulled myself nervously into the saddle. And then I saw Elviva.
    How is it that some women give every gesture a kind of beauty? Even in waving farewell, Elviva was graceful, one hand to her throat to keep the shawl in place against the chill. We had met in the market some forenoons, and walked into the sun near the churchyard, sharing our hopes. She had told me once that she prayed to Our Lady to bring her a husband with a strong arm and a full heart. I told her that her prayers matched mine.
    When I reached down to take her hand the warhorse displayed a surprising patience, shaking the bridle, tossing his head, but standing quiet as I tried to find words. Elviva’s father, the wool-man, and her mother, a thin woman with a sweet smile, looked on, little dreaming how much Elviva and I felt for each other. Perhaps as a Crusader returning from the wars—in the unlikely chance that I survived—I would have some new status in the eyes of a merchant.
    Winter Star watched the other mounted riders make way ahead, and trotted to join them, tossing his mane. Elviva ran along with me, as I tried to control the horse and failed. I was a little frightened of the noble charger, as though I rode upon a lion, and felt a certain gratitude toward him. Only in my dreams had I ever sat upon such a steed.
    At last Winter Star and I left Elviva behind.
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    We were a “right gang of worthy men,” as Nigel put it. A rooting pig from one of the nearby households scampered, unhindered by its hugeness, caught up in