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

the festivity. Men and women both wished us Godspeed as we clattered up the cobbled street through the city gates.
    Hubert perched on a new, black mount named Shadow, with a soft mouth and a calm eye. He carried a pennon on a pole, dark blue, a new, gleaming silk that sighed and fluttered as we rode.
    To my great surprise Winter Star continued to accept the false confidence of my voice, and showed few of the high spirits of the previous day. And yet even so the horse snorted and tossed its head more than I would have wished, and I could see Sir Nigel smiling, glancing meaningfully at Wenstan.
    A bet was on, I guessed. How far would it be before Winter Star bolted and left me in the mud?
    Behind us rode Rannulf. His teeth gleamed through his scar. Beside Rannulf was a man I had never seen before this morning—Miles, a rotund squire, older than a knight’s assistant is usually expected to be, with a charge of white through his red hair.
    Miles was always singing, whistling, humming. Both Wenstan and Miles carried their master’s fighting gear, a helmet, shield, and war lance. Rannulf and Nigel wore sea-blue tunics, with a blazing white Crusader star.
    Even a few of the Exchequer’s men smiled as we passed, and I have never been more proud or joyful than I felt that morning. As we left the city, passing Sir Nigel’s hall, I felt more than happy—I felt pure at heart, cleansed of every dark thought, and every misdeed. Peasants in the field stood up from their work and saluted, their voices lost in the morning air. Sir Nigel raised a gloved hand, and so did Hubert.
    And so did I.
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    The town dogs followed us into the farmland, a handful of them, yipping. As the highway grew long, well into the morning, they ran silently, tongues distended. This sight both heartened and saddened me, and I felt sorry for the dogs, who expected we were falconing or, at very least, heading forth to flush rabbits from their holes.
    One by one the town curs dropped away, gazing after us with regret, until only a demi-hound I had seen around the kitchen middens kept our pace. The dog fell in stride with Winter Star, and the stallion shied.
    â€œEasy,” I said, and the horse shook his bridle but kept trotting.
    The dog was too small to guard a hall, too big to hunt mice. Who was I to tell the animal he was making a mistake? Perhaps beasts have their Crusades, and their Heaven, too.
    Shortly after midday it began to rain. Knights and men donned thick woolen cloaks with deep hoods, and the rain beaded on the wool. Winter Star splashed and curvetted in the puddles that soon appeared in the road. The high way was far from empty, huddling figures of merchants with hired guards hurrying through the rain on foot, wagoners bawling curses at their oxen, minstrels and mountebanks trudging along together.
    I did not fall off my mount. But it took all my concentration, the horse inflating himself and sneezing, capering and kicking. I was exhausted by morning’s end. The rain ceased in time for a midafternoon meal, the prime dinner of the day for a man of Nigel’s rank. Nigel offered our Lord thanks, in our unworthiness, for this sustenance, and we ate waybread, brown, moist slices, and dry cheese made from mare’s milk.
    I was a little surprised that, only a few hours out of town, we were already military in provision and manner, even Hubert accepting a cup of wine from Wenstan with what he must have thought was a manly nod of the head. The dog accepted a morsel of cheese from my fingers, and Hubert gave him a healthy chunk of salted beef.
    As we continued south, perhaps an hour before sunset, two great brown mastiffs rushed through the brambles on the verge of the road, and seized our dog companion by the flank and throat. Within a moment our hound was ripped in two, blood flying, the two attacking monsters gobbling and growling as they tore our dog to pieces.
    Nigel whipped out his broadsword, leaned out of his saddle