“And, my little rose,” he murmured, thinking again of Lady Joan, “you shall be glad one day to have me pluck your blossom.”
CHAPTER THREE
There never was a time on the March parts yet
When Scottish with English met,
But it was a marvel if the red blood ran not
As the rain does in the street.
—Battle of Otterbourn
A large band of Scottish warriors had joined the crusaders and had placed themselves under the command of the English monarch. To some this seemed odd as there had been of late—indeed, always—some friction between the Scottish and the English; but they were all of Saxon and Norman descent, speaking a common language, and some of them were allied by blood and intermarriage as well.
Moreover they were now engaged in a common war, dear to them all because of their religion, and in this crusade Scots and Englishmen had fought side by side, their rivalry only serving to make both groups fight more bravely and more fiercely, each trying to outdo the other.
Richard was a rough but open commander who made no real distinction between his own subjects and those of William the Lion of Scotland, and this made it easier for the knights to work and fight together.
When the body is under the influence of illness, however, old wounds may break out anew. In just this manner, when Richard took ill and the circumstances of the crusaders became more critical, old frictions began to appear between the various bands of crusaders.
Both Scottish and English were jealous and high spirited, and the Scottish were quicker to take offense because they were the poorer and the weaker nation. The Scots would admit to no superiority over them and the English would admit no equality. As the truce forbade the warriors to wreak their vengeance upon the Saracens, they who had been good comrades in victory now turned on one another.
One of the Scottish knights, Sir Kenneth as he was called, was known also as the Falcon because on his surcoat and on his shield he wore the emblem of a sleek hawk, poised for flight, and beneath it the motto Swift and Terrible. Those who had seen him fight said that the emblem and the motto were fitting, for he fought with a savage intensity and a swiftness that belied his heavy armor.
Sir Kenneth had joined the crusade impulsively and for motives of his own, and being impetuous he had come ill supplied except for a few loyal followers. The wars and their deprivation, and their vow to give their lives in the crusade—a promise many of them had kept—had reduced his little band so that he now had for company only one old servant, and his dog Krouba, a magnificent deerhound, as fine a specimen of the breed as could be found.
Just now these two, Sir Kenneth and Krouba, were returning from the hunt. It had been necessary for the knight to find in nature the food he needed to keep himself and his little band alive and, as the animal life on this vast desert was limited, this had proven an increasingly difficult task. On this day he had found only a small bag full of rock partridges. The hills nearby sometimes supplied deer or wild pig, but he had not been lucky this time.
It was late afternoon and he was on his way back to the camp now. Beyond the crusaders’ camp and in his path as he rode was a second camp, of the so-called “followers”; this was the camp of that second army of people who followed behind the knights and the royal court, depending mostly upon them for sustenance in one fashion or another. Here there were service people—tailors, tinkers, smiths and other diverse craftsmen; here too were people who made their living entertaining others—actors, jugglers, acrobats, dancers and troubadours. And of course there were the women—painted lovelies who strolled through the crusaders’ camp at night plying their wares among the lonely knights.
It was a colorful little city, this second camp, made up as it was of various “colonies”—the area given over to the Jews, for instance, and another to the gypsies, while still another was filled with English freedmen. Like an Oriental city, one rode through it to a cacophony of sounds and impressions; music, from the plaintive wail of the Jew to the jingling tambourine of the gypsy; myriad languages; scents of varying cooking styles and methods, and the colorful costumes of the exotic inhabitants. There were even some Saracens in the camp, for the camp followers are mostly a nation unto themselves, owing loyalty first of all to the army they are following, at least until it is defeated, when they at once attach themselves to the victor.
As he rode now through this camp, Sir Kenneth was enjoying the varied sights and sounds, his quick eye everywhere, his ear picking up snatches of conversation in half a dozen different languages. Someone was roasting a pig and the delicious odor made his mouth water; he hadn’t eaten since downing some moldy bread and some ale at daybreak, when he set out hunting. Krouba, who had caught some breed of desert rat, had fared better than he had.
Suddenly one sound penetrated the others, the cry of a woman in distress. “Help! Help me!” a voice cried.
Kenneth reined his horse to the right, following the sound. He rode past a group of gypsy tents and saw in the distance a young woman pursued by a handful of English knights, who were laughing and hooting with lustful glee.
“Help, for the love of God,” she screamed, but the inhabitants of the camp were all too afraid of the armed knights to come to her aid.
Such sights were not uncommon here; indeed many of the women in this camp improved their desirability with a show of resistance. But this swarthy gypsy girl, as he recognized her to be, seemed genuinely frightened and desperate to escape her pursuers.
And of course, they were English, and Sir Kenneth was Scottish. He rode to the rescue, his armor clanging, his steed’s hooves drumming the hard ground.
As the English knights were afoot, it was an easy matter to outdistance them and, despite his armor and mail, lean down and sweep the girl from her feet, onto his horse. Her bare feet still ran, treading the air, as he slowed his horse’s gallop.
Thinking him to be another of her tormentors, she struggled in his arms and tried to strike him, but in her position, flung across the horse’s shoulders, she could do little more than beat on that noble animal’s body.
“English pig,” she cried and would have thrown herself to the ground had he not held her firmly at the waist.
“Not English but Scottish,” he said, laughing, “and not a pig but a falcon, if you will but see. Hold still now before I send you back to your suitors.”
“Scotsman,” one of the English knights cried, “find your own sport. That one’s too pretty for the likes of you anyway.”
“Ay, lass,” another cried raucously. “Surely you wouldn’t choose a Scot over a man.” That brought a round of jeers and howls from his friends. Kenneth had reined in his horse now and turned toward them, and he saw at a glance that they were all fired up with drink.
“Begone, Englishers,” he called to them. “Save your temper for the Turks, who might be frightened of it.”
One of the knights had drawn his sword and he called, “Come closer with your friend, Scot. I’ve got something to stick in each of you.”
If the man had been sober, Kenneth would no doubt have dismounted and accepted the challenge, but from the way the man staggered and swayed drunkenly, as if cast about by a mighty wind, he knew that it would be no fight at all. Instead, he drew his sword and rode closer, meaning only to disarm the man.
It was not necessary to do even that, though. The English knight swung with his sword before Sir Kenneth was within two horses’ lengths of him and his sword slipped from his fingers to go crashing to the ground.
“Help me, lads,” he cried to his companions but, looking over his shoulder, he discovered that they had chosen the better part of valor and were already running away. For a moment he hesitated, then he too turned and ran, disappearing quickly into the maze of tents and huts that made up the camp.
Kenneth looked after them and laughed at their drunken flight; but his laugh was suddenly