The Book of the Lion by Michael Cadnum Page A

one-hundred-year-old Conqueror’s tower, where, legend had it, the wall mortar had been mixed with the blood of bears.
    Indeed, I felt some shame at my road-grime. The grand streets teemed with the king’s subjects bargaining for viands in market stalls. Fowl of all descriptions, squabs, capons, drakes, and mud hens hung plucked and roasted. Among wine shops along the river we jostled franklins and beggars; beyond the roofs we heard the sounds of the river man’s call.
    Nigel kept to horseback, so all could see he was a knight-at-arms and let us by unhindered, although at times Hubert called out, “Crusading men, let us pass!”
    What was missing from the populace, I thought, was the casual presence of armed men, knights and their squires, lords and their attendants. All men of mettle had left for the Crusade, except for the few like us who hurried to join them. And some of the men who remained looked at us from the shadows of tavern eaves with neither smile nor shame, leaning on their staffs.
    Nigel did not have to bargain long with the landlord of the inn we reached at last, and the washerwomen he hired were waiting for us, by luck or prearrangement.
    I expected Nigel to throw himself exhausted on a bunk, but he was off at once with Wenstan, stopping me on the stair to say, “An outward tide’s at dawn!” as though this was both good and meaningful news.
    Hubert and I hurried to thrust on dry clothing and dash out into the street. I went without arms, only a belt around my waist, but Hubert wore his sword, a weapon that often came close to tripping him. We shouldered past women with baskets of oysters and great fish and small. Boys only a few years younger than ourselves tossed a ball, and scurried to retrieve it among the groaning wheels of carts. Every human creature I saw seemed alive with the thrill of living in this town, except for those tall, un-smiling men I had remarked before, armed with hand-pike or quarterstaff, eyeing women as they bustled past.
    Over all the streets hung an odor, not human or animal, not wood smoke, a taste of river, huge and deep, like the flavor of a whelk on the tongue.
    And the river spread before us at last, dotted with gigs and skiffs, the small craft the river men use for harvesting shellfish. There were other boats on it, too, sea-stained ships pulling up the river with the help of long sweeps, wooden oars that gave the ships the look of waterbugs gliding on long legs. We climbed down the bank and waded in the current, river mud tickling through our toes.
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    On the way back to the inn, a dray horse stood, head hanging in the street. A burly man with a bald head wielded a quarterstaff, striking the horse on its broad back. Each blow sent a shiver down the animal’s flesh, but the horse took a long, rib-expanding breath, and let it out, enduring. I had seen many such beatings in my life, and so, no doubt, had Hubert.
    But something about the bald man’s grin of concentration as he belabored the horse stiffened Hubert.
    Hubert told the man to cease.
    The bald man did stop, but only to stand with an exaggerated stance of incomprehension. “Ceese!” he echoed, mocking Hubert’s voice.
    I stepped before the man, and put a hand lightly on his chest.
    â€œTake your friend the pup and lose yourself,” he said, smelling of beer and sweat. It took me a moment to make sense of what he said.
    To punctuate our conversation, he lifted the staff and struck the horse on the back so hard the horse shuddered, and only a quick lurch of its hindquarters kept it from falling. A small throng had gathered, grinning, nudging, but most of the citizens had places to go, and I tried to restrain Hubert by saying, jokingly, “This man will be tired soon.”
    â€œTake his staff from him, and break it,” said Hubert.
    But the man understood enough of our English to level his staff at me, feint, and thrust it hard into my belly.
    I gasped, not