The Belt of Gold Read Free Page A

irreverent.
    The church was very small, six steps from door to altar. Fresh whitewash covered the walls and the dome. Disappointed, he saw that there were none of the magnificent pictures here that he had gotten used to finding in such places in the Holy Land. On the curved wall behind the altar was a plain cross of wood. With his brother beside him, Hagen knelt down to pray.
    Rogerius crossed himself, pressed his palms together, lowered his head, closed his eyes, and gave himself up to devotions. Hagen shifted his weight from knee to knee, already restless. It was part of their penance that they could not pass by any church on their road without stopping to pray, and he was heartily sick of it. It irritated him that his brother, who had done the deeds for which they were now repenting with as much initial enthusiasm as Hagen, had become so passionately godly as a result. In as few words as possible Hagen asked for God’s protection on their journey—they were still half the world away from home—and began to look curiously around him.
    This church was little different from dozens of others they had seen in the twenty months they had been on pilgrimage. The ceiling was domed, and two little windows cut the side walls. A few stubs of candles were stuck onto the altar rail a few feet from him. This close to Constantinople, many palmers probably came by this way, going to and from Jerusalem. He wished there were some pictures to look at. His knees already hurt.
    Then the door behind them opened and a single figure hurried into the church, and Hagen glanced keenly around.
    He did not want either his horse or his sword stolen while he was reconciling himself to Heaven. But the hooded figure kneeling down at the altar was a woman.
    A pretty woman. She tipped up her face toward the cross; her skin was smooth and pale, her cheeks brushed with color that had not come from God; her black hair swept back under her hood from a deep peak above her brow. She crossed herself in the Greek fashion and, turning, cast a look back over her shoulder at the door.
    As she did so, she saw Hagen staring at her, and swiftly she lowered her eyes, and the color on her cheeks took on more the hue of nature. But she did not pray. Instead, crouched forward, she twisted to look behind her again, back toward the way she had come in.
    Hagen looked where she was looking, and Rogerius nudged him hard in the side with his elbow. “This is a church,” his brother said. “Pray.”
    Hagen ignored him. The door stood halfway open, and through the gap he could see several men on the porch and hear their muttered voices. He shifted his attention to the girl again; she was biting her lip, staring straight ahead of her, her hands tightly gripped together, and once again, while he watched, she threw a look of fear behind her at the door.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Rogerius asked.
    With a nod of his head, Hagen indicated the girl; he got up and walked back through the church to the door.
    He was a tall man, Hagen, even for a Frank, and when he went out the door, the several men standing there on the porch backed up quickly to let him through. They were Greeks, by their beards and leather armor. There were four of them. Hagen kept his eyes on them, reaching behind him for his sword belt on the porch, and standing there to buckle it on. The weight of his sword made him smile. He put his hands on his hips and smiling faced the four Greeks, who edged together into a tighter pack and pretended not to notice him.
    â€œHere to talk to the Lord?” he said; he had learned a lot of Greek, in the course of the pilgrimage.
    The four men shuffled their feet. One of them, a fat man who wore rosettes of red-dyed leather on his shoulders, turned his head and without meeting Hagen’s eyes said, “On your way, barbarian.”
    â€œOh, no,” Hagan said. “You go on yours.”
    The Greeks moved, their feet crunching on the stone