When Christ and His Saints Slept Read Free Page A

started to back out, saying politely, “I’ll wait whilst you piss.” But before he could retreat, a huge hand slammed into the side of his head, and he lurched forward, falling to his knees. His shocked cry was cut off as Mauger slipped a thin noose around his neck, and suddenly the most precious commodity in his world was air. As Berold choked and gasped and tore frantically at the thong, Ivo leaned over him, in his upraised fist an object dark and flat. It was the last thing Berold saw.
    He was never to know how long he had been unconscious. At first he was aware only of pain; his head was throbbing, and when he tried to rise, he doubled over, vomiting up his dinner. Groaning, he reached for a broken broom handle, used it for support as he dragged himself upright. Only then did he think of the money he carried in a pouch around his neck, the money meant to pay his passage to England, to bring his brother home. He groped for it with trembling fingers, continued to fumble urgently within his tunic long after he’d realized the pouch was gone. The theft of his father’s money was, for Berold, a catastrophe of such magnitude that he was utterly unable to deal with it. What was he to do? Blessed Lady, how could this happen? He’d never be able to go home again, never. How could he face his family after failing so shamefully? Papa would not die at peace, Gerard would never be forgiven, and it was his fault, God curse him, all his fault.
    By the time he staggered back into the street, he was so tear-blinded that he never saw the horses—not until he reeled out in front of them. Fortunately, the lead rider was a skilled horseman. He swerved with seconds to spare. So close had Berold come to disaster, though, that the stallion’s haunches brushed his shoulder, sent him sprawling into the muddied street.
    “You besotted fool! I ought to wring your wretched neck!”
    Berold shrank back from this new assault, made mute by his fear. These men who’d almost trampled him were lords. Their fine clothing and swords proclaimed them to be men of rank, men who could strike down a butcher’s apprentice as they would a stray dog. The angriest of them was already dismounting, and Berold shuddered, bracing himself for a beating—or worse.
    “Use the eyes God gave you, Adam. The lad’s not drunk. He’s hurt.”
    The man called Adam was glaring down contemptuously at the cowering boy. “A few more bruises would do him no harm, my lord, might teach him to look where he is going next time.” But he’d unclenched his fists, coming to a reluctant halt.
    Astounded by the reprieve, Berold scrambled hastily to his feet as his defender dismounted. But he was as wobbly as a newborn colt and would have fallen had the man not grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the shelter of a mounting block.
    “You seem bound and determined to get yourself run over, lad. Sit, catch your breath whilst I look at that bloody gash of yours. Ah…not so bad. You must have a hard head! Were you set upon by thieves?”
    Berold nodded miserably. “They took all my money, and now my father will die—” He got no further; to his shame, he began to sob.
    Adam grimaced in disgust. They’d already wasted time enough on this paltry knave. It was truly fortunate that his lord showed such boldness on the battlefield, lest men wonder at his womanlike softheartedness. But now that the dolt had bestirred his lord’s curiosity, they’d likely be stuck here till sunset, listening to this fool’s tale of woe.
    Just as he feared, the boy’s cryptic remark was bait his lord could not resist. “You’d best tell me what happened,” he said, and as Adam fumed, Berold did so. He was fast losing touch with reality. Why should one so highborn pay any heed to him? That this was a great lord, Berold did not doubt; he had never seen anyone so elegant. Shoulder-length flaxen hair that was so shiny and clean no lice would dare to nest in it. A neatly trimmed beard, and a smile