Chapter 13      Return to Norbury

 

 

 

Six weeks to the day after Lord William and Baron Stephen rode out the gates of Norbury together, a lone rider shouted greetings to the lookout early one morning, and gaining entrance, delivered welcome news.  Lord William had returned to the Cotswolds and would be arriving in Norbury that very afternoon.

Lady Em, his wife, threw the manor into immediate preparatory activity. Chamberlain consulted the old men, who declared the afternoon rainless, then set a ring of trestle tables and benches lining the outer edges of the yard. Cooks trotted their carts into the village for fresh meats.  Gardeners raided their root cellars.  Chamberlain organized a contingent of manor staff and had the manor cleaned and straightened from well to weathervane.  Similar gangs moved through the stables, barracks, dormitories and halls.  Even the road through village came under scrutiny.

Wine emerged into daylight that had not seen the sun in many a year.  Bunting and ribbon festooned the courtyard.  Apples, dried fruit, nuts, breads, ale, wine, and rum began appearing on the tables later in the afternoon.  A roaring fire surged in the center courtyard and a heavy iron spit erected over it.  By the time the lookouts spotted a mass of horsemen approaching through the Cotswolds lanes, two sides of beef and two pigs had been roasting over a thigh deep pile of coals for three hours.  Chamberlain congratulated the cook on excellent timing, and the cook shrugged as if it were nothing.

Only a score of minutes passed until the unmistakable thunder of galloping horses and cheering from the village signaled the army was approaching.  The gatekeeper watched the lookout intently, who in turn surveyed the road.  Suddenly, the lookout raised his hand.  The hand paused.

"Ready, lads!" shouted the gatekeeper to the team of men he had at the gate.

The lookout snapped his hand down.

"Open the gates!" shouted the gatekeeper and trotted to one side of the entrance way.

With dramatic suddenness, the team of men pulled the gates open and an explosion of horsemen burst into the yard, Lord William at the head.  The lord took one turn around the yard at a canter, people and livestock scrambling, more or less happily, to escape the war horse's hooves.  The lord wore a broad smile and the knights accompanying him sat tall and proud in their saddles.  All were well groomed, considering field conditions.  Lord William liked what he saw.

"We are home!" he shouted to them.  "Loose yourselves and celebrate!"

 That was all the invitation the knights needed.  The revelry started immediately.  More horses poured in and men dismounted, embraced friends and loved ones, then set about the serious business of drunken frolic.

The yard exploded into joyous activity.  Dancing, shouting, cheering, wrestling, songs from at least three different musicians, dogs barking, children playing tag, feasting, drinking, all began as swiftly as a tavern keeper twisting the spigot of a barrel.  Even the chapel bell could not penetrate the din, though it tried frantically.  Flags and streamers waved from every window.  Smoke louvers on the roofs served as platforms for foolhardy houseboys and their colored tassels.  What is more, as the old men had promised, the blue sky scudded with white clouds, but it did not rain.

Baron Stephen sat astride his horse watching the celebration with a sense of detachment.  His own manor was, no doubt, preparing just such a welcome for him and he wished to be on his way, though to rush off too quickly would be ill mannered.  So, he waited indulgently.

The lord spied his lady on the veranda.  She wore a dress of white and blue, with braided hair and sleeves so tight they seemed a part of her forearms.  She stepped down and raised her hands in welcome.

The lord guided his horse to a halt before her and dismounted.  Amid the throng, he took both her hands in his own and embraced her, drawing loud applause from the knights.  Both turned, smiled, waved, obviously enjoying each other's company and the attention paid them.  A steward brought a tankard of mead, which the lady took with due ceremony and offered to her lord.  The lord smiled at her with his eyes and completed the tradition by draining the tankard with one draught.  The cheering in the yard was deafening.

Chamberlain ordered tankards passed around, and the disorder grew to frantic proportions.  No one appeared sane, but if insane, they were happily so.

After spending some minutes alone with his lady, Lord William, his gray hair marking him, climbed the mounting block to survey the activity.  Approval shone from his eyes.  It was a grand show.  People milled around him.  Color and sound swirled like water on the shore.

Paternally, he scanned the crowd to be sure everyone had his share of festivity.  Stephen and his men had dismounted for a drink, though William knew the young baron was anxious to be on his way, as he himself would have been.  One drink, and he would urge them on.  The young man and his mesnie had been worthy comrades and soon, he would pay a visit to the young man's father and congratulate him properly.  But now, his own household came first.

The dormitory door swung wide open.  Beneath the lintel, Thomas had his arm thrown around the shoulder of his valet, Stewart, like a big brother.  From the gesturing going on, Thomas was describing the siege of Rochester, and perhaps, the death of Cyril, for Stewart's face seemed sad, a contrast to the certain joy he would have felt at the return of his master.

     William looked around still more.  Cooks tended the tables in a never-ending stream, like ants gathering crumbs into their burrow, but in reverse.  Above the gate stood the lookout, his attention understandably fixed within the courtyard rather than without.  Laxness can pass beneath a blind eye today, he said to himself.  A dozen paces away, Alexander, the stable boy stood on the wall watching the celebration from a lonely height.  That was a boy who could fester into a household problem.  He wondered what to do about the young man.  Tomorrow.

Then, another outlying figure gained his attention.  A well proportioned fellow leaning against a roof post just outside the stable.  The man watched the celebration from the shadows, his arms comfortably folded across his chest, a casually interested spectator.  No tankard in hand.  He did not know the fellow, did he?  Something about the man seemed familiar, though, as if he should place a name.  He had never learned to read or write, but had cultivated his memory into a neatly pigeonholed library, and to not find a name to fix to this shadow bothered him.  He knew he had seen him before.

"Wife," he called down from the block.  "Who is that fellow standing under the stable porch?"

Lady Em hitched her dress and climbed the steps of the mounting block to see.

"That is a special visitor, husband."

"Oh?"

"He came more than a fortnight ago."

"I think I know the fellow.  What is his name?"

Lady Em smiled.  Though she did not know the exact history of her husband and the man Cadmon, she did understand their relationship had been very close many years before, and she disclosed his presence with some coyness.

"He appeared at the gate unannounced, alone.  He said his name was Cadmon."

The figure shrugged from its position and stood free of the post, obviously aware of having been seen.

Lord William appeared transfixed.

"My God," he said half to himself.  "My great God.  Is it you?"

But only the lady could hear him.  His voice trembled.  She took his hand with concern, but William did not notice.  He stepped down from the block without removing his eyes from the man by the stable and began walking through the crowd as if it were not there.  Lady Em, alarmed at the degree of his reaction, and not fully knowing the cause of his strange behavior, followed, fearing he would collapse from apoplexy.  The reaction was far more profound than she had ever anticipated.

Lord William emerged from the thinning edge of the crowd, picking up speed, Lady Em in tow.  The figure by the door stepped from the shadows into full light.

"It is you!" rasped William.  "My God, it is you!  Cadmon!"

"Yes, Uncle."

And they embraced, Lord William and Cadmon Druce, the lady reflecting a look of surprised relief.  William made several attempts to speak, but was so overcome by emotion, he could only embrace again and again.  Finally, he recovered himself.

"I thought you long dead," said William finally, his voice hoarse and tearing.

Cadmon nodded, kindly watching the older man.

     "Where have you been?"

"Wandering."

"Twenty years wandering, like Moses?  I have not seen you since Acre."

William took Cadmon by the shoulders and peered into his eyes.  The gesture was paternal, as if he were questioning a young child.  Cadmon stood half a head taller, lean, hardened, and amusedly benevolent.  Lady Em saw much emotion and remembrance in Cadmon's brown-gray eyes.  They smiled, yet at they same time, they were restrained.  They were enigmatic eyes and they fascinated her.

William held Cadmon by the shoulders once again, holding on tight lest the apparition evaporate.  "I see much sadness in those twenty years, Cadmon of Yeaverling.  Much sadness.  Have these past years been all gray?"

Cadmon smiled, his manner, as always, calm and detached.  "No, uncle.  No night is endless and even the deepest forest has a patch or two of sunlight."

"You have become a poet."  He stared at Cadmon for a long time, then became aware of the uncomfortable silence he generated.  He suddenly smiled.  "My God!  It is good to have you back!"  Then, a sudden thought occurred to him.  "We must go to the hall and talk!  This rabble will be so drunk in half an hour, less than one in ten would notice me missing.  I am generous with my hospitality, as you remember.  But I am old and do not take it as well as I once did.  Besides, you will not be here long, I wager."  William looked into Cadmon's eyes again.  "After twenty years, you have returned for a purpose, and that is not to seek for friends past."

"You are still my mentor, uncle.  Yes, I have a purpose, but that does not dilute the joy of seeing this house and the uncle who was more father than father I had."  Cadmon took hold of his uncle's shoulder and squeezed.

William shook his head.  "I offer bear hugs and you respond with a warm hand upon the shoulder.  That has not changed in you, Cadmon.  What else has not?"

"I am the worst judge of it."

"No doubt," said William, contemplating once again.  "But I forget my manners!  This is my wife, Em."  And he presented Lady Em, forthwith.

A smile touched Cadmon's lips at the reintroduction to a woman he had the acquaintance of for the past fortnight.

"Dotage!" cried William.  "I am there already.  Of course you have met already!"

"There is no one I would sooner meet again."

"Why, thank you," said Lady Em.

"A poet and a flatterer," said William.  "You have considerable changes, nephew."

"Was I so rude as a youth?"

"Never," said William, propelling them toward the crowd.  "But never so smooth, either.  Come, I must announce you.  There are people you must meet."

Cadmon stopped the stroll dead in its tracks.  William turned to his nephew and read his face.

"So, you want your presence here kept at low boil.  More to do with your purpose, I assume?"

Cadmon smiled.

"Have it your own way, then."

"You are hardly a stranger here," offered Lady Em.  "Surely an announcement to these good knights would do no harm?"

"It would do me no harm, good lady," said Cadmon, "but should my purpose take cross turnings, you would be better having no close association."

William eyed his nephew suspiciously.  "Is your purpose against the King?" he asked bluntly.

"No, uncle.  It is just the opposite."

William considered this, then broke into a wide smile.  "Well, then, it is as you wish.  Come into the hall, at least and let me know of you."  He glanced at the crowd, whose edge he penetrated.  Screaming, drinking, games and wagers roared around them.  "This lot will not miss me until tomorrow noon, if then!  Let us be in with us!"

They wormed their way through the crowd.  William paused to talk with Baron Stephen.  They exchanged a lengthy hand clasp, then Stephen signaled his marshal it was time to go.  Shortly after, the young baron's contingent cantered through the gate toward home, men afoot, as always, following as best they could.

Once through the door, William grabbed Cadmon's arm.

"Ah, lest I squander my happiness, answer me:  How long is your visit?"

"It depends."

"It depends?  You sound like one of those clerics!"

Cadmon laughed.  "I have been here two Sundays already."

"That is nothing!"

"I would stay the winter, if the hospitality were offered."

"A thousand winters!" said William.  He grabbed two tankards from a boy running past, and handed one to Cadmon.  "My years suddenly feel light.  Home, a victory, my dear wife" -- he took hold of his wife's hand -- "and now you, here for Christmastide.  I could ask for little more in this life."

"I am heartened you feel so.  I was a little afraid you would turn me out for having grown a stranger."

"Each man has his reasons and his secrets.  Your eyes tell me those twenty years have been hard, and I can only surmise, necessary.  No man is so equipped as to judge the actions of another."

In answer, Cadmon clanked his tankard against the side of William's and they both drank deeply, formally sealing their good will and hospitality.

  "Some say the rootless man searches for a comfortable place to die," said Cadmon.

"How morbid!" Em responded.

"I did not mean it so."

"Have another drink," said William, for when in an uncomfortable social situation, the showing of pewter tankard bottoms unfailingly brought things into balance again.  "Lad!" William bellowed to a passing kitchen boy hurrying to the courtyard, "Bring portions of the best for three.  We will eat in private chambers."

"Yes, sir!" said the boy, proud to have such an important mission.  To the private chambers, too!  He ran out the door.

"If he does not trip over his feet and spill the mess, we will have a warm meal before us soon."

William sent another blast through the house, "Boy!"  Any of them would do.  Another appeared.

"Fetch me a bucket of warm water to soak my aching feet!"

"Yes, sir."

"To the private chambers!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Hold on!"  William leaned over to Cadmon.  "Do you want a bucket for your feet?"

Cadmon smiled and shook his head.

"Wife?"

"No, thank you, William."

"Be off then," he said to the boy.  "And be quick!"

"Yes, sir!"  And that boy, too, disappeared out the door.

"Let us up to the chambers, then.  Tell me about yourself."

"All twenty year's worth?"

"A little at a time.  How are you called these days?"

"One who knew me since Acre called me Tramontain.  Another added Druce to my name."

"Tramontain.  That word is known to me, nephew.  It means stranger and I am displeased to know you have lived under such a name, but of Druce, I know not."

They turned at the landing and continued up the stairs.  Lady Em interceded for the question.

"Cadmon means `spear man' in our ancient tongue, husband," she said, laying a gentle hand on his.

"I know that."

Em nodded, saying, "and Druce, I believe, means `wise'."

William paused and examined Cadmon with an appraising eye.  "Wise warrior?" he said.  "Well, every third friar has a saint's finger bone in his bag and I've seen enough splinters of the True Cross to build an ark.  With all that, I suppose, there's enough room for a wise warrior."  His expression showed bemusement.

Cadmon's eyes reflected the same.

Suddenly, William cast a serious glance into Cadmon's serene, weathered face.  "Are you wise?" he asked.

"I have a habit of saying little.  Some confuse that with wisdom."

William recovered his demeanor.  "That sound's wise to me."  He climbed another couple of steps, then his mouth began hiding a smile, and as everyone who knew him could foretell, another crumb of William's humor was about to be tossed.  "So still made of common clay like the rest of us?  I was afraid you might expect me to kiss your ring."

Cadmon burst out with genuine laughter.  William and Lady Em joined in easily.  Spirits rose.

They entered a snug, square chamber, the third story up in the tower, and took bench seats around a cloth covered table.  A waning fire crackled in the stone fire pit.  Noises from the surging rabble filtered in through half-closed shutters and dissolved as they touched the thick pile of ceiling-to-floor tapestries.  William pulled a rope to open the louver in the ceiling a bit wider then threw on a half dozen quarters of split log.  Smoke soon accumulated in a thick layer near the roof, with a current spilling through the louver.

"One of these days, I will have them put a chimney in here," said William, seating himself.  He did nothing more, but waited for the fruits of his commands.

A bucket of warm water with towel and pumice stone came first, announced by a boy's tentative knock at the heavy door.  William bade the boy enter and deposit his burden, then sent him on his way, which the boy did sprightly enough.  After all, there was a party going on outside.  A few moments later, two servants entered the chamber bearing a pitcher of fresh apple juice, a loaf of tough crusted cocket bread, an iron pot of hot stew, ginger cakes, and bowls, knives and spoons for each.  They left less readily than the boy, taking in all details of the assemblage so that they might tell their brethren later that evening, adding a bit here and there to make the account more interesting.

William began removing his heavy boots, with Lady Em and Cadmon assisting.  Em winced at the odor but said nothing, merely gathering up the boots and leggings and depositing them on the stairs outside the door.  Feeling the need for privacy, she closed the door again but left the bolt unengaged.

Easing back into his seat, William enjoyed the warmth of the water for several counts, eyes closed.  When he reopened his eyes, they shone with a straight-forwardness only eyes used to authority could impart.  His mood had grown serious.

"Cadmon," he said, "Do you still love me as you did long ago?"

Tears welled in Cadmon's eyes as he regarded William.  "You are my father in all but forging."  They clasped hands.

William nodded, his eyes relaxing.  "I hoped as much.  For two decades, I have wondered.  If you still lived -- and a part of me always knew you did -- I hoped you forgave me.  The last time we met, you seemed so strange.  Unnaturally calm.  I thought at the time it would pass, but as I reflected on the memory afterwards and for years beyond, I knew I should have seen something had shifted in your foundations.  Such a change in a man I have never seen!  I have seen men transformed by greed, jealousy and anger and I have spoken to a few changed by God's revelation, but there was always something," he paused, searching for the right word.

"Insubstantial?" offered Em.

"Insubstantial.  Yes.  There was always something insubstantial about them.  Do you understand what I am saying, Cadmon?"

"Yes, I think so."

William noisily exhaled and peered at Cadmon as if he were made of glass, that he might see something hidden within if he but looked hard enough.

"Blast it, Cadmon!  What happened to you out there?"

Lady Em shifted her gaze to Cadmon.  She knew little of her husband's past.  He went on the Crusade of Kings, that she knew.  But of what happened there on the plains of Acre, she only knew through the overly dramatic and vapid tales of troubadours.  She listened, interested in the lives of both men.

Cadmon glanced at the pegged boards of the floor.  "I am afraid you will lump me in with your mystics and hysterics."

"You are neither, Cadmon," William said with assurance.  "You are one of the most solid man I have ever known."

"Or were?"

Em wondered, too.

"Are."

"I was but nineteen when we parted."

"And more mature than men twice that age."

Cadmon smiled sideways at Em.  "He is very generous."

Em gazed steadily into Cadmon's brown eyes, seeing flecks of color and light she had not noticed before.  What, she speculated, is it about eyes which betray the depth and breadth of the mind behind them?  Whatever these attributes were, Cadmon possessed them in abundance.  She blinked to break her stare.  It was difficult to look long into such eyes and she could easily believe almost anything about the man behind them.  She was very curious to hear more.

William faced Em.  "He was the son I never conceived."  He paused, seeing how this would settle.  Em simply nodded.

Satisfied with the reception, William continued.  "In arms and horse, none could best him.  In all my days, I have seen but two men who had anything approaching his natural ability:  William the Marshal, and a young, recently made knight from this household, Thomas of Oakham."  He said the latter to Cadmon.  "But even they fall short in natural skill and neither has your strange turns of mind."

Cadmon accepted the compliment with a slight nod.

"Are you cousin to young Thomas, then?" asked Em.

"No my father and William were but good friends.  I, with no natural uncles to learn from, came to Norbury under great generosity."

"Ah," said Em, curiosity satisfied.  "I am glad I have not overlooked any of my husband's blood kin."

"Never mind that," said William.  "I am drunk on remembrance!  Let me get on!"

"Get on, then!" said Em.

William took stock of Cadmon.  "Do you still love burrebrede?" he suddenly asked.

Cadmon laughed, taken off guard.  "Why, yes," he said.  "Still as much as ever."

"Then we will have Cook bake you some.  Tonight!"

"Thank you, if you and your lady will help me eat it."

"Surely!"

William roared and a boy sprang into the room a few seconds later, out of breath from running up the steps.  William gave orders for the bread and sent him scampering.  "Close the door on your way out!" shouted William, and the boy returned and did so.

"That should do it," said William, a keen note of satisfaction in his voice.  "Now Cadmon!  You are as good as any natural nephew I could conjure, and I would whip any man who laid against it!  Let me say my mind!"

"It is good to have you back," said Em.  "Tell me more about Cadmon."

William squeezed his wife's hand and cleared his throat.  He had memories to share.

"His fighting was superb, his rush a thing to admire.  There was always a patience in him that waited and watched and parried until the right moment, and when he struck -- What sleek movement!  Why, the blow landed true as any arrow flight, whatever the weapon.  Such balance and economy of movement!  He was a prodigy.  Blood lines are sometimes strange and unpredictable.  Who knows where his ability came from?  Certainly not his father!"

William turned apologetically to Cadmon.  "Your father was as dear to me as a brother, but truth be known, he had no hand for sword or lance.  Methinks he suffered from short sightedness."

Smiling, Cadmon waved him on.  No ill will accompanied his uncle's words.

"Even as a squire," said William, speaking to Em, though it was obvious he merely enjoyed the reminiscence and Em was the closest excuse for talking, "he showed an upper man's aptitude.  His fellows jested he looked more like a dancer than a warrior, but all laughter stopped when they faced his steel in the practice yard.  A troubadour who stayed with us one winter made up a song about everyone in the household, but did not use names.  We all had to guess who he was singing about.  Cadmon's passage was enigmatic, but it fitted.  How did it go?"

Cadmon shrugged indulgently.

"I remember!" cried William, slapping his knee.

 

"`Who walks between the storms, untouched?

Who dodges drops of rain?

And from a squall emerges dry,

With sword none can restrain?'"

 

Em frowned.  "What a peculiar lyric!"

"I have not thought of that in years," said Cadmon.  "Your memory is good."

"They have been memories I have enjoyed, even as the psalms.  Ah, you had it, lad!  You had over generous portions.

"The younger squires had a little rhyme they chanted every time a challenger walked into the yard to meet you.  Do you remember that, at least?  I can hear it now:

 

"`Heel, toe.  Heel, toe!

Heros come, victims go!'"

 

Em commented, "You must have been very popular if they sang so lightheartedly about their defeats."

"I never viewed myself as popular.  Actually, I do not think the other squires ever saw me as one of their own.  That is how I got away with so much."

"I could easily imagine that."

Cadmon smiled.

William broke in.  "As a young knight, he went to tournaments for this household and won such glory as we never hope to see again!  He had but one season, but the promise!  Everyone saw it.  And then came the Crusade."  William grew serious again.  He directed his next words to Cadmon.  "We followed Richard to Cyprus, then to Acre.  Two months out of the ships in Cyprus, your reputation had spread even to the Franks, and that is no mean feat.  I saw you fight time after time with a fury and energy as tireless as the tide.  Then came Acre, and that peculiar night outside my tent.  Your horses were saddled."  William waited for his adopted nephew to pick up the thread.

Cadmon lowered his head, remembering, perhaps deciding if the thread were one he wished to pick up.  In a moment, he had decided.  He began to speak, almost as if he were commenting on actions going on before him in the present, but at a distance.  Mountaintop to mountaintop.

"Noontime lay within short reach and Richard's order to kill the prisoners passed through us like a cool breeze over sweaty skin.  We all shivered and looked at one another.  Kill them?  Arab knights as bold and noble as ourselves?  There was logic in it, but it was as cold a decision as I have ever heard.  We could not take them with us.  We could not ransom them, for they would gain fresh mounts and be riding against us before we had watered our horses.  Yes, there was logic, but there are times when the price of logic should never be paid.  But I did not know that then.

"We put on our hauberks and covered the mail with our freshly washed surcoats, bright red and black crosses on white linen.  We were spotless.  We gathered our weapons, axe, dagger and sword, and we mounted our destriers.  The men afoot gathered their axes and knives.  We assembled in the road between the tents.

"Remember the brightness and the closeness of the heat?  The tents were bleached and yellowed, nearly the color of sand, and the sun shone with such ferocity the sky seemed milky.  Only carrion feeders glided about the sky."  Cadmon glanced at William.

William indicated he remembered and Cadmon continued.

"The barons took positions ahead their men, pennants and banners snapping like whips.  The sun began hammering us within minutes, and the air grew stale with sweat, but we continued to stand.  We saw Richard ride up on his bay charger and say something to the captain of a company of archers.  We watched as the captain listened, looked at the men assembled, listened and looked again, incredulous.  At last, he ordered his men ahead and they disappeared at a trot around a block of tents.  We all wondered what had been said, but the ranks remained quiet.  Whirlwinds lifted plumes of sand and dust, then dropped them.  Even the wind seemed undecided, waiting.

"At last, the order came to move out, and we followed the banners around the tents to the broken city wall.  We entered the gates and formed a `V' on either side of the cramped borough of poor mud brick houses we had walled together as a stockade.  The Arab knights began emerging from the houses to stare at us, to learn from our faces the dark secrets our hearts contained.  It did not take long.  Those dirty, disheveled men stood tall as they realized this would be their last morning.  We stared at one another, a pack of butchers exchanging knowledgeable glances with the sheep.

"I looked about me.  I remember that clearly, for I instantly compared the faces of our men with those of our prisoners.  I saw an insane eagerness, almost to a man, uncle!  Almost to a man!  It was blood lust of the most primitive kind, and I wondered for the hundredth time, how God came to bless such deeds.  Deus vult?"

"God wills it," said William, like an echo from a ruined church.

"We spotted the archers immediately.  They were positioned, not to fire upon the Arabs, but to fire upon us should any of us balk.  But I knew the pointed enticements of those shafts were as unnecessary as prayers for a saint.  Masks obscured the faces of our men, blank faces with dark eyes that blinked too little and averted too infrequently.  The longer they stood there, the more the Arabs looked like the Anti-Christs the bishops had painted them.  They became pigs for the slaughter.

"By now, most of the Arabs could no longer meet the eyes of our men.  They talked in little groups among themselves.  A couple of senior men sought audience with our barons, but they were ordered back without a hearing.  I wondered how long this confrontation would go on before the Arabs bolted out of sheer terror.  Apparently Richard wondered also, for he trotted up and, as if starting a race, tipped his lance and charged into the throng of prisoners.  I never saw whether or not he made contact because the tide of men he unleashed was horrifying.  I rode with them.

"The narrow streets were crammed with men, but we stormed into them like water through a gate, slicing and hammering through the crowds like wheat harvesters.  Some turned just as we struck, and I remember their faces at the last moment, when terror faded and only disbelief remained.  Their eyes asked, `How could this be happening to me?'

Cadmon stopped speaking, taking stock of his past.  No one disturbed the silence.  After a moment, in full frankness, he continued.

"The streets grew so cramped and the roofs so overhanging that I dismounted rather than be knocked off.  Like most actions in war, once you are actually part of them, they become quite clear and you do things you would have never dreamed possible of yourself a few moments before.  We waded through their blood and limbs.  Bodies piled up three and four deep and we scrambled over them in pursuit of the survivors.  We had to duck our heads as we ran or risk scraping the eves.  The sour, salty stench of bowels and blood only made me run faster.  I was drunk on the horror of it.  It was so big, so big."  Cadmon paused again, then as before, spoke again.  He spoke to himself.  It seemed as if he were unaware of where he was.

"Our own men slowed our pursuit as much as the bodies.  The Arabs had been relieved of their armor, but not of their valuables and our sergeants dropped away as quickly as the bodies fell, sawing away at fingers and wrists to remove rings and bands.

"On the other side of the borough, I learned things proceeded more orderly.  Formal beheadings were taking place five score at a time.  But in our streets, the world had turned into a red stained madhouse.  I chased one well built fellow into a court yard.  I dripped blood with every step.  The Arab seized a shepherd's stick and turned to face me, the first sign of resistance I had seen.  I drew my sword and slid my axe into the loop of my belt, never taking my eyes off him.

"Just as I positioned for a blow, he dropped his guard.  No, not dropped it, forsook it.  He stood tall, holding the stick beside him, waiting for me to strike.  All he wanted was to die by the sword, like a nobleman, not by the axe, like a pig.

"He looked straight at me.  Then, an odd thing happened.  He seemed to fall away, yet at the same time, remain in place.  I believed at first I was having a sun stroke, but that was not it.  I noticed the man's shadow growing so intensely black I thought I would be sucked into it.  Sound vanished.  I looked up at him, but he seemed motionless, unaware.  Everything blurred for an instant.  Dizziness.  Then I saw the courtyard again.  The first thing I noticed, was the shadow.  It had shifted to the other side, like hours had passed!  Then I noticed something else..."

"Go on," said William, his voice both quiet and

 curious.

"It was me, Uncle!" whispered Cadmon.  "I remember it as clearly as anything before or after.  I was looking at myself through the eyes of an Arab knight and I was ashamed at the frenzied, pathetic figure I beheld.  Before me was a knight in a surcoat spotted with blood, with a weary face and eyes as dead as any corpse's.  I paused there on the brink, as if on the edge of a precipice, conserving balance.  Perhaps a second or two passed, but it could have been minutes.  Then quick as a flash, like the jumbled shimmer of icicles tumbling in sunlight, the world regained its rightful place and the sounds of death washed in upon me.  Only a moment had passed, but in that moment, I had changed as fundamentally as ice melting into water.  I could not kill that man, uncle.  King Richard or no."

William said nothing, revealed no change of expression.

"What happened?" asked Em, after a lengthy wait.

"I hid him and that night, I joined him in escape.  One out of six thousand."

William frowned, his eyes focused on Cadmon's. He got up from his chair, and dripping water from his well soaked feet, began to stride about.  "I knew something was wrong that night.  I should have done more to dissuade you."

"No, Uncle.  For the first time, something was terribly right."

William sighed.  "So, I failed you, after all."

"No.  That is untrue."

"But what promise you had!  Look at you now.  A wanderer."

"A seeker.  And more, perhaps.  I have been in the service of kings and clerics, and as I matured, I learned that approval from within outshines any from without.  I have made my way.  I have traveled as far as any man known in our world.  I have had a full life, Uncle."

Em noted the words came as a report only, words to console a distraught uncle, without boast or swagger.

"An estate?  A wife?  Where are these?"

Lady Em rose and touched her husband's arm.  "William...," she said, trying to restrain William's tongue.

"My estate is in Yeaverling, Uncle," said Cadmon with emotional tightness, "as you know, for my elder brothers have died and I am lord there now, if I care to claim the title."

Cadmon's eyes softened as he shifted his gaze to Em for an instant.  She returned his look with sympathy.

Cadmon continued, "You would have had no way of knowing, but as your wife has no doubt deduced from the mark on my ring finger, I am a widower."

William's hard face blushed.  "By God's beard, Cadmon!  I have spoken roughly.  Forgive me!"

"Your words spring from love and I bear them no malice."