Branithar himself stepped through. Victory flamed in him. He recoiled when he saw Sir Roger’s glaive and misericord. “You were to have no weapons!” he rasped.
“Oh? Oh, aye. Aye.” The baron looked dully down at the blades. “I never thought … they’re like my spurs, insignia of what I am … naught more.”
“Give them over,” said Branithar.
Sir Roger unbelted both and handed them to the Wersgor in their sheaths. Branithar passed them to another blue and searched our bodies himself. “No hidden guns,” he decided. I felt my cheeks burn at the insult, but Sir Roger hardly seemed to notice. “Very well,” said Brarnthar, “follow me.”
We went down a corridor to the salon cabin. Sir Owain sat behind a table of inlaid wood. He himself was somber in black velvet, but jewels flashed on the hand which covered a fire-gun laid in front of him. Lady Catherine wore a gray gown and wimple. She had overlooked a stray lock of hair, which fell across her brow like smoldering fire.
Sir Roger halted just within the cabin door. “Where are the children?” he said.
“They are in my bedchamber with the maidservants.” His wife spoke like a machine. “They are well.”
“Be seated, sire,” urged Sir Owain glibly. His gaze flickered about the room. Branithar had lain the sword and dagger down by him, and stood on his right hand. The other Wersgor, and a third one who had waited here, stood with folded arms by the entrance, just behind us. I took them to be the physician and navigator which had been mentioned, the two gunners must be at their turrets, the pilot by his controls, in case aught went amiss. Lady Catherine stood, a waxen image, against the rear wall to Owain’s left.
“You bear no grudges, I trust,” said the recreant. “All’s fair in love and war.”
Catherine lifted a hand to protest. “In war only.” She could scarce be heard. The hand fell down again.
Sir Roger and I kept our feet. He spat on the deck. Owain reddened. “Look you,” he exclaimed, “let’s have no cant about broken vows. Your own position is more than doubtful. You’ve arrogated to yourself the right of creating noblemen out of peasants and serfs, disposing of fiefs, dealing with foreign kings. Why, you’d make yourself king if you could! What then of your pledges to sovereign Edward?”
“I’ve done naught to his harm,” Sir Roger answered, shaken of voice. “If ever I find Terra, I’ll add my conquests to his domain. Until then, we must manage somehow, and have no choice but establish our own feudality.”
“That may have been the case hitherto,” Sir Owain admitted. His smile returned. “But you should thank me, Roger, that I’ve lifted this necessity from you. We can go back home!”
“As Wersgor cattle?”
“I think not. But do be seated, you two. I shall have wine and cakes brought. You’re my guests now, you know.”
“Nay. I’ll not break bread with you.”
“Then you’ll starve to death,” said Sir Owain merrily.
Roger became like stone. I noticed for the first time that Lady Catherine wore a holster but that it was empty. Owain must have gotten her weapon on some pretext. Now he alone was armed.
He turned grave as he read our expressions. “My lord,” he said, “when you offered to come parley, you could not expect me to refuse such a chance. You’ll remain with us.”
Catherine stirred. “Owain, no!” she cried. “You never told me — you said he’d be free to leave this ship if—”
He turned his fine profile to her view and said gently:
“Think, my lady. Was it not your highest wish, to save him? But you wept, fearing his pride would never let him yield. Now he is a prisoner. Your wish is granted. All the dishonor is on myself. I bear that burden lightly, since ’tis for my lady’s dear sake.”
She trembled so I could see it. “I had no part in this, Roger,” she pleaded. “I never imagined—’
Her husband did not look at her. His voice chopped hers off. “What d’ you plan, Montbelle?”
“This new situation has given me new hopes,” answered the other knight. “I confess I was never overly joyed at thought of bargaining with the Wersgorix. Now ’tis not needful. We can go directly home. The weapons and chests of gold aboard this vessel will win me as much as I care to possess.”
Branithar, the only nonhuman there who understood his English, barked: “Hoy, what of me and my friends here?’
Owain answered coolly, “Why should you not accompany us? Without Sir Roger de Tourneville, the English cause must soon collapse, so you’ll have done your duty to your own people. I’ve studied your way of thinking — a particular place means nothing to you. We’ll pick up some females of your race along the way. As my loyal vassals, you can win as much power and land on Terra as anywhere else; your descendants will share the planet with mine. True, you sacrifice a certain amount of wonted social intercourse, but on the other hand, you fain a degree of liberty your own government never allowed you.
He had the weapons. Yet I think Branithar yielded to the argument itself, and that his slow mumble of agreement was honest.
“And us?” breathed Lady Catherine.
“You and Roger shall have your estate in England,” pledged Sir Owain. “I’ll add thereto one at Winchester.”
Perhaps he was also honest. Or perhaps he thought, once he was the overlord of Europe, he could do as he wished with her husband and herself. She was too shaken to foresee the latter chance. I saw her suddenly enclouded with dream. She faced Sir Roger, smiling and weeping. “My love, we can go home again!”
He glanced at her, once. “But what of the folk we led hither?” he asked.
“Nay, I cannot risk taking them with us.” Sir Owain shrugged. “They’re lowborn anyway.”
Sir Roger nodded. “Ah,” he said. “So.”
Once more he looked at his wife. Then he kicked backward. The spur of knighthood struck into the belly of the Wersgor behind him. He ripped downward.
Falling with the same motion, he rolled across the deck. Sir Owain yelled and leaped up. His fire gun blasted the air. It missed. The baron was too quick, reached upward, seized the other stupefied Wersgor and pulled him down on top. The second fire blast struck that living shield.
Sir Roger heaved the corpse before him, rising and advancing in one gigantic surge of motion. Owain had time for a last shot, which charred the dead flesh. Then Roger threw the body across the table, into the other man’s face.
Owain went down beneath it. Sir Roger snatched for his sword. Branithar had already put a hand on it. Sir Roger got the dagger instead. It flared from the sheath. I heard the thunk as he drove it through Branithar’s hand, into the table, to the very hilt.
“Wait there for me!” snarled Sir Roger. He drew the sword. “Haro! God send the right!”
Sir Owain had scrambled free and risen, still clutching the gun. I found myself a-pant just across the table from him. He aimed squarely at the baron’s midriff. I promised the saints many candles and smacked my rosary across the traitor’s wrist. He howled. The gun fell from his hand and skidded across the table. Sir Roger’s great glaive whistled. Owain was barely fast enough to dodge. The edged steel crashed into the wood. A moment Sir Roger must struggle to free it. The fire gun lay on the deck. I dove for it. So did Lady Catherine, who had dashed around the table. Our brows met. When my wits came back, I was sitting up and Roger was chasing Owain out the door.
Catherine screamed.
Roger stopped as if noosed. She rose in a swirl of garments. “The children, my lord! They’re aft, in the bedchamber — where the extra weapons are—”