The Leopard Sword by Michael Cadnum Page B

sailors jumped down into the seething surf and began to unload the ship into tenders, ship-to-shore boats that bobbed and spun in the water.The surf was just shallow enough to allow a tall man to stand with his nose and mouth out of the water. When the keel snapped, with a single, heart-stopping crash, a few squires tumbled overboard in a panic. One head bobbed and vanished, and other squires strained to reach a tender and cling to its side.
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    We abandoned the Santa Croce.
    Despite the shallow waters, we were far from shore, but we could struggle forward along the sandy bottom, holding our equipment over our heads. Other knights and squires joined us, with an air of resigned necessity rather than panic. Our equipment was lashed together, swords and mail attached to our chest of treasures. One squire sang out a chant of praise to Our Lady, but when we were well away from the protective bulk of the ship, and the surf began to cut our legs out from under us, voices began to sputter and call for help.
    I swallowed bitter salt water, inhaled it, coughed it up. I could not see the shoreline, but I made out Edmund’s voice, calling for Sir Nigel.
    I heard no answering cry.

TWENTY-ONE
    The water lifted me and flung me forward, jamming my face into the sandy shore.
    The first drowned man I pulled from the surf was Father Stephen.
    I dragged several more bodies, bawling into the hard wind for Sir Nigel and Edmund. Sir Rannulf labored with me, hauling sodden men out of the boiling foam, and soon a line of drenched figures sprawled above the waterline. Some crawled or struggled to roll over and put their faces to the rain. Others remained inert, in postures that can only be adopted by the lifeless, arms entangled, mouths agape.
    Edmund called my name, dragging a drenched figure from the sea. A sharp wave nearly spilled him, and he flung the body over his shoulders like a meal sack. I recognized Sir Nigel’s short, silver hair.
    The knight’s arms dangled as Edmund kicked free of the foam. He flung the knight down hard, and stood helplessly over his body.Then he seized Sir Nigel’s ankles and held him up like a life-size poppet, a child’s play figure. He shook the knight, and a long gush of water spouted from Sir Nigel’s mouth. The knight waved his arms, swung a fist, cried out something, and Edmund stretched him out on the sand.
    All along the line of bodies, women and children had appeared from inland, the wind fluttering shawls and blouses as they stooped over the sprawling drowned and half-drowned. This was proof that in this unknown countryside some welcome would be provided—food, a warm hearth. But as I staggered up the wet sand to offer my greetings, I glimpsed the flash of a knife.
    These were scavengers, cutting corpses of their purses, buckles, rings—and if a body was still coughing, a quick in-and-out quieted all complaint. I cursed a shawled figure, swung a fist and missed, and she raised a high, sharp cry.
    Several shadows that had been watching from a copse of stunted pines left their hiding and hurried down the sandy beach armed with cudgels and staves. I had studied sword work with scarred sergeants, the best fighters my father could afford. I am not easily frightened by an attack, but unarmed as I was now, I took a few blows on my forearms before I began to fight successfully with my fists.
    My attacker was a farmer, judging by his beige-cloth apron and tunic, and although his cap was cut in a style I did not recognize, I saw in him a harvester’s strength, broad feet, heavy forearms. Such men have long ago mastered the downward stroke, splitting the ox skull with a single blow. I avoided his heavy swings, bloodied his face, knocked him down, and kicked him until he was still. Then I dealt with his fellow farmers, joined by Edmund, who was also unarmed but lost no time in snatching a truncheon, breaking it over a head, and driving another assailant into the sand.
    Sir