That night, I sat with my back to my saddle and flipped through the pages of the book. And out of nowhere, my eyes filled with tears and I wept.
Janet came. She picked up the book and laughed aloud. ‘Par dieu, this is a fine book!’ she said.
She ignored my tears, read a passage aloud, then put the book back down and returned to the fire.
In mid-September, Richard, too, received a letter. He and I rode to Arles with our lances, and no one troubled us on the road. We weren’t allowed in the town — towns were very wary of us — but Richard got a tailor to come out and fit him for some new clothes. We also sold an armourer a lot of cast-off stuff — mostly mail — and he fit Richard with a better coat of plates and matching arms, so that Richard looked less of a routier and more of a gentleman.
My take as a man-at-arms about equalled the daily cost of maintaining an archer, a squire and a page. I didn’t have the money to care if my armour was brown with rust, nor could I afford to care if my straps matched, or whether my rivet heads were decorated. I just cared that it all fit, didn’t weigh too much and lasted well in the rain. By that fall, I had two different leg harnesses, two different arms, a coat of plates that had once been very beautiful but was now a uniform black with sweat and rot, and I was on my fifth war horse, a heavy animal that had once, I suspect, been a cart horse and never really been properly broken. But I made the second to last payment for my sister’s dowry.
The bankers were still with us, so somewhere I had two suits of good clothes and a fine cloak, but really, what would I use them for?
I digress. On to Brignais.
We returned from Arles to find a papal officer in our camp. He was recruiting for the Pope’s army in Italy, and for the crusade that had been preached. Our rambling, unsanitary morass of a camp covered three hillsides, and it was several days before I found myself looking at him.
He wore a simple brown wool habit, like a Franciscan, over spurred boots. By his side hung a fine sword in a red leather scabbard. He was tanned so darkly he might have been Richard Musard’s brother, and he had a long, very white scar that ran from his left temple to the corner of his mouth on the right. It showed even through his magnificent moustache which was as berry-brown as his gown, but white where the scar crossed it.
I’d seen him before, of course. In England. And I’d helped him take a party south through the chaos of ’58. I bowed. ‘Fra Peter,’ I said. ‘What news of my sister, my lord?’
He smiled. ‘The blessings of the Lord be with you, my son,’ he said. ‘Your sister will be a light of the church.’
‘And with you, father,’ I responded automatically.
‘Brother,’ he corrected gently. ‘I am but a brother-knight. I have taken my vows, but I am not a priest.’
How do you make small talk with people like that?
‘I fear it has been some time since I confessed my sins,’ I said weakly, hoping he had a flash of humour.
He shrugged. ‘I can’t help you, as I’m not a priest.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And as you are excommunicate.’
‘I. . what?’ I choked. Oh, I know men who take the prospect of eternal damnation lightly. I am not one of them. ‘What?’
‘After the events of Pont-Saint-Esprit, the Holy Father excommunicated every routier in Provence.’ My knight Hospitaller shrugged. ‘Would you like to know more of how your sister fares?’
I must have smiled. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Yes, Fra Peter!’ he barked.
I laughed, because I admired him so, and I’d made him bark. ‘Yes, Fra Peter,’ I answered like a dutiful schoolboy.
‘She thrives. She works hard, but she is devoted to Christ and to St John, and well-beloved of the sisters. It is her dearest wish to be allowed to join the order.’ He tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘I have arranged to have our Holy Father issue her an exemption from the article that requires a certain patent of nobility.’
I hadn’t considered the patents of nobility. A lump formed in my throat. ‘I have paid her dowry,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I hoped I would find you. I take my vow of poverty seriously — I have nothing. The order requires the full payment of the dowry for a new sister. I expect that you have some money, as you are a. . mm. . a professional man-at-arms.’
I laughed. ‘You want me, a penniless mercenary, to give money to the church?’ I held my temper in check. I had been practising, since Milady put the matter to me so clearly. ‘Fra Peter, I have given almost every ducat to your order for more than a year.’
His eyes never left mine. ‘You must do as you think best,’ he said carefully. ‘But if you can complete her dowry while I have the document for her patents. .’ he shrugged and looked away. ‘I’m sorry, Master Gold. But not every member of my order feels as I do about your sister’s pedigree.’
I have no idea why that set me off. I have never been proud of my birth — nor ashamed. My parents were wed, which is more than some can say, and my pater served good King Edward as a man-at-arms. That was as gentle as a man needed to be, I felt.
Perhaps it was because I had so much admiration for Fra Peter, but his words, ill-chosen or not — perhaps I was just touchy — seemed to cut me.
‘My sister’s pedigree is as good as any woman’s in England,’ I spat.
His eyes met mine and I regretted my outburst. So, like any young man, I threw oil on the fire.
‘And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be recruiting us for the Pope’s war in Italy?’ I asked with all the heavy sarcasm a twenty-year-old can muster.
He stepped closer to me. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Are you interested?’
‘Do I have to donate my time?’ I asked.
He looked at me. His eyes didn’t express hurt or disappointment. More. . amusement. ‘Do you still seek to be a knight?’ he asked. ‘Or do you imagine that you have reached that estate already?’
That was the closest he had come to an insult, and as cuts go, it was deep and true.
Once again I was looking at the toes of my boots. ‘No,’ I confessed.
‘No,’ he agreed.
That night, Richard came and announced that he was taking Milady and riding away to join the Green Count. Well, he’d never hidden it, and I knew what he planned.
I must say, he looked very fine in green and sable — the Black Squire, in all truth. His armour looked good, his horse gleamed and his clothing was clean and neat. He had new shirts and new braes that almost shone white.
I was very sad that he was leaving me. I think that just then, I hated Milady for coming between us, but her conquest of him had been so sudden and so complete that I knew the cause was hopeless.
Let me be clear. I don’t think she meant to conquer him. She was simply, singly, and fully herself.
We had a fine night. We sat by a fire and drank, and we talked. If I have time, I might tell you half the things we said. Some were antic, and come were deadly serious. Milady sat with us, and John Hughes, Ned, Amory and Jack. Men I knew came by to say goodbye to Richard — all the remaining English and Scots knights who hadn’t gone to Italy, and there were a few: Walter Leslie and Bill Feldon were there, and a dozen more who made their names that summer or the next, or died trying.
But as conversations will go around a fire, a moment came when Milady had me all to herself. She was expert at arranging things like that. She was sitting with her back to John Hughes, and she suddenly leaned over to me. ‘Come with us,’ she said.
I was damned sure that was not what Richard had in mind. ‘Perhaps when I get a good ransom,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘You will.’
I shrugged.
‘What do you want it for? This ransom?’ she asked.
I looked into her mad eyes. They were still too wide and they still sparkled too much. ‘I love a lady,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘That is as it should be.’