She clapped her hands together. I suspect that it is a universal truth throughout the Christian world that women — working women — prefer soldiers to priests. Mayhap not when the soldiers are burning your barn, but in a bath or a bedchamber -
‘You are with the King of Jerusalem?’ she asked. Tu es cum rege Hierusalem. Not the best Latin, perhaps. She was saying I was the king of Jerusalem — su es should have been sis. ‘You will fight?’
I snorted water.
She said something in Polish, not to me but past me. Across the little linen screen that hid us from the other tubs, a girl’s somewhat shrewish voice shouted back.
I must have looked my question. She swirled water and looked demure, a fetching trick for a girl wearing two yards of wet linen. She was in the tub with me by then. The better to wash me, of course.
The shrewish voice said something that caused my girl — Katerina, that was her name! — to look surprised. She shouted back, and a male voice shouted indignantly.
‘King of Jerusalem’s men fight last night,’ she said. ‘Drunk. Stupid.’ She shrugged, indicating that this was the limit of her Latin and that any fool knew how stupid men were. ‘drunk’ and ‘stupid’ were conveyed with hand signs.
When I went to fetch my clothes, I found them neatly ironed. A closed-faced young woman, clearly not amused by the goings-on, was busy killing lice in a pair of hose with an iron so hot it made the wool sizzle and the insects pop. They were not, par dieu, my hose. But the service was good and I paid her. Who wants to put on dirty clothes on a clean body?
And at the desk, the table where money was taken, I counted over my silver cheerfully enough. The man at the desk was enormous — fat and tall. He smelled as if he had never used the services of his own establishment. Despite which, he had a smile almost as winning as Katerina’s and I gave him a small tip as well.
‘Speak French?’ I asked.
‘Non volens,’ he said. Not willingly.
I laughed. The Poles are a nation of Latinists.
But I left with my mood changed, and sin made me humble. Aiming for the humility practiced by Father Pierre, I went back to our much plainer inn — although it still sported a dozen coats of arms, including, I say with pride, my own red and sable. I had Marc-Antonio dress me, ignored his sullen looks, took the packets of letters and went to the king’s inn, which I entered through the kitchens. There, cutting capons and rabbits with heavy knives, were two enormous women at the main table, and at the next table, two equally fat women were putting eggs and bread in a basket with a tall pitcher of new milk and some cider. I couldn’t understand a word they said — Polish is not in my list of languages — but they giggled a great deal and waggled a sausage at each other. I blew kisses at them and snagged a piece of bread and a cup of cider, and watched the great hall from the kitchen door while my eyes grew used to the gloom.
De Mezzieres was there, and silver and white, now dressed in more practical clothes, and with his arm in a sling. With them were a dozen other men in arming clothes and younger men who looked to my practiced eye like squires. There was armour all over the floor and on benches long the far wall.
I could see that now I was the one who was overdressed, and my embroidered scarlet pourpoint, the very best of Bolognese fashion, was as out of place today as my dusty riding clothes and riding boots had been the night before. But it is far better to be overdressed than underdressed.
I could see the king, in his shirt, waiting while a pair of squires laced his arming coat. I caught de Mezzieres’ eye.
He nodded and came towards me. ‘From where do you come, young man?’ he asked. ‘I must apologise for yesterday,’ he said quietly. ‘The king had had a very difficult day.’
‘My lord, I am from the legate, Pierre Thomas, in Venice. I left Venice on the first of July.’ I bowed.
De Mezzieres looked at me and blinked like a man facing bright light. ‘Legate? The Cardinal de Perigord is surely the legate,’ he asked.
‘My lord, the cardinal is dead, and the Pope has appointed Father Pierre as the Patriarch of Constantinople — and the legate of the crusade.’
French was the lingua franca of the Cypriote court. Every head turned.
I bowed again, keeping Father Pierre’s humility before me. ‘I have a packet of letters for you from Venice,’ I said. I handed him a heavy set of envelopes. ‘This one is from Messire Petrarca, as well.’
De Mezzieres paused. He was about to speak, but the king waved at me.
‘Ah! The courier of last night, now dressed in the latest Italian fashions to make us all feel dowdy.’ But despite his words, the king smiled, and his smile was warm. ‘Come here, sir, by me. And ten thousand apologies for my surliness of last evening.’
I bowed. ‘It is nothing, your Grace. I have letters from the papal legate-’
‘Who, it proves, is none other than our well-beloved friend and father in Christ, Pierre Thomas! I have ears, sir, and I can hear when you speak.’ He held out a hand. ‘We are impatient to read the words of our fathers, Holy and spiritual.’
I placed his letters directly in his hand.
‘Were you charged with any particular message?’ he asked carelessly.
I bowed my head. ‘I was asked to tell you to come as quickly as you might, to Venice, where your army awaits.’
‘Hmm,’ he answered. ‘Tell my legate that I will come when it suits me. Tush!’ he said, grabbing my arm. ‘Say nothing of the sort. That is only my surliness speaking. Are you by any chance a jouster?’
It was like talking to Ser Niccolo, except that if you were quick-witted you could follow the jumps Ser Niccolo made — his conversation was all connected, and often strung together with bits of scripture and quotes from the ancients. King Peter simply moved from one topic to the next without a shred of warning.
It was like fighting.
‘Your Grace, I can run a course,’ I said carefully.
‘Do you have other men in your train?’ he asked. ‘That is, who can handle a lance and not make fools of themselves or me? Can drink a cup of wine and not cause an incident at a dinner?’ His voice rose as he spoke, and silver and white — I assumed that he was the Sieur de Tenoury since I’d heard him so addressed — cringed.
‘Your Grace-’ de Mezzieres said, and his tone urged caution.
‘I will not be gainsaid in this, de Mezzieres.’ The king spoke with great vehemence. ‘We are challenged and we will fight.’
No one in the hall was looking at me, or the king. All of them were attempting to slide under the oak floor. I had been a squire when the Prince of Wales was angry — I had even been the target. I knew exactly how they felt.
I was still kneeling in front of the king, and my eyes were cast down. ‘Your Grace, I have two men by me who can run a course.’
‘You have horses? Arms?’ the king asked eagerly.
I wondered what I was getting Fiore and Nerio into. Perhaps I should have considered carefully, or been cautious. Or remembered the humiliations of the evening before.
Perhaps, but I am not made that way. ‘Your Grace, we have horses and arms, and we are completely at your service.’ Some devil made me raise my voice. ‘The more so as you are the Pope’s appointed commander, therefore I am your knight.’
Then the king turned the full sun of his smile on me. ‘By Saint Maurice and the Holy Passion, monsieur, that was well said.’ He nodded. ‘I ask you, Sir Knight, to rally your friends and join us here; display your arms at my window, and serve with me this day.’
Yes, I fought in the Grand Tournament of Krakow.
Now, if you gentlemen have been listening carefully, you know that I had never actually participated in a tournament. I had certainly practised for them, and several times in my career I had the honour of fighting in deeds of arms, but I was — and am — a soldier, and tournaments are for the richest and most powerful lords.